Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
“ W here’s Trigger?” I ask, checking my watch for the twentieth time.
“On his way,” Hunter answers as he approaches, cell in hand.
Between Cassie’s attack three days ago and Trigger’s constant disappearing acts, I’m losing the will to live.
I’m furious that Cassie refuses to stay with me, because it means I have to do the very thing she’s pissed at me for. But I won’t regret putting eyes on her. Until I put that pathetic excuse for a man in the ground, she’s not safe.
“You’re sure about this?” Hunter asks warily.
“More than ever,” I reply and step through the front door. The air hits me like a freight train—sharp, clean, liberating. My brothers flank me for comfort, but I don’t feel nervous. I’m focused. More vigilant, maybe, but not afraid.
It’s the first time I’ve stepped outside since I was shot. It’s not easy. But I’m doing this for her. I can’t protect Cassie if I’m scared of my own goddamn shadow.
Max is the first to stride toward the rundown warehouse with lethal purpose.
Covered by rusted walls and shattered windows, it’s a perfect front.
It’s laughable how obvious the place is, but with enough money greasing the right palms, even the most suspicious corners stay untouched.
There’s a fine line between right and wrong.
But if the cops don’t know about it, it never happened.
We enter through the side, the hinges groaning in protest. It’s cold and wet—an ideal setting for pain. The place stinks of sweat, blood, and fear. Despite every effort to clean up, our current guest has clearly been fighting for his life.
“Fuck!” Ryder gags, jerking back two steps and slapping a hand over his face.
His other hand flails blindly for balance as he bends at the waist, coughing hard.
He’s still not used to this part of the job.
The mess. The stench. The stomach-turning aftermath that always seems to cling to places like this.
Ryder grumbles something unintelligible under his breath and straightens, eyes watering as he struggles to pull himself together.
“Calm it, Ryder.” I clap a hand on his shoulder, grounding him with a firm squeeze. He’s new, still green, but he’ll learn. He has to.
Footsteps approach from behind, slow and measured.
“What’s the plan, Ax?” Hunter asks as he comes to stand beside me.
His voice is calm, but there’s a sharpness behind it—an edge that tells me he’s already mapping contingencies in his head.
His eyes flick toward the darkness ahead, unreadable as always.
The kind of stare that sees everything and gives nothing back.
I scan the corridor, tension winding tighter in my gut.
“Where the fuck is Trigger?” I growl. Every second he’s not here chips away at my patience.
“Here!”
His voice slices through the hallway, deep and furious, echoing off the cracked concrete walls like a warning shot. A loud clanking follows—a sharp, rhythmic clang of metal against metal, growing louder with each beat .
I turn toward the sound as Trigger emerges from the shadows, stomping down the hall with a look that could melt steel. Rage radiates off him like heat, his shoulders squared, his movements rigid and deliberate.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I bark as he approaches.
“Not now, Ax,” he snaps, not even slowing. His breath is ragged, his jaw clenched tight. “Somebody get these bastard things off me!” He lifts his arms, fists clenched. One of them is still cuffed, the heavy chain dangling, catching the dim overhead light with each step.
“You got arrested?” I ask, voice flat, jaw tightening until my molars grind.
“No!” he glares, and it’s more defensive than angry now. His cheeks flush with heat, the color rising fast as his eyes dart away, refusing to meet mine.
He doesn’t have to say anything else. That look tells me everything I need to know—whatever happened, it was messy. And he's not proud of it.
“I thought I told you to keep a low profile.” My tone is calm, but the edge behind it is sharp. I give Trigger a once-over—dirt-smeared shirt, scuffed boots, wrists red and raw from the cuffs. He looks like hell, and I’m guessing the story behind it is just as ugly.
“Ax,” he warns, his voice low with that growl he gets when he's about one second away from losing it. His eyes cut to mine, daring me to keep going.
But I’m not about to let this drop.
“Care to explain, then?” I press, the corner of my mouth twitching up. I can’t help the smirk—I’ve never seen him this rattled. Trigger’s usually the one with the plan, the one who never loses his cool. Now he looks like someone’s been grinding his nerves to dust. I want to enjoy it.
“Later,” he snaps, jaw tightening.
I raise my hands in mock surrender, fingers splayed. “Sure thing. ”
But I’ll circle back. Trust me. I always do.
