Bonita Hills was a contradiction dressed in white stucco and red tile roofs. The neighborhood perched on the city's eastern edge, where the urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills and the kind of quiet that felt deliberate. The streets were clean. The gardens were manicured. The children playing in the parks wore uniforms from private academies. It looked like any other wealthy suburb, until you noticed the men in tailored suits standing on every corner, their eyes tracking every car that passed, their jackets bulging with concealed weapons. This was Los Reyes del Norte territory. And everyone who lived here knew it. The convoy rolled through the gates of a private estate at the top of the highest hill. The church, Iglesia de Santa Muerte, was a sprawling structure of white stone and stained glass, built with cartel money and consecrated by a bishop who had been paid to look the other way. Black ribbons hung from the iron gates. Black wreaths adorned the doors. The parking lot was fi

"Stay back," Ferdinando said. "Or I open his throat and we all go home early." Damien froze. "I know what you're doing," Ferdinando hissed, his face inches from Marcus's. "You're manipulating me. Using my grief to turn me into your weapon. You think I don't see it?" Marcus, pressed against the wall with a blade at his throat, smiled. "Of course I am. That's what I do. I find people's weaknesses and I exploit them. It's not a secret. It's a job description." His voice was calm, unafraid. "But that doesn't change the facts. Your aunt is dead. My nephew killed her. And whether you work for me or not, he will continue killing, consolidating power, eliminating threats, becoming exactly what his father was before the illness softened him. Your aunt was his first execution. She will not be his last." Ferdinando frown grew deeper, "Give me one reason not to kill you instead of him." "Because I'm offering you a chance to avenge her. With my resources. My intelligence. My access. You walk

The Silvercrest Manor was dark when the convoy pulled through the gates. The grand foyer was empty, the servants dismissed for the night. Ethan walked through the marble corridors with the heavy tread of a man who had been running on adrenaline for too long and was finally running out. Sable and Donald flanked him, their silence a testament to the weight of the evening. They had barely reached the drawing room when Trevor appeared in the doorway. His face was pale. His eyes were red-rimmed. In his hand, he clutched a folded stack of papers, the documents Ken had given him at the orphanage. The documents he had been carrying for days, unable to confront, unable to ignore. "We need to talk," Trevor said. "Now." Ethan turned to face him. "Trevor, I'm exhausted. Whatever this is, can it wait until—" "No. It can't." Trevor walked into the room, his voice shaking. "I've been carrying this around for days. Days, Ethan. While you were out interrogating Jason and visiting cartel funerals

The bar on the edge of the dock district had no name. Just a flickering neon sign that vaguely resembled a ship's anchor and a door that had seen better decades. The sign buzzed intermittently, casting a sickly blue glow across the cracked pavement outside, where puddles from an earlier rain reflected the distorted light. Inside, the lighting was dim, the clientele sparse, and the bartender had the weathered face of someone who had learned long ago not to ask questions. The air smelled of salt water and stale beer and the kind of desperation that drove men to drink alone on weeknights. A jukebox in the corner played something slow and melancholy, an old blues tune that crackled through speakers that hadn't been replaced since the Reagan administration. Trevor sat in a corner booth, his third whiskey untouched in front of him. The glass was sweating, a ring of condensation pooling on the scarred wooden table. He had been staring at it for the better part of an hour, the ice long since

The drawing room fell into silence after Yuki's confession. No one spoke, no one moved. The weight of her words, I think I had a one-night stand with him, hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. Trevor stared at her, his mind a chaos of emotions he couldn't name. Shock, confusion, and something else. Something that burned in his chest and made him want to punch a wall. He couldn't quite understand why he cared so much. Yuki was a victim. A traumatized woman he had saved from an alley. A guest in his apartment, then in the manor. She wasn't his girlfriend. They weren't even dating, she had asked if they were, and he had said no. He had been very clear about that. So why did the image of her with another man, with a Triad assassin, of all people, make his stomach clench and his jaw tighten? "I need some air," he muttered, and turned toward the door. "Trevor..." Amelia started. "I said I need some air." He walked out of the drawing room without looking back. His footsteps