45. Quinn
45
QUINN
By the time we make it back to the safe house, I’m barely conscious. The world fades in and out, a blur of motion and voices and strong but gentle hands. I remember being carried inside, Nico’s voice giving orders, Atlas arguing with Killian about who needs medical attention first.
“Her,” I hear Killian insist. “Take care of her first.”
I force my eyes open, finding the strength to say, “No. You first. All of you.” When they try to argue, I add, “I can fucking wait. That bullet needs to come out of your shoulder, and Nico and Atlas need their ribs wrapped.”
I’m in no fucking shape to argue, and I see the resignation on their faces. They know I’m right, even if they don’t like it.
Kendrick helps patch them up—first with Killian on a kitchen chair, cutting away his shirt and digging the bullet out of his shoulder with what looks like a pair of sterilized tweezers. Killian doesn’t make a sound, just stares straight ahead with that too-calm, completely controlled stillness that would unnerve anyone who doesn’t know him like we do.
While Kendrick is working on Killian, Atlas helps Nico get his ribs wrapped. There isn’t a lot that can be done for broken ribs, but the binding will help with the pain and prevent them from getting worse. When he’s finished, they swap places. Both of them are covered in swollen cuts and dark bruises, but it doesn’t look like anything that won’t heal with some time and rest.
I sit on the couch, forcing myself to stay awake until they’re all taken care of. Kendrick checks me over briefly, saying I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs too, but no internal bleeding that he can detect.
When he’s done patching everyone up, Kendrick leaves with a promise to check in tomorrow. The door closes behind him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s just us. Just me and my men.
Once they’ve all had a chance to clean up, it’s finally my turn.
“Shower,” I say, pushing myself up from the couch. “I need to get this blood off me.”
Atlas steps forward, concern etched on his face. “Let me help you.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it. You all need to rest.”
“Quinn—” Nico starts, but I cut him off.
“I’m fine,” I insist, even though I’m anything but. “I just need to wash away this day.”
I make my way to the bathroom, stripping off my ruined clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor. The shower hisses to life, steam filling the small space as I step under the spray.
The hot water hits my battered body, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Every cut, every bruise, every scrape stings under the assault, but I don’t turn down the temperature. I need this—the pain is a reminder that I’m alive. That we all made it.
I watch as the water at my feet turns red, then pink, then clear as Malcolm’s blood, Elliot’s blood, and my own wash away down the drain. If only the memories could be scrubbed away so easily.
I close my eyes and let the water pour over me, savoring the sensation of being clean. There’s a lightness in my chest, a sense of peace that I haven’t felt in a long damn time. Not since before my father died. Maybe not even then.
For the first time in forever, there’s no target on my back. No Malcolm or Ambrose breathing down my neck, no Syndicate to appease, no one manipulating me or the people I care about. Just me and my men, alive and together.
I don’t know how long I stand there, letting the water wash away the nightmare of the past few weeks, but eventually the water starts to cool. I shut it off reluctantly and step out into the steamy bathroom to dry myself.
A few minutes later, I make my way down the hall to my bedroom. The house is quiet, almost uncomfortably quiet after the chaos of the night. No gunshots, no screams, no threats. Just the soft hum of the heater and the distant sound of the city outside.
I pause at my bedroom door, listening for any sign that my men are still awake. Nothing. I push the door open slowly, careful not to make too much noise.
The sight that greets me makes my heart do a slow roll in my chest. All three of them are sprawled across my bed, dead to the world. They must have come in here to wait for me and finally given in to their exhaustion.
Nico is closest to the door, lying on his back with one arm flung over his head while the other rests across his bandaged torso. His face is relaxed in sleep, and even with his eye swollen shut and his lip split, he’s still one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen.
Atlas is next to him, curled on his side and facing the door like he’s still on guard even in his sleep. One hand is under his pillow and the other is stretched out toward the center of the bed. Probably looking for me, even in his dreams.
Killian is on the far side, flat on his back like Nico, but with both arms at his sides. His injured shoulder is bandaged, and there’s a faint spot of blood seeping through the white gauze. His face is turned toward the center of the bed, and even in sleep, there’s an intensity in his handsome features that never quite goes away.
They’ve left a space in the middle of the bed. A space just big enough for me.