Trigger exhales hard through his nose and jerks his head toward the metal door ahead of us, the paint chipped and streaked with something dark that better not be blood.
“Is he in there?”
“Been there two days.” My voice is quiet, controlled. No need to say more. We all know what that means.
Max steps up from the shadows, calm and efficient. He doesn’t say a word as he pulls a pin from his back pocket and takes Trigger's hand. The cuff’s lock clicks open, and the steel band slips free with a heavy clang as it hits the concrete floor.
Trigger rolls his shoulder with a grunt, flexing his wrist like he’s itching for a fight. “Ready?” he asks, eyes locked on mine. He’s not looking for bravado, he’s checking for cracks, for doubt. For a reason to pull me back.
He won’t find one. I’m too far gone for that. The second they laid a hand on her, they crossed a line I can’t forgive.
I nod once, slow and certain. “Yeah,” I breathe, rolling my shoulders and cracking the tension out of my neck. My fingers curl into fists and release. “Let’s do it.”
“Who’s going first?” Hunter asks from behind us, barely glancing up from his phone. His voice is bored, but that’s just his armor. I know better. He’s keyed in, just like the rest of us.
Trigger and I exchange a look, and just like that, the years fall away. We’ve done this dance before. He knows exactly why we’re here. Knows what I’m carrying in my chest like a live wire.
“Ladies first,” he says, smirking. “She’s your girl, man.” He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze before letting go.
“Yeah,” I grin, heat sparking low in my gut as I look toward the door. My girl.
And God help anyone who gets in my way.
Max pushes through first, the stench strong as we step into the room. He’s the biggest out of all of us, but ironically, the one who avoids violence .
Trigger, on the other hand, can hold his own blow for blow, which is why I wanted him here. We’re evenly matched, but he’s the one I trust to rein me in if I lose control—and there’s a good chance I will.
Daniels looks like shit. His greasy hazel hair hangs in stringy clumps over a face that’s more bruise than skin.
One eye swollen nearly shut, the other bloodshot and twitching with panic.
His cheeks are blotchy, his lips cracked, and from the stench, he either pissed himself hours ago or just now.
Hard to tell. Sweat stains darken his collar and underarms, soaking into a shirt that used to be white.
Now it’s yellowed and stiff with filth. His chest rises and falls in short, shallow bursts like a dying animal.
Max’s men did a number on him. Gave him a taste of hell and didn’t skimp on the seasoning.
Nice touch .
Daniels is slumped in a battered steel chair, the kind that cuts into your back if you sit too long.
His wrists are bound tight to the arms with zip ties that bite into the flesh.
There’s already dried blood around the plastic.
His ankles are duct-taped to the legs, one foot twitching uncontrollably.
The floor beneath him is covered in thick plastic sheeting. Not wrinkled or messy—no, Max laid it down with surgical precision. It stretches edge to edge like a painter preparing a canvas. Only this isn’t art. This is a warning. A silent scream of what’s coming.
I step forward, slow and deliberate, each footstep echoing off the concrete walls like a war drum.
“Mr. Daniels,” I sneer, his name coiling on my tongue like something rotten. “So nice to see you again.”
He jerks his head up. There’s defiance in his expression, sure, but it’s hollow. Weak bravado trying to cover the quake in his knees and the river of sweat glistening down his temple.
“You don’t scare me, Bonanno,” he says, voice cracking in places it shouldn’t. The tremble in his leg betrays him. His fingers curl around the armrests, knuckles bone-white .
I laugh softly, tilting my head like I’m trying to solve a puzzle. “What gave you the impression I was trying to scare you?” My tone is calm, almost polite. “To be honest, your emotions have no interest in my gain. Not really anyway.”
His brows pull together in confusion. “What?” he blinks, as if I just rewired the whole conversation in front of him.
“My ultimate goal is payback, but death would be too kind for you.” I don’t break eye contact as I reach for the table beside me, fingers brushing against cold steel. I pluck a slim knife from the lineup of tools. “And you should know, I am not a kind man.”
The blade glints under the flickering overhead light, catching the silver edge like a promise. It’s a hunting knife—sleek, curved, made for tearing flesh from bone. It’s not for show. I’ve used it before, and I’ll use it again.
Behind me, Hunter leans against the far wall, twirling a machete in one hand like it’s a damn baton. He’s smiling, but there’s no joy in it—just teeth and shadows. Max stands with his arms folded, silent, watching. His presence alone is enough to make grown men piss themselves.
