Katia reaches for another clamp.
“Pressure,” she orders.
Airlie, Ezekiel’s girl, moves instantly, wordlessly obeying as she leans over Danny and braces both hands against the blood-soaked dressing.
“Katia…” My sister's name leaves me before I can think better of it. She doesn’t even spare me a glance.
“Unless you’re scrubbed in, get out of my operating room.”
“I just?—”
“No.” Her voice slices through the room without rising. “You can be my brother when I’m done. Right now, I’m trying to save his life. Every second you distract me is a second Danny doesn’t have.”
I just stand here. Useless. I’ve built a life learning how to end lives, not save them. That neck of the woods was always for my sister. Put a gun in my hand and I won’t hesitate. Tell me to clear a building and I’ll do it blindfolded. But ask me to stop one of my own from bleeding out? I’ve got nothing.
A hand settles against my shoulder, but I don’t flinch.
“Raven.”
I tear my eyes away from Danny long enough to look at Ezekiel, his expression gives nothing away as usual, but the slight incline of his head toward the hallway carries the same quiet authority as any order he’s ever given. He doesn’t need to speak. I already know he wants to take me into his office. A debrief, or an execution. With Ezekiel, it could be either. Neither of us has ever been a man for idle conversation, and now isn’t the time to start.
The polished concrete beneath our boots swallows the sound of our footsteps as we move through the compound, his footsoldiers straightening ever so slightly as their Don passes, each one lowering their gaze just enough to acknowledge his presence without inviting it. Respect isn’t asked for in this outfit. It’s enforced. Titan built this organization on fear, carving loyalty from men until obedience became second nature. Those who forgot their place rarely lived long enough to make the same mistake twice. Ezekiel inherited that legacy, but he doesn’t rule the same way. Where Titan demanded fear, Ezekiel commands respect. The consequences of crossing him are just as permanent, but unlike the man before him, the man who raised us both, he doesn’t need to remind people of that every day. They already know.
Now it’s my turn to find out which side of that respect I’m standing on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RAVEN
The leather chair creaks beneath my weight as I sit opposite Ezekiel’s desk, the blood drying on my clothes making the expensive upholstery the least of my concerns. Across from me, the Don lowers himself into his chair, folding his hands on the polished timber between us before fixing me with a stare that has reduced stronger men than me to stammering apologies.
I’ve never been one of them.
I hold his gaze without so much as a blink, letting the silence stretch between us, neither of us in any hurry to fill it. That’s the thing about men like us. Words are rarely wasted, especially when they’re spoken behind closed doors. Outside these walls, he may be the Don and I may be one of his most trusted silencers, but in here there’s no audience to perform for. No footsoldiers waiting for instructions. No members of the outfit hanging on every word.
Just two men raised by the same monster.
The stare lingers for another few seconds beforesomething shifts almost imperceptibly in his expression. Not approval. Just simple understanding.
He looks away, reaching for the crystal decanter resting in the corner of his desk, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey before he looks up from his task at hand, then thinks better before offering me one. I don’t drink, and he knows why.
The glass remains in his hand as he settles back into his chair, the amber liquid catching the light from the desk lamp between us.
“What do you have for me?”
I lean back in the chair, dragging a hand over my jaw. We filled him in on the drive back from the docks. He already knows how the operation had unfolded. What he didn’t know, what nobody knew, was what the doctor had said to me.
“As usual. Nothing concrete,” I admit. “The fucker spoke in riddles the entire time.”
Ezekiel says nothing, waiting me out. When it becomes clear I’m not volunteering anything else, he finally speaks.
“They like to do that,” he says, swirling the whiskey around his glass. “It’s their code. Nothing is ever easy with them. Everything is wrapped in metaphors, riddles…half-truths.” His eyes settle back on mine. “So, tell me what he said.”
“He said a bunch of shit about kings. At first I thought he was referring to you or Titan, but then hementioned queens and inheritance.” Ezekiel’s expression hardens, then he mutters something under his breath before taking a sip of whiskey.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “He said…everyone watches the crown, but nobody watches the spare.” The room falls quiet, and I watch, noticing the invisible cogs turning in Ezekiel’s head, deciphering the same jargon I spent the entire car ride over here trying to figure out. I’m almost certain I know what the doc was implying, and that thought isn’t even remotely settling.
