“They took all of ours.”
That lands harder than I want it to.
Still doesn’t change a damn thing.
“I’m not sitting on this.”
“I’m not telling you to sit on it,” Quill says. “I’m telling you not to rush in blind again because you want revenge more than you want a clean kill.”
The words hit exactly where they’re meant to.
Because he’s right.
And I hate him for it.
My hands curl into fists against the wood.
For a second, I’m back in that hallway. It’s too quiet and clean, and every instinct screams at me to turn around while I stand there and ignore it like a fool.
Tracker paid for that mistake.
Not me.
Him.
Luke shifts beside Quill, grimacing as he moves. “We do it right this time.”
I turn to him.
He holds my stare without blinking.
No pity or softness. Just truth.
Do it right.
Not loud.
Not fast.
Right.
It sounds too calm for what I feel inside, too measured and restrained. But restraint is the only thing standing between revenge and stupidity right now, and I know it.
Jasmine slides another glass onto the table beside me. Whiskey. No words. I pick it up and knock it back in one swallow. It burns all the way down, but not nearly enough.
Quill folds his arms. “We find out who else was working with the El Pasos. We find out if Lawrence survived. We figure out where Clemente went after the fire.”
“And then?”
“And then…” he says quietly, “… we bury them.”
That gets the room’s attention. A few of the brothers nearby go still, listening without pretending not to.
I set the glass down harder than I mean to.
“Good.”
Because beneath the grief, the promise, and the part of me that still sees Sophia disappearing through that security gate, something colder is growing.