Normally, I keep my hands clean. Delegate the work. But not this time.
This one’s personal.
He laid his fucking hands on Cassie and thinks that comes without consequence?
Nobody walks away from that.
The blade feels good in my hand, familiar. My fingers flex around the handle, muscle memory kicking in. Pain, after all, is an art. And I’ve always been a bit of a perfectionist.
“Payback?” Daniels gulps, voice barely above a whisper.
“Mr. Colombo, could you please remind this man why he’s here?” I say, my gaze still fixed on the man in the chair, my voice calm, controlled.
“There’s a list,” Trigger warns, stepping out from the shadows with a grin that could curdle blood. His smile is slow and deliberate, the kind of thing that would terrify the devil himself.
Daniels starts to shake.
And we haven’t even begun yet.
“Let’s start at the top.”
I raise the knife, touching it to Daniels’ chin. His head jerks back, eyes squeezed shut.
“Number one: You killed the Mayor.” Trigger tuts.
I whistle low then slam the knife through his hand.
Daniels screams, raw and high-pitched, the sound bouncing off the walls. Blood pours freely. I drag the blade out slowly.
“Colombo?”
“Number two: You framed Bonanno for your crime.”
I lift the knife again.
“Please, no!”
Too late.
I drive it through his other hand.
A gut-wrenching cry tears from his throat. His body jerks, but there’s nowhere to go.
When Trigger calls the next offense, I yank the blade out again.
“Mmmhmmm…” Daniels groans, tears running down his face.
“Number three,” Trigger continues, holding up three fingers. “You touched what wasn’t yours.”
This time, I don’t stab. I wait. Watch him squirm like the pathetic insect he is.
“Yes, you touched what wasn’t yours,” I whisper, circling behind him.
I step carefully, avoiding the mess beneath him. “Did your father not teach you about respect?” I trace the knife along his throat, just a tease, but enough for him to whimper.
“You don’t scare me,” he repeats through gritted teeth, blood foaming at his mouth. “You’re pathetic. ”
“Says the man tied to a chair, pissing himself.” I almost laugh, my words hitting harder than the blade in my hand.
“So you got the message?”
“Yes, but it appears you didn’t.” I round him again, passing the knife to Trigger and grabbing Daniels by the collar. “I have a woman sporting a black eye because of you,” I growl.
“So you got the message?”
“Yes, but it appears you didn’t.”
“His brows furrow. “What mess?—”
My fists land before he can finish whatever dumb shit he was about to say. Blood explodes from his nose but I keep going. For her.
“Didn’t your mother teach you never to hit women?” Another punch has his jaw cracking. “And you especially…” My fists fly with every word. “…don’t touch… what’s… fucking… mine!”
Daniels goes limp, half-conscious. Blood and spit pour from his busted mouth.
I meet Ryder’s eyes across the room, and it’s like watching a lit fuse inch toward the dynamite.
He’s practically vibrating with anticipation, jaw tight, pupils blown wide with the kind of hunger that only comes before violence.
His fingers flex at his sides, itching for permission—no, for release. He wants it. Bad.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just waits.
I give him the nod—slow, deliberate.
That’s all it takes.
His whole body shifts like a predator unchained, teeth bared in something that isn’t quite a smile. The storm’s coming, and I just gave it a name.
“I’m not done with you yet!” I bark, kicking Daniels’ foot to rouse him. “You understand why we’re called The Notorious Five?”
Daniels nods slowly, barely clinging to consciousness.
I take the knife back and tilt his chin with it. “And yet you feel the need to exact your own justice? falsely convict me of your crime? Better yet, you tried to fucking kill me!”
“You… deserved… it,” he rasps.
“Killing the Mayor is on you.” I flick the blade, cutting under his chin. Blood drips into the collar of his stained shirt. I lean in close, voice low. “Beg for your life.”
He says nothing. Just a slow, defiant shake of his head.
I have places to be.
“Genovese,” I call. Ryder straightens instantly. He’s ready. Eager. Dangerous.
“I want to hear him scream for mercy,” I say, eyes on Daniels. “And when he does, keep going.”
I turn on my heel and leave him in Ryder’s capable hands. My brother won’t disappoint.
“Bonanno!” Daniels screams behind me.
I don’t look back.
I slam the door shut.
Let the warehouse drown it out.