I know my brothers will just want a name to go after him, but I want undeniable proof he's connected. No excuses for why he let that man into the event.
I text everything to Declan one by one, my pulse racing with every message sent.
When I'm done, I sit back, staring at the screen. I think back to all the times he smiled. Said good morning. Made eye contact and nodded with that soft voice.
And all this time, he was selling us out. Now, I'm going to be there when they take him down.
I close my laptop and stand.
I need to tell Octavian. I mean, I should, since Declan told me I'd have to bring him.
I walk to the door and open it. I walk into the kitchen, and it's empty. I check the living room, family room. Nothing.
"Octavian?" I call out, but he doesn't answer.
I look and see the basement door is ajar.
Maybe he's in the gym,I think as images of his shirtless body flash in my mind.
I smile, feeling the heat rising within me, and head down the steps.
22
OCTAVIAN
I'm not sure of anything right now. Not Nicolae. Not the job. Not myself.
But her little gym downstairs might help clear my head.
I walk through the house again, checking every window latch, every door lock. Old habits. The kind that kept me alive in places where a single mistake meant a bullet between the eyes.
I pause at the front door, my hand on the deadbolt, and I can still hear Nicolae's voice in my head.
Let her be taken.
The fuck I will.
I grind my teeth at the thought.
I move to the garage next, slipping inside through the connecting door. Keira's cars sit there like trophies. I pop the hood on the Mercedes first, disconnect the battery. Then the Audi and the Range Rover.
I pocket all three sets of keys.
She's not going anywhere without me. If she gets pissed later, so be it. It's second nature to eliminate exit points before things go sideways.
The rational part of my brain knows this is excessive, however. She's inside. She's safe. But the other part, the part that's been unraveling since the moment I saw her unconscious in my arms, doesn't give a shit about rational.
I head back upstairs, strip off my suit, and change into gym shorts. My reflection in the mirror stares back at me. Tattooed skin, scars, and my brother's face, frozen at fifteen, the age he was when he died.
I grab my phone and head back down.
I turn on the basement light and descend the stairs. The basement gym is cool and quiet, and I go straight for the weights.
I've always relied on discipline. Wake at five. Cold shower. Cardio. Gym. Combat drills. It's the structure that keeps the chaos out.
Lately, though, even that doesn't work.
Keira Killaney is chaos, and I'm opening the damn door.
