The moment Sparrow stepped into the abandoned cathedral on the outskirts of Boston, she felt the ghosts clawing at her throat.It wasn’t haunted in the traditional sense—no flickering candles or whispering spirits—but in her memory, it bled. The old stone walls echoed screams she hadn’t let out in years. Her footsteps faltered, and Jason—ever attuned to the slightest tremor in her—placed a hand lightly on her lower back.“You sure about this?” he asked.Sparrow didn’t answer. She just kept walking, the heels of her boots clicking across the cracked marble floor. In the far end of the nave stood a figure cloaked in the shadows, waiting.Sparrow’s breath came short.He hadn’t aged.Not where it counted.Father Lucien.The man who’d raised her in the guise of salvation. Who taught her to fight, to kneel, to pray—and to bleed on command.Jason stepped closer, ready to intervene, but Sparrow lifted one hand.“I need to do this,” she murmured.Lucien’s smirk grew as she approached.“My litt

The soft flicker of candlelight danced along the cracked walls of the abandoned cathedral, casting ghostly shadows over Rafe’s face. He leaned against the altar—an ironic throne for a man building an empire on blood and secrets. Gio’s voice came through his earpiece. “Shipment reached Valencia. But the Russians want a renegotiation. They’re asking questions about you.” Rafe’s jaw clenched. “Then feed them answers that bite back.” He cut the line and glanced toward the rear entrance, where a lone silhouette hovered under the archway. The footsteps echoed before the voice followed. “Didn’t think I’d find you praying.” Rafe froze. That voice. He turned slowly. Standing there, cloaked in a leather jacket and timeworn defiance, was Matteo Falco—his former second-in-command. And the man he buried six years ago in a ravine in Naples. “You’re dead.” Matteo smirked. “Apparently not well enough.” *** Across town, Jason slipped into a tailored black suit, adjusting the cuffl

The warehouse buzzed with tense energy as Eva debriefed the team. The floor was scattered with surveillance images, coded maps, and outlines of the Raven Circle’s remaining outposts. At the center of it all stood Marella—bruised, pale, but standing tall. Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her closely. “You expect us to believe you’ve changed sides because you grew a conscience?” Marella’s eyes didn’t flinch. “I expect you to believe I’m the only one who knows how deep the rot goes. Alaric was never the only mastermind. Ronan’s back. And he’s not just cleaning house—he’s building something worse.” Sparrow sat at the edge of the table, flipping through one of the encrypted Raven books Marella had brought. Her lips were pressed in a thin line. “You walked through hell for this intel… but why bring it to us?” Marella exhaled. “Because I helped build the hell you're standing in. And I’m tired of watching it burn from the inside.” Jason glanced at Eva. She hadn’t

The wind howled through the broken rafters of the derelict chapel, a fitting echo for the chaos erupting within Eva’s mind. She stood in the dim light, blood on her palms, breath ragged. The man lying at her feet groaned—a Raven enforcer, one of the last standing after she’d fought her way out of the underground holding cell. Her shoulder ached from a blade that had grazed too close. But it wasn’t the pain that stopped her from running. It was the choice. Huddled in the corner was a girl. No older than sixteen, eyes wide and haunted. The same girl Eva had found locked in the Raven’s cage. The one who looked at her the way she once looked at her own mother—pleading, desperate, shattered. “Please… don’t leave me,” the girl whispered. Eva clenched her jaw. Jason would already be halfway through the extraction plan. She was supposed to plant the explosive charge and rendezvous in the east corridor in five minutes. Every second she stood here risked both their lives. But something

The moment Sparrow stepped into the abandoned cathedral on the outskirts of Boston, she felt the ghosts clawing at her throat. It wasn’t haunted in the traditional sense—no flickering candles or whispering spirits—but in her memory, it bled. The old stone walls echoed screams she hadn’t let out in years. Her footsteps faltered, and Jason—ever attuned to the slightest tremor in her—placed a hand lightly on her lower back. “You sure about this?” he asked. Sparrow didn’t answer. She just kept walking, the heels of her boots clicking across the cracked marble floor. In the far end of the nave stood a figure cloaked in the shadows, waiting. Sparrow’s breath came short. He hadn’t aged. Not where it counted. Father Lucien. The man who’d raised her in the guise of salvation. Who taught her to fight, to kneel, to pray—and to bleed on command. Jason stepped closer, ready to intervene, but Sparrow lifted one hand. “I need to do this,” she murmured. Lucien’s smirk grew as she