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Along with his name, they gave us enough information to track the fucker down and exact our vengeance, and all they asked in return is that we wait for their go-ahead before we killed him.
I wanted to go find the son of a bitch right then and there and make him regret ever being born, but if the Kings want us to play this a certain way, there must be a good reason. When my brothers and I talked it over after our meeting with Ash, I remember Ransom shrugging, a savage light in his blue-green eyes.
“We’ve waited this long,” he said then. “What’s a few more weeks?”
For people who suck at waiting as much as I do, a few more weeks is a hell of a lot—but finally, the word has come in.
It’s time.
“Do we know where Nikolai is?” I ask Vic. “Where to find him?”
He nods. “Yes.”
Vicious anticipation fills me, the satisfaction I was feeling from getting laid shifting into something else. A different kind of satisfaction that comes from a deeper, darker place.
“Good,” I say. “Start doing recon on the place. We need to know what we’re walking into.”
Vic nods again and heads down the hall, Ransom on his heels.
My twin grew up different than me and Ransom, and he has a tendency to retreat into himself sometimes. But he’s always comfortable in front of his computers, and on any given day, I can expect to find him parked in front of the bank of monitors in his room, tapping away at his keyboard. He’s self-taught, but he’s a fucking good hacker and programmer, and that’s come in handy for us often. There’s nothing he can’t brute force his way into when he wants to.
I run a hand through my hair and shift my gaze to a picture on my nightstand. It’s of me, my brothers, and our mom. It was taken a long time ago, when we were young and she was still alive. Our dad used to be in the photograph too, but I cut him out of it, not wanting to look at the fucker’s face every day. I don’t need any more reminders of that piece of shit.
But the four of us—me, Vic, Ransom, and Mom? We were a unit. A family.
And someone ripped her away from us in the worst way possible.
I stalk over to my dresser and pull out a fresh shirt, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pull it on. I’ve got tattoos everywhere, but the one on my left arm, right above my bicep, is the one that matters the most.
It’s our mom’s name, Diana, and the date she died.
It’s the first thing I got done when I got out of prison, and whenever I look at it, I think about her. Sometimes it’s kinda soothing, remembering who she was and how much she cared about all of us.
Sometimes it pisses me off.
This is one of those times where grim rage fills my chest. She died while I was locked up, so I wasn’t there to protect her. Maybe that’s why I threw myself so hard into trying to find the asshole who did it after I got out. So I could make it up to her in some way, even though it isn’t going to bring her back.
On some level, I’ve always blamed myself for her death, always wondered if it could have been different if I was on the outside. If I could have kept her safe.
I drag in a deep breath that hurts like glass in my throat. There’s no point in wondering about the ‘what ifs’ now. Tonight, we’re going to get our vengeance against the man who murdered her, and maybe her spirit will rest easier once he’s dead.
Rolling out my neck, I pull open another drawer in my dresser. This one has weapons and other equipment in it, not clothes. Guns, a few knives, brass knuckles, whatever I might need to get a job done. I grab a gun and tuck it into my waistband before heading to Victor’s room.
The three of us all have our bedrooms upstairs, and Vic’s is down the hall from mine. Downstairs, the warehouse we live in is converted into two separate areas. There’s the kitchen and living room that’s a part of our living space, and then there’s the chop shop where we do our work.
The woman I brought home turned her nose up at the place when we walked inside, calling it grungy and greasy, and I ignored her then, because whatever. Who gives a fuck? It’s home. The warehouse gives us a place to sleep and to run our business out of, and that’s all we need.
Vic’s room is more of an office than a bedroom. He’s got a bed in one corner, and a closet against one wall, and that’s pretty much it for personal effects. The rest of the room is taken up by a large, L-shaped desk that spans the other two walls and holds all his computers and screens.
The sound of keys clacking on a keyboard is loud when I step into the room, and Vic and Ransom are huddled in front of one of the computers, their eyes glued to the screen.
“We can get in here,” Vic says, pointing at the screen. He doesn’t even look up when I come in, but I know he’s talking to me now too. “I took out the cameras, here and here.” He points again. “And as long as we stick to this path, we won’t get picked up.”
“How much time will we have?” Ransom asks Victor. “How long are the cameras gonna be out for?”
“Long enough,” Vic replies. “We don’t have to rush, but we can’t take all night.”
As I listen to them talk, the craving for violence wells in my chest.
