Chapter 40
Blood in the Foundations
Asher
The city hums beneath me with the kind of stillness that feels wrong.
Not peaceful—never that—but coiled and watchful, like it’s holding its breath.
This kind of quiet doesn’t come naturally.
It’s earned, carved out by fear and anticipation, by the collective sense that something violent is about to tear through the streets.
I’ve learned to trust it. Silence like this is never an absence. It’s a warning.
We’re not waiting for the storm.
We are the storm.
I stand at the center of one of my warehouses, the air thick with the sharp tang of gun oil and sweat, adrenaline humming just beneath the surface of my skin.
My men fill the space around me—dozens of them—silent, armed, and focused.
Shadows move between steel beams and stacked crates, every figure locked into place, and every expression carved into something hard and unreadable.
This isn’t a raid. There will be no negotiation, and no retreat.
This is an execution.
Maps cover the table in front of me, Rinaldi’s territory laid bare in ink and red marks.
Safe houses. Distribution points. Weapons caches.
Every place he thought was hidden, every corner he believed untouchable, and marked with a finality that leaves no room for error.
We hit them all at once. No warning. No chance to scatter.
By the time he realizes what’s happening, there will be nowhere left to run.
Maverick leans against a stack of crates, a rifle slung across his chest, watching me with that sharp, assessing look he gets when he already knows the answer to a question he hasn’t asked.
He doesn’t need to ask if I’m ready. He knows.
Dominic, the head of my security team, stands closer to the table, calm and methodical, the quiet confidence of a man who has orchestrated violence for a living etched into every line of his posture.
His gaze sweeps the room, counting, calculating, and anticipating failure before it has a chance to exist.
“Everyone knows their positions,” Dominic says, rolling his shoulders like he’s settling into a familiar weight. “Teams are spread out. Every entrance covered. Every exit sealed. We hit them simultaneously. No survivors. No loose ends.”
“Good,” I reply, my voice steady, controlled, and even as something sharp coils tight in my chest. “We make it fast. We make it brutal. No hesitation.” My gaze cuts across the room, meeting the eyes of men who would follow me into hell without question.
“No civilians. No unnecessary blood. But anyone who stands in our way—” I pause, letting the words settle. “Bury them.”
A low murmur moves through the space, an unspoken oath. I check my watch. 02:57 a.m.
Three minutes.
“We strike,” I say quietly. “We disappear. This ends tonight.”
I give the signal, and the room explodes into motion—teams break off, bodies flow toward exits, and shadows slip into the night. Within minutes, the city will burn in precise, calculated flashes of chaos. By dawn, Rinaldi’s empire will be nothing but smoke and silence.
Maverick and I take the direct route.
Straight to the source.
Rinaldi’s mansion rises ahead of us like a grotesque monument to excess, all marble and iron gates, and the illusion of untouchable power. He built it to intimidate, to remind the city who he thought he was. But power like his is always brittle beneath the surface, no matter how polished it looks.
Guards patrol the perimeter, unaware that their fate has already been decided.
Suppressors whisper in the dark, and bodies drop before alarms can sound.
Maverick moves beside me like a predator fully at ease in its element—silent, efficient, and lethal.
There’s no hesitation in him, no wasted movement.
We clear corridors methodically, leaving only stillness behind us as we make our way toward Rinaldi’s study.
We find him waiting.
He sits behind an ornate desk, untouched by the chaos unraveling around him, gray hair slicked back, and tailored suit immaculate.
A glass of scotch rests near his hand, the amber liquid barely disturbed.
He knew we were coming. He must have. The realization prickles at the back of my neck, doubt creeping in where I don’t allow it to live.
I thought moving the Russian would force him into desperation. Thought it would blindside him. But if he expected this—if he anticipated my move—then my men could be walking into a slaughter. The possibility claws at me, sharp and insistent, but I shove it down. There’s no room for hesitation now.
“Redmont,” Rinaldi says smoothly. “And Maverick. Bold of you to come yourselves.”
Maverick doesn’t respond, his gun already trained on Rinaldi’s head. I step forward, eyes locked on the man who framed Violet for murder and tried to dismantle my world piece by piece.
“Why?” I demand. “Why this war?”
Rinaldi exhales slowly, swirling his drink like he’s savoring the moment. “What else?” he replies. “This was never business, Asher. It’s personal. It’s always been personal.”
Confusion flickers beneath the rage. Personal? This was about Violet. About stopping him before he could strike again. That was supposed to be the beginning and the end of it.
He watches me carefully, lips curling. “Your father stood in the way of everything we had. Controlled her. Crushed her under his will. And the real betrayal?” His eyes sharpen. “That’s on you.”
I move closer, heat flooding my veins. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Serafina.”
The name hits like a gunshot.
The room tilts. My breath locks in my throat, my pulse roaring so loudly it drowns out everything else. I can’t move. Can’t think. The air thickens, pressing in, crushing.
Serafina.
I see her face like it’s burned into the backs of my eyelids. The fear in her eyes. Her fingers digging into my wrist that night, trembling as she begged me to listen. I was supposed to save her.
I didn’t.
“You don’t know a fucking thing about her,” I snarl.
“But I do,” Rinaldi says softly, cruelly.
“I know how she begged you for help. I know how she tasted, how she whispered my name in the dark. I know the choice you made.” He stands slowly, placing his glass down with deliberate care.
“I loved her. Your sister. And your father destroyed her. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she turned to you—the only person she believed would protect her.
She trusted you. And you let her die alone in the street. ”
The words gut me, tearing through memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Her voice. The panic. The way I hesitated. One mistake. One moment of doubt.
“That’s on you, Asher,” Rinaldi finishes. “And now I’ll burn the Order to the ground for her.”
The room closes in. Her ghost presses against my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.
That hesitation—that single, catastrophic second—is all he needs.
The gunshot cracks through the space.
Pain detonates in my side, white-hot and blinding, dropping me to my knees as the world fractures around me. Maverick fires without hesitation, one clean shot. Rinaldi slumps forward, lifeless before he hits the desk.
My legs give out completely.
Maverick catches me before I hit the floor. “You could’ve mentioned the personal vendetta,” he mutters grimly.
Darkness claws at the edges of my vision as he hauls me up, dragging me out.
Pain. Cold. Voices.
I drift in and out, barely tethered to consciousness. Hands press against my ribs. Someone is shouting—Maverick, furious and scared.
Then—
Violet.
Her voice cuts through everything, soft and panicked, and I force my eyes open. She’s there, hands shaking, and stained red with my blood.
“Asher—stay with me.”
I try to speak. My throat burns. Nothing comes.
She presses her forehead to mine, crying.
I hate that more than the pain.
“Vi,” I manage, barely a whisper.
And then the darkness takes me.