I drop my towel, too tired to bother with clothes, and carefully climb onto the bed. The mattress dips slightly under my weight, but none of them wake. They’re that exhausted, that trusting in their safety here with me.
As I settle into the center of the bed, something shifts. Without waking, all three men subtly move toward me.
I smile, feeling a sense of rightness that I’ve never experienced before. This is where I belong. Not just with one of them, but with all three. They each fill a different need and heal a different part of me—all while challenging me in different ways.
Together, they make me whole in a way I never thought possible.
A soft thump at the foot of the bed signals the arrival of our final family member. The cat—Princess—pads up the blanket, kneading the fabric with small paws before settling into a ball at my feet.
I close my eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day finally take me.
The next few days blend together in a haze of sleep, food, and the sweet fucking relief of not having anyone actively trying to kill us. We’re all moving like old people, wincing with every step and groaning when we sit or stand. The safe house has become our recovery ward, with a collection of bandages, antiseptic, and painkillers scattered across every surface.
We spend most of our time sprawled on the couch together, watching shitty TV and trading barbs about each other’s injuries. But beneath the lazy domesticity, our minds are working. Planning. Figuring out what happens next.
“Where the fuck are we going to live?” Atlas asks on the third day, wincing as he shifts on the couch. “We can’t stay in this shitty little house forever.”
It’s a good question. One we’ve been dancing around because it opens the door to a hundred others. What are we going to do now? Do we continue to rebuild Enigma and Carnage? Do we even want to?
“We could rent a place,” Nico suggests, his fingers absently stroking my hair as I rest my head in his lap. “Something bigger than this.”
I smile, closing my eyes as I consider the possibility. A real home like the one I had—the one we shared before it burned down. Not a temporary hideout or a place we’re forced to stay in. Somewhere that’s ours by choice.
“We’ll have to figure something out soon,” I say. “But maybe not today. I’ve been sort of enjoying not really stressing about shit these past few days.”
The conversation shifts to other logistics—what to do about the remnants of our gangs, how to merge them, whether to keep our current operations running or try something else entirely. For the first time in our lives, we have options.
Word trickles in from the streets over the next few days. Our people—the ones loyal to Enigma and Carnage—have been keeping their ears to the ground and feeding us information about the aftermath of our little coup.
Kendrick stops by with bandages, food, and the latest updates. “Malcolm’s organization is eating itself alive,” he tells us, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “His lieutenants are fighting over territory, clients, even his fucking furniture.”
I snort, then wince as the movement jars my ribs. “It sounds like they’re a bunch of vultures circling the corpse.”
“Exactly.” Kendrick nods. “And Elliot’s operation isn’t doing any better. Without him giving orders, his human trafficking network is falling apart. The cops have already raided three of his warehouses.”
“Good,” Atlas says, grimacing. “Let that shit burn to the ground.”
Nobody is going to mourn Elliot or his operation. The world is better off without both.
Later in the evening, Hudson stops by with more news. He’s got a fresh scar across his jaw from the fight at Elliot’s warehouse, but he wears it like a badge of honor.
“Nobody seems to be looking for payback,” he tells us, accepting a beer from Nico. “Not for Malcolm, not for Elliot. Their people are too busy grabbing what they can for themselves.”
“What about the Dark Lotus Syndicate?” I ask, thinking of Cassandra and Owen. “Any word on what’s happening there?”
Hudson shrugs. “Word is they’re dissolving it and going their separate ways, but with some kind of non-aggression pact in place. There won’t be any more forced alliances or blood debts.”
I nod, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. The Syndicate is done, and Malcolm’s sick legacy has ended with him.
“And no one’s gunning for us?” Killian asks. “No leftover loyalists with a hard-on for revenge?”
“Nah,” Hudson says, taking a pull from his beer. “That’s the thing about guys like Malcolm and Elliot. They don’t inspire loyalty—they demand it. They surround themselves with people who work for them out of fear or ambition, not love. When they die, no one gives a shit.”
I think about my father, about how his death left a hole in the heart of Enigma that I’ve been trying to fill ever since. How his men still talk about him with respect. How they followed me not just because I was his daughter, but because he earned their loyalty in a way Malcolm never could have done.
“Their mistake,” I say softly. “Building empires on fear instead of respect.”
I’m glad we’re building something different, something based on choice and sacrifice and a bone-deep understanding of each other.
