The axe hasn’t tasted blood in three years. Not since I went cold turkey after Peter’s death—well, not immediately after. First came the bender. Two months of hunting down every piece of shit who’d ever crossed my path, every lowlife who preyed on the innocent. I told myself it was grief, that I was honoring Peter’s memory by cleaning up the streets he’d died trying to protect. But the truth was uglier: I was drowning in rage and the axe was the only thing that made the pain stop.
The only targets I avoided were the Crow. Oh, I wanted to. Every fiber of my being screamed for Brutus’s blood, for the satisfaction of watching my former brothers bleed out in the dirt. But I held back. Told myself when I was thinking clearly their time would come, when I could plan properly instead of acting on pure fury. The Crow deserved more than sloppy vengeance.
They deserved methodical destruction.
But the truth was darker than strategic patience. Peter wouldn’t have wanted the bloodbath I was painting across the region, regardless of how much every bastard I killed deserved it. Not in his name. Not in his memory. Peter believed in justice, not vengeance. He believed in protecting the innocent, not becoming the very evil we were supposed to fight against.
Something had to stop. I had to stop.
So what does any self-respecting serial killer do when he wants to stop killing? He finds a therapist, obviously.
It took my therapist Dr. Jay Finch six months to convince me that revenge wasn’t therapy, and another year to admit that maybe—just maybe—I’d become the kind of monster Peter would have been ashamed to call his friend. Jay specializes in what he calls “murder sobriety”—though I’m pretty sure most therapists don’t keep a stress ball on their desk specifically for when their patients describe dismemberment techniques.
Everything in me is telling me to turn around and drive back to Grimlock, the town I call home on the Pacific coast. A sanctuary where the residents understand certain unspoken codes, where people like me can find refuge among their own kind. She’d be safe there in ways she could never be safe here. This is insane. Ishouldn’t be here, parked outside her building like some lovesick stalker, wrestling with the decision that’s been eating at me since I left the club. But she’s not safe in New York. It’s only a matter of time before the Crow find her, and when they do—
I could walk up to her door like a normal person. Knock. Explain the situation. Ask her to come with me to my estate where I can protect her behind twelve-foot walls and enough security to make the Secret Service jealous. But we both know what her answer would be. She’d tell me to go to hell, probably in more colorful terms than that. And I don’t have time to court her into saying yes. I don’t have time to be charming or persuasive or anything resembling a decent human being.
The truth is simpler and uglier than that: Sara Mitchell is coming home with me tonight whether she wants to or not. Because thealternative is watching Peter’s daughter die the same way he did, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.
My thoughts scatter as the apartment building’s front door bangs open and my driver comes stumbling out like he’s been wrestling with a tornado. Hans is built like a brick shithouse with the brain of a gentle giant, which makes him perfect for the simple tasks I usually give him. The fact that he looks rattled sends alarm bells clanging in my skull.
He approaches the car with his massive hands held up in surrender, his usually pristine black suit rumpled but oddly clean—no bite marks, no signs of struggle.
I roll down the window. “Problem, Hans?”
“Boss...” Hans runs his massive hands through his hair, looking like a man who’s just discovered his lottery ticket was a fake. “The apartment, it is... how do you say... completely fucking empty.”
My blood turns to ice. “What do you mean empty?”
“I mean empty like a church collection plate after the pastor runs off with the choir director.” Hans gestures helplessly toward the building. “No furniture. No belongings. No Sara. Nothing. It’s like someone took a giant eraser and rubbed out her entire existence.”
The axe hums louder in my grip, steel singing with anticipation of violence. They got to her first. The Crow got to her before I could.
“You checked every room?”
“Ja, every room. Kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, even looked in the closets in case she was hiding. Nothing but dust bunnies.” Hans shakes his head. “Professional job, boss. Clean sweep.”
“The Crow,” I say, and it’s not a question. Hans nods grimly.
“Had to be. This is exactly how they work—fast, clean, no witnesses. They probably had her packed and gone within an hour.” Hans runs his hand through his hair. “Boss, I’m sorry. If I’d gotten here sooner—”
“This isn’t your fault.” The words come out harder than I intend. “I should have moved faster. Should have taken her straight from the club instead of giving her time to go home first.”
I know exactly who took her. More importantly, I know why they didn’t just put a bullet in her head and leave her body for the policeto find. Brutus wants to have some fun first. He wants to play with his food before he eats it.
The thought makes my vision go red around the edges. I know how Brutus operates because I used to operate the same way. Back when I was young and stupid and thought cruelty was the same thing as strength. Back when I claimed the Crow name and called Brutus mentor. Before I learned that there’s a difference between killing for survival and killing for pleasure.
Before Peter Mitchell showed me a better way.
“Boss?” Hans’s voice cuts through the haze of rage and memory. “What do we do now?”
“Get us to the airport,” I tell Hans, settling back into the passenger seat. “We’re going to Crowshaven.”
He starts the engine, but I can see his massive hands grip the wheel tighter. “Boss, you sure about this? That’s the heart of Crow territory. And it’s just the two of us against all of them.”
“They stole Sara,” I say, watching the city lights blur past as Hans pulls into traffic. “And I know exactly how to steal her back.”
“How can you be so sure?”
