I turn my head slowly toward Ray, eyes narrowing. “You didwhat?”
Ray laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lorraine said I could try them!”
A low, displeased growl rumbles from my chest. I don’t share my breakfast.
Armen is still grinning like an idiot. “This is great… don’t steal the king’s breakfast, Ray, or he might chop your balls off.”
Ray narrows his eyes at him. “It’s just food,dickbag.”
Armen winks at him, completely unbothered.
“Enough,” I cut in, voice flat. “This is childish.”
Armen nudges my shoulder with his elbow, still smiling. “What are friends for, boss?”
I grunt and don’t answer, turning my gaze back to the window. I’ve never once admitted out loud that I quite like their company. They’re complete opposites in most ways, Armen loud and cocky, Ray steady and precise, but both of them make me feel strangely…normal.
You’d never guess what we actually argue about behind closed doors. I once walked in on one of the most respected families in the city mid-spat, their youngest daughter was throwing a tantrum over a specific brand of lemon-and-lime sparkling water. The second they saw me they straightened up like soldiers, pretending the ridiculous family drama had never happened.
We’re all just normal people at the end of the day, with an enjoyment for… lesslegalactivities. It doesn’tmean we don’t eat, drink, laugh, or bicker over stupid shit like cereal and reality television.
The thought pulls a faint, private grin to my mouth as the SUV turns onto the street leading to the Vanderburns’ front garage. The familiar rundown building comes into view… faded signage, chain-link fence, the faint smell of oil and rust even from here.
I crack my neck once, the grin fading back into the cold mask I wear for the world.
Chapter Seven
~ Welcome Home Gift ~
Soren
The SUV rolls to a stop right in front of the Vanderburns’ garage, tires crunching over loose gravel and broken glass. I don’t wait for the engine to fully die before I push the door open and step out. The afternoon light catches on the dried blood still streaked across my cheek and jaw, like war paint I have no intention of washing off.
Three of the boys are lounging outside, cigarettes dangling from their lips, cheap pistols tucked visibly into their waistbands. The second they clock the SUV and see me unfolding from the back seat, their casual postures snap tight. One of them actually drops his smoke, the ember scattering across the concrete. They know exactly who I am, they know what my arrival means:nothing good.
Armen climbs out after me, that signature cocky grin already splitting his face as he stretches like we’ve just pulled up to a casual barbecue. Ray exits last, calm and silent, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than it should.
One of the Vanderburn idiots… tall, skinny, neck tattooed with a badly done snake, tries to play it cool, stepping forward with forced swagger. “Mr. Sinclair… we weren’t expecting…”
Armen cuts him off with a bright, easy laugh, slinging an arm around the guy’s shoulders. “Relax, boys. Boss just wants a drink. Long day, you know how it is. Thought we’d stop by and see what kind of hospitality you lot can offer.”
The lie is so casual, so cheerfully delivered, that it almost sounds believable. The Vanderburn boys shift uneasily, eyes darting between Armen, Ray, and me. They know better than to argue. They know what happens when you argue with me.
I don’t wait for permission. I walk straight past them, boots heavy on the cracked concrete, shoulders squared. My inked arms swing loose at my sides as I push through the side door of the garage like I own the place.
The interior is dim and oily, smelling of rust, cheap whiskey, and fear. A few more of their crew are scattered around… some working on a stripped-down car, others playing cards at a rickety table. Every head snaps up the moment I step inside. Conversations die mid-sentence. Tools clatter to the floor. Someone actually knocks over a bottle of beer, the liquid fizzing across the concrete.
I keep walking, slow and unhurried, eyes sweeping the room with that flat, predatory stare that makes grown men sweat. I don’t greet anyone. I don’t explain myself. I simply move through the space, boots echoing, the driedblood a silent promise of exactlyhowbadthis day is about to get for every single person in here.
Behind me, I hear Armen’s cheerful voice ring out again as he and Ray follow me in. “Drinks all around, gentlemen! Mr. Sinclair is thirsty.”
A psychotic little grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I keep advancing deeper into their territory, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. They can feel it; they all know it… this isn’t a social call.
I let the silence stretch, my gaze sweeping over every face, every shadow, and every nervous twitch. Then I see them… one of the boys is kicked back in a folding chair, feet propped up on a crate, wearing abrand-newpair of black combat boots that lookfar too familiar. The same reinforced soles, the same matte finish, the exact cut I had ordered for my own men. My blood runs hotter.
I sniff once, casually, like I’m just stretching my neck, and stroll straight toward him. He notices too late. His smirk fades as I stop right in front of him and stare down at those boots for a long, silent beat.
Without warning, I yank the knife from my belt and drive it straight through his thigh with a wet, meatythunk. The scream that rips out of him is high and raw, echoing off the concrete walls. His body jerks violently, hands flying to the blade buried deep in his leg. I ignore it completely.
