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I meet her gaze without flinching, even though a cold knot tightens in my stomach. Part of me wants to break, to crumble under the weight of her words—but I steel myself.

“He’s dead.”

Her smirk curls with cruel satisfaction, like she’s feeding off my pain. “Now that’s the best fucking news I’ve heard in decades.”

A fire ignites inside me, hot and unforgiving. It starts deep in my chest, crawling up my throat and settling behind my eyes. My fists clench so tight my nails dig into my palms, sharp pain grounding me as blood rushes like wildfire through my veins. Her words—cold, sharp—cut through years of silence, igniting a fuse that’s been smoldering, barely contained, for far too long.

I taste bile and rage, a bitter cocktail swirling in my mouth. I want to scream. To break something. To make her feel even a fraction of the hell she’s dragged us through.

Without warning, the restraint snaps. I shove off the stool with every ounce of strength, launching myself across the bar.

Time fractures—sounds dull, movements slow. My fingers find their way into her cottony hair, gripping tight, desperate to hold onto this moment of raw, unleashed fury.

Every ounce of rage I’ve been burying bursts free as I slam her face down against the bar. The sickening crunch of her breaking nose echoes through the room, the sound like thunder cracking through a stormy sky.

Her body jolts beneath me, stunned and raw, as if the years of absence and cruelty have condensed into this single, violent impact.

This isn’t just anger—it’s every year of betrayal, every scar she carved into my soul, every lonely night and shattered hope crashing down all at once.

The world shrinks to the pounding of my heart in my ears, the hot rush of adrenaline, and a desperate, ruthless need to make her pay—for every God damn thing she took from me.

“Why the fuck didn’t you pull her off?”

“Seemed like she earned it, if you ask me.”

“Damn! Somebody better call Maddox—he’s going to owe her twenty bucks and a box of Whoppers after that one!”

“Shut the fuck up, Merc!” Henry growls from above me, voice low and deadly.

I blink, and the fog starts to clear. The anger, the chaos—it all crashes back in.

My mother stormed into the bar, venom dripping from her words as she bragged she was glad Daddy was dead—an echo of betrayal that still cuts deep.

I choke on the memory, the taste bitter and raw like swallowing broken glass.

“Where is she?” I rasp, eyes fluttering open to find myself sprawled across the leathery couch in Crow and Crew’s office.

The place is trashed—a chaotic mess that mirrors the storm inside me. Chairs lie overturned, one cracked and splintered near the wall. A shattered bottle leaks dark liquid, pooling like blood on the threadbare carpet. Papers litter the floor—some torn, others soaked through, stained with ink and sweat. The harsh fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting jittery shadows that seem to twist and pulse on the cracked, peeling walls.

“What the hell happened in here?” I croak, my voice raw as I take in the wreckage surrounding me.

Merc leans against the doorframe, that infuriating shit-eating grin still plastered across his face like this kind of chaos is just another Wednesday.

“You are what happened, Champ,” he says, chuckling as he shakes his head in disbelief. “You went full beast mode on that walking cigarette.”

I want to hate how amused he is, but part of me can’t deny the fierce satisfaction burning behind my rage. How dare she walk back in here all these years later spewing her venom everywhere. Well, not on my motherfucking watch bitch.

He smirks, rubbing his jaw like it’s a damn badge of honor. “When I tried to pull you off, you clocked me—hard.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll survive. Then Henny showed up, had to manhandle your ass back here before you went completely cuckoo.”

I swallow hard, the weight of what just went down settling over me. The rage, the fight—it wasn’t just for me. It was for every scar, every broken piece left behind. Even now, as the bruises start to bloom on my knuckles, I know it was worth every damn second.

“Wipe that God damn smirk off your face, Louisiana Rose,” Henry growls, voice low and lethal—like he’s barely holding back everything boiling under the surface.

Wait—if Henry’s here…“Where’s Dallas?” I manage, breath still ragged.

Without hesitation, he yanks me to my feet, his grip rough and unyielding. “Funny how you’re only just now starting to fucking think about him,” he spits, dragging me through the bar.