“So we’re clear?” Atlas asks, probably because we’re each having a hard time wrapping our heads around the concept. “No targets on our backs? No vendettas to worry about?”
“Nope.” Hudson shakes his head. “You’re all free and clear, as far as anyone can tell.”
Free. The word echoes in my head. Free to choose the lives we want. Free to build. Free to live.
I wake up from a nap one evening to an empty bed. The house is quiet, but I can hear low voices from the living room. I pull on one of Nico’s shirts—it hangs off me like a dress—and pad down the hallway, following the sound.
I stop in the doorway, and a smile tugs at my lips as I take in the scene that’s playing out in the living room.
Killian is sitting cross-legged on the floor with his injured arm in a sling, dangling a string for the cat who is watching it with predatory focus.
“Pounce,” Killian commands, his voice low and serious. “Target. Attack.”
The cat stares at him, tail twitching, completely ignoring his commands.
Atlas is sprawled on the couch, watching the whole thing with undisguised amusement. “She’s a cat, not a fucking Navy SEAL,” he points out. “You can’t train her to take down enemy combatants.”
“I’m not trying to turn her into a weapon,” Killian says with exaggerated patience. “I’m enriching her environment through structured play. It’s good for her cognitive development.”
Atlas snorts. “You read that in a cat book, didn’t you? You actually went and found a fucking book about cats.”
Killian doesn’t deny it, which is as good as an admission. Princess finally pounces, batting at the string with surprising accuracy.
“Good,” Killian says approvingly. “Again.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. This man—this dangerous, deadly man who once cut off the hands of men who hurt me without a second thought—is teaching a cat to pounce on command. And he’s deadly serious about it.
Warm arms slide around my waist from behind, and I lean back instinctively, recognizing Nico’s touch without having to look. His chin rests on my shoulder as we watch the scene together.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask quietly.
“About an hour.” Nico’s voice is warm with amusement. “Atlas has been giving him shit the whole time.”
I smile and look up at my husband’s face. His eye is still black, but the swelling has gone down, and he can see out of it again. The cut on his temple is healing, a thin red line that will fade to a silver scar with time. We’re all healing and getting stronger every day, but it’ll still be weeks before we’re back to full strength.
But standing here with Nico, watching Atlas and Killian and Princess, I feel something deeper healing inside me. Something I didn’t even realize was broken until these men helped me put it back together.
I could stay here forever, I realize. Just like this. Just us.
“You’re free now,” Nico says, repeating that word that’s been bouncing around in my head for days.
It’s good to hear it out loud again. I’ve spent so long focused on surviving, on keeping us all alive, that I haven’t fully processed what it means to be truly free.
“You can do whatever you want,” he continues. “Be whoever you want to be.”
I turn in his arms, looking up at him. “What about you? What do you want?”
His eyes search mine. “I want you. I want them.” He nods toward Atlas and Killian. “I want us to figure out what comes next together.”
The simplicity of it, the honesty, makes my throat tight. I press my forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of him as I process his words.
What do I want? The question rattles around in my head, demanding an answer.
I think about the past weeks, about all the pain and fear and violence. But I also think about the moments in between—the four of us in bed, limbs tangled together. The way they each fill a different need in me. The way we fit together, broken edges lining up to create something stronger than any of us could be alone.
I think about my father, about what he wanted for me. Safety. Power. Family. I’ve found all three with these men, just not in the way either of us expected.
I lift my head, meeting Nico’s gaze. “I want this,” I tell him, my voice raw with emotion. “I want you. All of you.”
He smiles, understanding what I’m saying. What I’m offering. “You have us, mia cara. Always.”
I kiss him, hard and quick, then pull away. “Wait here,” I say as an idea forms. “I’ll be right back.”
I duck into the bedroom, rummaging through the nightstand until I find what I’m looking for—a small blade, sharp and clean. I carry it back to the living room, and Killian and Atlas look up as I enter.
“Vicious?” Atlas asks, straightening on the couch. “What’s going on?”
Instead of answering, I set the knife on the coffee table and peel off my shirt. The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on my skin as I stand there in just my bra.
I trace my fingers over the tattoos on my breast—marked through with the lines I carved the night Malcolm took me.
“You owe me,” I say. “New marks for this new beginning.”