Emmanuel stares at me with wide eyes. The other guy chuckles, but it's choked too, as he realizes the irony. He and his friend are going to die. For nothing.
Emmanuel hasn't caught up with that news yet. "We thought if we brought his wife, he would talk."
Of course they did. It's the oldest play in the playbook. Bring in someone the prisoner cares about. It's not like I've never… my vision sharpens. My focus narrows, and my hand clamps tighter around Emmanuel's throat until he turns purple and makes choking sounds.
It wasn't the Collector. Not a grand move against us. Me. Just… some fucking lowlife cartel. I thought I'd feel relieved when I found out, but instead, dread still churns my stomach. Because of this, Audra lost everything.
"You killed the wrong person." With effort, I loosen my grip around his throat. "Who is your boss?"
Emmanuel can't talk right now; he's too busy gasping for air. The other guy spits out, "Fuck you."
I roll up my sleeves. Look to Damiano and Alessio. "You're welcome to stay, but I think I've got it from here."
Alessio's eyes flick around the room. He shrugs. "If you don't need me, I do have dinner plans."
"I'm good. Thanks for being there."
"Of course, bro." He looks to Damiano. "You coming?"
Damiano has that glint in his eyes. Alessio groans. "Fucking bloody sadist."
I chuckle. Damiano was born into an old-money family. He had everything he could possibly want, but that was never enough for him. He lives solely for the thrill. Watching someone die is as close as he gets to his fucked-up version of heaven. He's a first-class sociopath.
Sociopath or not, between him and Brick, we have the two losers talking a few hours later. They work for the Los Hijos del Desierto Cartel. Led by a man named Javier Salazar, who decided to buddy up with the Black Canyon Reapers. The MC gang has grown lately and has come into our orbit.
After we got what they knew, I put a few finishing touches on them for daring to hurt Audra. Nobody gets to put their hands on her or cause her pain and live.
Momand I sit on the couch. Not just any couch. A massive, soft, butter-colored leather thing that probably costs more than my car. More than both our cars combined. Mom is next to me, small and tense, perched on the edge like she's afraid to sink into it. I sink anyway. Because I don't think I have the strength not to. For a while, neither of us speaks. We just… sit. And take it in.
The room stretches out around us, all clean lines and quiet wealth. Glass. Steel. Dark wood. Everything polished, perfect, untouched. The windows—damn, those windows—floor to ceiling, and the entire city sprawls below us.
Las Vegas. Bright. Loud. Alive. Cars move like streams of light. People laugh somewhere far below. Music drifts faintly upward like nothing ever happened. Like my world didn't just end in a warehouse a few hours ago.
It's so normal out there. So completely, offensively normal. I tighten my grip on the water bottle. This feels like another person's life. Not mine. Not ours. We don't belong here. Right now, I don't know where we belong.
After the man—Gabe, my mind supplies, though I have no idea what to think of him—left, I managed to call the bank and vet office with the house phone. I kept my voice somewhat even, but the moment I hung up, I broke down. Eventually, Mom shuffled to the fridge, groaning when she returned and handed me a bottle of water. She's been sitting beside me ever since.
Now she shifts. "This place…" she whispers. Her voice is thin. Filled with the same unease floating through me.
I follow her gaze as it moves over the room. The art. The furniture. The silence.
"This man has money."
Yeah. Although that isn't the first thought that came to my mind. What's going through my mind is: Nothing about this feels safe. Even thoughhesaid we are.
Mom leans closer.
"Who is he, Audra?" she whispers.
I don't answer right away. I don't have one. Not a real one. My mind tries to land somewhere, on his name, his face, the way he looks at me, but everything feels… scrambled. Out of order. Like pieces that don't belong together.
"I don't know," I finally settle on part of the truth.
The words sound weak. Even to me. Her fingers twitch in her lap. And I hate that this—this—is what we're talking about.Him. Not Pete. Not what just happened. Not the fact that my husband is dead. A sharp ache spreads through my chest. I should be thinking about Pete. Iwantto think about Pete. To sit with it. To let it sink in. To mourn him properly. To break, maybe. To just… fall apart for a while. Instead, I'm here. In a stranger's penthouse. Answering questions about a man I don't know. Aman who showed up out of nowhere and pulled me out of hell like it was nothing. My thoughts tangle.
Police station. The ball. The way he looked at me. The way he held me while I couldn't breathe. It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense, and trying to make it make sense right now feels impossible.
"I don't know," I repeat, quieter this time.
