Chapter 40
LUCIAN
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Finding a family - if that’s what this is - who don’t blink at what’s broken in you.
Men who don’t try to fix it, or pretend not to see it - they just nod like they’ve seen worse.
They carry your shit the same way they carry their scars - quietly, and without ceremony.
And somehow, that feels more like family than anything I’ve ever known.
It still feels wrong to call them that. Family.
I buried that word with Billie. But here I am, riding through the night with two men who’d kill and die without asking why.
Brando’s behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the endless black ribbon of road.
Mason’s in the passenger seat, smoke curling out the cracked window.
I sit in the back, listening to the rhythmic thump from the trunk - the sound of the bastard we’ve brought along for the ride.
Nadia’s ex, Michael.
He’s still breathing, but that’s only temporary.
No one says much on the ride.
We’ve been driving for hours, the hum of the engine our only soundtrack. The further we go, the more the city falls away, replaced by trees and silence. It’s the kind of road where no one asks where you’re headed, and if they did, you wouldn’t have the answer.
After the first hour, I start wondering.
Is this what it feels like to be taken out?
It’s not paranoia - it’s calculation. The men in this world don’t waste gas on courtesy calls.
When the Gattis need you gone, you disappear so efficiently even your shadow forgets your name.
For a moment, I wonder if Scar finally decided I was more liability than asset.
If this is the end of the road, and I just haven’t caught up to it yet.
But then I look at Mason through the rearview mirror. He meets my eyes. There’s no malice there. No warning. Just steady, quiet understanding.
If they wanted me dead, I’d already be gone. So I lean back, stretch my legs, and let the tension slide off like a second skin. They’ve come too far with me to toss me into a ditch.
Whatever waits at the end of this road - it’s not death. At least, not mine.
The trees thicken as we drive. The asphalt turns to gravel, then dirt. The headlights cut through a fog that settles ominously over the night. And then, through the mist, a sign appears:
PRIVATE PROPERTY – TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
I arch a brow. “You think they mean that literally?”
Brando smirks without slowing down. “Depends who’s trespassing.”
The gate comes into view - a high, rusted thing with barbed wire coiled across the top. A single guard steps out of a small booth, flashlight in hand. He squints into the car until the beam lands on Mason’s face.
Recognition. Then, immediate obedience.
He lowers the light, nodding sharply. “Evening, sirs.” The gate creaks open.
We drive through, the metal groaning shut behind us.
Inside, the air changes. Dense. Wet. Animalistic. The headlights sweep over thick jungle brush and the glint of still water. Somewhere in the distance, something moves - heavy, deliberate, alive.
“Welcome to the zoo,” Brando mutters with a grin.
It’s not a joke.
We stop at a small stone bridge arched over a dark pool. The surface is slick and silent, like it’s waiting. Brando cuts the engine.
“Out,” Mason says.
I follow them into the night air. It’s colder here, damp with the scent of death and decay. Crickets hum, frogs croak, and beneath it all, there’s another sound - something shifting under the surface of the water.
Brando leans on the railing, peering into the murk. Mason lights another cigarette.
Behind us, the trunk rattles. A dull thump, then another. Michael’s awake.
“Looks like our guest is restless,” Mason says, smoke curling from his lips.
Brando chuckles, eyes glinting. “Showtime.”
I look between them. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Brando doesn’t answer. He just walks back to the car and opens the rear door. When he returns, he’s carrying something wrapped in thick butcher paper, stained dark in places.
He unwraps it with care. The smell hits first - metallic, raw, bloody. Meat.
Without touching it, he flings the whole mess into the water.
For a second, nothing happens. Then the surface breaks - one ripple, two - and half a dozen reptilian eyes rise from the black, reflecting the headlights like small, cold suns.
The water churns. The meat vanishes in seconds. Alligators.
I let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “And all this time,” I murmur,“I thought I knew what crazy was.”
Mason smirks, flicking his cigarette into the water. “You have no idea.”
Brando pats the trunk, where Michael’s muffled shouts have turned to panicked kicks. “Show’s about to start.”
I watch the water settle again, calm and patient. The beasts disappear beneath, but the ripples stay.
This is what family looks like here.
Not comfort or forgiveness.
Just men who understand your demons because they feed theirs too.
A grin pulls across my face before I even pop the boot.
Because now I know exactly what this place is.
The zoo.
