Chapter 6 #2
She raises an eyebrow like she wasn’t expecting that.
“Get outta here for the night,” I add. “Go home. Stay out of the rest of this shit. Don’t answer your phone unless it’s me.”
She nods once. “Copy that. Stay the fuck out of trouble, she’s a big girl, she can handle herself.”
“Yeah, I know,”
And just like that, we’re done.
I turn, stalking through the hall, out the side door, and into the street, her silhouette vanishing behind me.
The cool breeze blowing in off the ocean hits my skin, but it doesn’t cool the fire crawling through my bloodstream.
My mind’s still spinning—her mouth, her laugh, that fucking smile like she knew exactly how deep she cut.
I swing onto my bike, blood drying on my hands, adrenaline still riding shotgun.
Then my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I answer without thinking.
“Where the fuck is my product?”
Dante’s voice. Smooth as always. But there’s venom under it tonight—quiet, coiled. The kind of calm that sounds like silk but feels like a garrote tightening around your throat.
Dante doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
He’s not some junk-pushing lowlife; he’s a mid-tier supplier with high-end connections and enough bodies under his belt to keep cops and competitors afraid to speak his name.
You fuck up a delivery with a guy like him, you don’t get a second call—you get a toe-tag.
I shift my weight, phone pressed tight to my ear. “Had a situation. Cops rolled in heavy at the event. I was handling it.”
“You were supposed to deliver four thousand tabs tonight,” he says, too calm. “Your supplier didn’t show. And now I’ve got a problem.”
My stomach drops.
Didn’t show?
That’s not like my guy. He’s late sometimes, sure. But never absent. Never without calling. Never when a haul this size is on the line. Especially not with Dante waiting.
Fuck.
“I’m heading to the motel now,” I say, voice clipped, pulse kicking harder.
“You better hope he’s there.”
Click.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I should, then shove the phone into my pocket, jaw tight.
Four thousand tabs. That’s not a casual drop, that’s a goddamn pipeline.
Enough to fuel the club scene for a month, easy.
Enough to piss off people way meaner than Dante if they don’t get their cut.
I grab my helmet off the handlebars, jaw clenched tight as I shove it down over my head. The visor snaps shut with a hiss. Gloves come next—leather, fingerless, worn in just right—pulled tight over knuckles that still sting from cracking against Noir’s face.
I thumb the ignition and the matte black 2022 Yamaha MT-10 snarls to life beneath me, custom-modded with blood money and rage.
The engine growls, deep and guttural, like it’s starving for carnage.
I twist the throttle once, hard. The rev punches through the night air, sharp and violent, like a warning shot no one asked for. Then I’m gone.
Gravel spits behind me as I peel out, tires chewing up the road, red lights nothing but smears in my peripheral. Wind claws at my jacket, but I’m locked in, laser-focused. Every thought slams into the same wall.
If he ghosted me, he’s fucking dead.
I take the coastal road fast, the wind ripping past me as the city blurs, salt air biting at my skin. I know before I arrive that something’s wrong. The sign flickers above the roof— La Sirena del Mar.
Cute name for a shitshow of a place. Stucco cracked. Sand in the parking lot. Neon casting everything in sick pink glow.
Room eight.
Door cracked open.
I step inside, one hand already reaching under my jacket for the piece tucked in my waistband. The door swings shut behind me, but the click barely registers over the static in my head.
The smell hits first—metallic and sharp, thick with copper and something foul underneath. It clings to the air, settles into your lungs. The kind of stink that doesn’t wash off. Not ever.
Then I see him.
My supplier. Crumpled in the motel bathtub like discarded trash. Throat sliced clean, ear to ear—one of those wide, wet smiles that never reaches the eyes. His don’t close. Just stare. Like he saw it coming.
Just not fast enough.
Blood coats everything. Walls. Tile. Pooling in the drain like the tub’s trying to swallow the mess but choking on it.
But it’s what’s carved into his chest that stops me cold.
A skull.
Not just any skull.
My skull.
The Cyanide brand—deep, clean, deliberate. Etched into him like a warning. Like a fucking signature.
My signature.
I scan the room, pulse hammering. The bag’s gone. Pills too. Every last thing I left with him.
Whoever did this knew exactly what to look for. Knew it was mine, and where to find it.
They wanted me to know they knew.
I step back, slow, gut twisting. This wasn’t random. Wasn’t some junkie who snapped or a deal gone bad. This was a fucking message.
Because when you owe these people, you don’t get warnings. You don’t get chances.
You disappear.
They kill you slow, or fast, doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re gone. Erased.
And if someone loves you? Cares too loud? Tries to hold on?
They go too.
Collateral. A reminder. A message that nothing is off limits.
I’ve seen what that looks like.
I still fucking see it.
I know exactly how this plays out.
They want me rattled. Paranoid. Next on the list.
But they miscalculated.
Because I don’t run, and I don’t scare easy.
I bury threats, and if they want to dig up the past, they better bring a shovel big enough to bury themselves.