22. NIKOLAI #2
“Saint Columba,” he said. “From the green fields of Ireland, a man of fierce temper and iron will. He commanded legions of monks, bent kings to his will, and wherever he walked, power followed.”
With no hesitation, Lachlan extended his hand.
The blade sliced.
He didn’t flinch. There was a subtle tightening of his jaw but nothing else.
He clasped Luca’s hand, palm to palm, their blood mixing. Then his grip locked around mine, solid as steel.
When the card touched down and the flame surged, Lachlan didn’t make a sound.
But sweat rolled down his spine, darkening the fabric of his shirt.
That was his only tell.
The man was steel on the surface—but this fire pushed everyone to their limits.
I nodded, impressed.
Lachlan could handle the pressure. But he would do it in silence, bury it deep, and let it rot him from the inside if he had to.
Luca stepped up to Gabriel next, giving him a wry smile. “The Archangel Gabriel. The messenger. A voice of truth, even when no one wants to hear it.”
Gabriel held out his hand. “The messenger, huh? Figures I’d get stuck with the talking gig.”
The knife slashed. He winced hard.
“Jesus, you trying to carve a sermon into my palm?”
Gabriel squirmed but kept his hand out.
“Motherfucker—did you have to go that deep?”
Gabriel sealed the oath with Luca, then turned to me, gripping my hand with a grimace. “Well, Nik, guess we’ve got matching scars now. How romantic.”
I didn’t laugh, but a smirk slipped through.
Luca chuckled and lit the card.
Gabriel gritted through the burn. “Truth-teller. I can work with that. Hope you like hearing it too, because this is one sick-as-fuck ritual.”
As the flames consumed the card, he growled and locked eyes with Luca. “I’ve got a feeling you and I are gonna have some long talks.”
The smell of charred flesh filled the air.
But Gabriel didn’t pull away.
He stood his ground, pain written all over his features, but his humor never broke.
It was a shield. I’d seen that before. Men who joked their way through trauma never get around to healing.
Then came Julian.
Luca’s expression grew more solemn.
“Saint Jude,” he said. “Patron of lost causes and desperation. Men who do what they must.”
Julian didn’t blink. “Sounds about right.”
He thrust his hand out.
The knife sliced—deep and unforgiving.
Julian didn’t even react.
Not a twitch.
Luca clasped his hand, sealing the bond, and then Julian turned to me. His grip was like a vice, eyes locked on mine with something dark and unreadable.
When the flame hit his palm, the room felt colder.
Like something ancient stirred in the silence.
Julian’s eyes never left Luca’s.
Fire curled across his skin, smelling like death.
Still, he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t react.
As the flame died, the ghost of something dark stirred in his eyes.
He was the one to watch.
He’d bleed for us now.
But if he ever turned?
We would never see it coming.
He stepped back, palm blistered and sealed with ash. Everyone’s eyes, except for Julian’s, shone with pain, sweat clinging to their brows.
But they hadn’t broken.
Not a single one.
They had taken the pain.
Now they wore the mark.
And there was no turning back.
Luca nodded, satisfied, then placed the blade back on the altar.
By the time the ritual was complete, the air was thick with smoke and the scent of burned iron.
We were bound now.
Luca turned without a word and crossed the room to a desk at the far wall.
He picked up a towel, casually wiping the blood from his palm as if it were no more than wine spilled at dinner.
On the desk, a row of black cases sat waiting, sleek and ominous.
One by one, he flipped them open, each click of the latch echoing through the silence.
Inside each case gleamed a brand-new SIG Sauer P226—matte black, steel frame, textured grip. A weapon built for precision. The kind of gun you trusted with your life, engineered to fire true and never jam.
Luca turned back to the men, towel still in hand.
“Welcome to the syndicate,” he said in a satisfied voice. “These are yours. Protect them. Respect them. Use them when necessary—and it will be necessary.”
Lucian stepped forward first, taking his case with a quiet nod. Lachlan followed, then Gabriel, who tested the weapon with a dramatic flair. Julian lingered for a while, scrutinizing the weapon before lifting the case and locking eyes with me.
That one was going to be a problem someday.
When the men were all situated, I stepped forward.
They turned their attention to me—four new brothers with blood crusted across their palms and scars forged in fire.
I reached into the interior pocket of my jacket and pulled out four USB drives, cased in polished obsidian glass.
Each one was small enough to vanish into a pocket yet powerful enough to change a man’s life forever.
“These,” I said, handing one to each of them, “are keys.”
They turned them over, studying the seemingly innocuous little pieces of hardware and looking confused.
“Each of you now has a numbered offshore account. The balances will keep you looking, acting, and living the part of an influential force. You’ll drive the right cars. Wear the right suits. Walk into the right rooms with the right posture. No one questions men who move like they were born to rule.”
Lucian blinked several times, visibly stunned.
Julian gave a low whistle. “Guess I won’t be shopping secondhand anymore.”
Gabriel held the drive up. “Well damn, I didn’t realize joining the mob came with a signing bonus.”
Luca chuckled from across the room, taking the towel and wiping the blade as if it were communion silver. “That’s the sugar. The shitstorm comes later. Try to stay alive long enough to enjoy it.”
I turned back to the men.
“Now listen closely. Delgado is hunting for Lyla; be ready to burn this city to ash if he finds her before we do.”
That earned a slow, amused grunt from Luca. “Hope she’s as loyal as she is flexible.”
I shot him a look. Cold. Deadly. “She’s not a joke.”
His smirk faded, and he shook his head in that patronizing way old men do when they think they’ve already lived your mistake.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” I told the others. “Stay alert. We’re going after Delgado and his MS-13 rats.”
I didn’t wait for questions. I walked out.
Rory was waiting by the SUV, one hand resting on the open passenger door.
He glanced at the blackened gash in my hand.
“Hell of a way to say I’m committed .”
“Let’s just go,” I muttered, sliding into the vehicle.
We sped through the quiet streets, heading toward Manhattan. I tapped my phone screen. I’d received no updates from Henri.
I growled under my breath.
“She’s still off the grid,” I said, dragging my hand through my hair in frustration. “It’s like she evaporated.”
Rory glanced at me. “You think she ran?”
I stared out the window. “If she’d run, I would have already found her. This? This is something else.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence. He didn’t press.
“Be ready to leave the second I figure out where she is,” I said as he exited the elevator on his floor of our building.
He nodded. “Understood.”
Every floor ticked past in slow motion as my brain ran through potential scenarios, each one darker than the last—Lyla gagged and bound beneath some building, her hands bloodied, eyes wide and terrified, some MS-13 soldier carving his name into her skin just to send a message.
I clenched my fists.
She had no business being in this world. No fucking clue about the danger she was in.
As soon as the elevator opened, I stalked through the darkened living room to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of Stoli from the fridge, taking a tumbler from the shelf. I didn’t bother with ice.
I stepped into my IT room and let the door seal behind me.
The monitors flickered to life.
I began pulling everything up again—every file, every feed. I scrutinized her apartment building. The theater. The street cams. Retail security. Anything that had eyes on that block.
I’d already gone through it once, frame by frame. I’d logged every movement, tracked her last steps.
But I had to be missing something.
I started over.
Went back to the beginning, searching for some detail I might’ve missed.
Except I didn’t miss things. Not me. Not when it mattered.
After another hour, still nothing.
No Lyla.
Fuck.
She’d disappeared into thin air, and I had no idea how.
For her sake…
I hoped I found her first.