I hit the latch. The trunk springs open and Michael spills out, choking on panic and fury, stumbling into the dirt like a drunk animal. He’s been in there too long - blind, disoriented, blinking against the headlights that slice across the clearing.
He’s cursing before his feet even hit solid ground. “You motherfuckers - what the actual fuck - ”
His voice cracks, hoarse from screaming inside the dark. He swings at me, wild and sloppy, but the punch cuts through empty air. He’s dizzy. Soft. Weak.
Pathetic.
I don’t bother moving. Just watch him wobble, spitting blood and bile, still trying to find his bearings.
Brando and Mason lean against the hood of the truck behind me - arms crossed, legs lazily draped at the ankle, watching the show like they’ve seen it a thousand times before.
And they have.
“Looks like our boy’s got some energy left,” Brando mutters, lighting a cigarette, voice flat with amusement.
Mason chuckles low. “Won’t for long.”
Michael steadies himself and glares up at me, sweat slick on his forehead. “You think you can fucking scare me?” he spits. “You don’t know who you’re messing with - ”
I take one step forward. He shuts up.
“I know exactly who I’m messing with.” My voice is low, calm, vibrating with primal energy. “You’re the coward who thinks you have the right to touch what isn’t yours. The kind of man who breaks what he can’t control.”
He opens his mouth to talk. I hit him once.
“You put your hands on her.”
My knuckles split open. His head snaps sideways, blood gushing from his nose. He staggers.
“What kind of man does that? What kind of man are you?” I growl.
He laughs through the blood, stupid enough to still open his mouth and fight back. “She’s my woman - ”
“Woman?” The word leaves me like a snarl. “She’s a goddamn queen.”
I grab him by the throat, slam him back against the truck so hard the metal screams. “And you don’t get to fucking say her name.”
He thrashes, kicks out, but it’s like watching a fish drown in air. He’s too slow, too far gone to put up an adequate fight.
Mason blows smoke toward the trees. Brando flicks ash. Neither of them moves as they let me take the reigns.
I drag Michael forward and shove him to the ground, boot on his chest to keep him there. He wheezes, clutching at air, trying to find purchase to lift himself up.
“You thought you’d kill her tonight?” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “You thought you’d make her bleed, and no-one would notice?”
He spits up blood, defiant even now. “You should’ve stayed out of a man’s business with his woman - ”
The sound I make isn’t human. I grab him by the collar and pull him close until our foreheads nearly touch.
“She’s not your anything,” I snarl. “You’re her disease. And I’m the cure.”
My fingers find the knife tucked beneath my jacket before my brain does. It slides into my hand so fast it barely feels real until the headlights catch the blade, and his eyes go wide, finally understanding what kind of man he’s standing in front of.
“Please - ”
I pin his arm against the dirt and press the blade to his finger. “You like using these to touch her, right?”
He starts begging then. Real begging - high, choking sounds that make no difference to me.
“You’ll never touch her again,” I promise.
The knife bites through bone before he can finish the word stop.
He screams. The sound tears through the clearing, raw and wet, echoing against the trees. Blood gushes in thick, dark ribbons across my knuckles.
Brando winces, exhaling smoke through his teeth. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost fond. “That’s one way to make a point.”
Michael’s still howling when I grab him by the collar and haul him upright. The stump spurts between us, slick and hot. I hold up the severed finger, the blood dripping down my wrist like paint, and toss it into the black water below the bridge.
The splash is soft. The response isn’t.
The water erupts - a violent swirl of ripples and snapping jaws. A dozen pairs of eyes breach the surface, glowing reptilian and cold. They converge on the spot where the finger sank, the frenzy breaking the calm.
Michael’s voice dies in his throat. His gaze follows the chaos, eyes wide, face draining of color. He knows. He knows.
I drag him closer so he can’t look away. “That’s what happens when blood and flesh hits the water,” I say, voice low and steady. “Nature knows what to do with garbage.”
He trembles. “Who the hell are you?” he whispers.
I lean in, my mouth near his ear, breath steady despite the pounding in my chest.
“I’m the man who cleans up the mess monsters leave behind,” I say. “And you just became the next one.”
His eyes dart between me and the water, realization dawning in them like a final prayer.
Behind me, Mason says quietly, “Time to feed the animals.”
I don’t smile.
I just let go of Michael’s collar and watch him fall.