Chapter Fifteen
Angela was helping Grace unload bakery supplies when Pike's bike roared into the compound lot.
She knew something was wrong before he cut the engine. The way he moved—too fast, too tense, his face carved from something harder than his usual expression. He didn't stop at the bar, didn't acknowledge the brothers calling out greetings.
He came straight for her.
"Angela." Pike's voice was flat. Controlled in the way people got when they were holding back something terrible. "Where's Edge?"
"Church. They've been planning all morning." She set down the box of flour she'd been carrying. "What's wrong?"
Pike didn't answer. His eyes moved past her to where Ghost was approaching from the garage, wiping grease from his hands.
"Get Edge," Pike said. "Now."
The tone sent ice down Angela's spine.
Ghost disappeared into the compound. Angela stood frozen, the morning sun suddenly too bright, the salt air too sharp. Around her, brothers stopped what they were doing. Conversations died. The whole compound seemed to hold its breath.
Edge came through the door thirty seconds later, Jackpot a step behind him. His eyes found Angela immediately, checking, confirming she was there, she was safe.
"What happened?" His voice cut through the silence.
Pike pulled out his phone. Handed it over without a word.
Angela watched Edge's face change.
The color drained from his skin. His jaw locked. His free hand curled into a fist at his side, knuckles going white. When he looked up from the screen, his eyes found hers—and the devastation in them made her stomach drop.
"What?" Her voice came out wrong. Thin. Scared. "What is it?"
Edge crossed the distance between them. Took her hands in his. Held them tight enough to hurt.
"Angela." His voice cracked on her name. "I'm so sorry."
"Tell me."
He turned the phone screen toward her.
The photo was taken from across the street. Shore Blooms—her Shore Blooms, her grandmother's legacy, four years of her life—engulfed in flames. Fire poured from the windows like rage made visible. The sign she'd painted herself hung crooked above the door, blackening, curling, disappearing.
And on the wall beside the entrance, painted in letters three feet tall:
SAY YES NEXT TIME.
Angela's legs gave out.
Edge caught her before she hit the ground, lowering her gently, his arms wrapped around her like he could hold the pieces together through sheer force of will. She heard sounds coming from somewhere—ragged, broken sounds—and realized they were coming from her.
"No." The word was a moan. A prayer. A denial of reality. "No, no, no—"
"I've got you." Edge's voice was rough against her hair. "I've got you, baby. I've got you."
But he didn't have her shop. He didn't have the coolers full of roses she'd been planning to use for the Castellano wedding.
He didn't have the vintage cash register her grandmother had given her or the photo of the two of them that hung behind the counter or the years of work and sacrifice and hope that had gone up in smoke while she sat safe at the compound.
Everything.
Everything she'd built.
Gone.
The grief hit her in waves. Each one worse than the last, pulling her under, making it impossible to breathe. She clung to Edge like a drowning woman, her tears soaking into his shirt, her hands fisting in the leather of his jacket.
Four years. Four years of eighteen-hour days and maxed credit cards and teaching herself accounting and negotiating with vendors and building a reputation one arrangement at a time.
Four years of proving that she wasn't her parents' failed experiment, that she could create something beautiful instead of destroying everything she touched.
Gone in an hour.
Because some coward decided terror was more efficient than patience.
"Nicky Vitale." Pike's voice cut through her grief like a blade. "Marco's cousin. We've had eyes on him since he showed up last week. He's been pushing for more aggressive action—thinks the old man is too patient."
"Where is he now?" Edge's voice was deadly calm. The kind of calm that came before violence.
"Warehouse in Pleasantville. He's been using it as a staging area."
"How many men?"
"Eight, maybe ten. Mostly muscle he brought from out of town. Not local talent."
Angela listened to them talk over her head, the tactical details washing past like noise. Her shop. Her grandmother's legacy. The proof that she was worth something—
Stop.
The thought cut through the grief like a knife.
Stop crying. Stop breaking. Stop being the victim they think you are.
Angela pulled back from Edge's chest. Wiped her face with the back of her hand. Looked at the phone still clutched in his grip, at the image of her life burning.
"Show me," she said.
Edge's brow furrowed. "Angela—"
"Show me the rest. What else did they do?"
Pike hesitated, then scrolled through more photos. The fire department arriving too late. The frame of the building still standing but gutted, windows like empty eye sockets. The message on the wall, stark and clear in the morning light.
SAY YES NEXT TIME.
Angela stared at those words. Let them burn into her memory. Let them transform the grief still churning in her chest into something harder. Colder. More useful.
There wouldn't be a next time.
Because the man who'd done this wasn't going to live long enough to ask again.
"His name is Nicky." Her voice came out steady. Calm. The kind of calm she'd learned from Edge. "Nicky Vitale."
"Yeah."
"He burned my shop. My grandmother's legacy. Four years of my life." Angela met Edge's eyes. "He did this because he thought I was an easy target. Because he thought destroying what I love would make me compliant."
"Angela—"
"He was wrong."
She stood. Her legs were steady now. Her hands weren't shaking. The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving tracks of salt that felt like war paint.
"You're planning to hit him. That warehouse Pike mentioned." It wasn't a question. "You're going to kill him for what he did."
Edge's expression didn't change. "Yes."
"Good." Angela's jaw set. "I want to be there."
Silence fell across the compound. Brothers exchanged glances. Even Jackpot, stone-faced as always, raised an eyebrow.
"That's not—" Pike started.
"Don't tell me it's not a good idea." Angela cut him off with a look. "Don't tell me it's too dangerous. Don't tell me to stay here and let the men handle it. I've heard all of that before. From every man who ever underestimated me."
She turned back to Edge. Held his gaze with every ounce of steel she possessed.
"He destroyed my shop. My life. Everything I built with my own hands. He left a message telling me to say yes next time, like there's going to be a next time, like I'm going to roll over and submit because he burned down a building."
Her voice dropped. Hardened.
"I'm not submitting. I'm not hiding. And I'm not letting someone else collect the debt he owes me." Angela stepped closer, close enough to see the conflict in Edge's eyes. "You promised me we'd end this together. That I was part of this now. Did you mean it?"
"Angela—"
"Did you mean it?"
Edge was quiet for a long moment. Around them, the compound held its breath. Brothers who'd seen him kill without hesitation watched him struggle with something that looked almost like fear.
Finally, he exhaled. Nodded once.
"I meant it."
"Then I'm coming." Angela's voice was iron. "I'm going to watch Nicky Vitale die. I'm going to be the last thing he sees before he pays for what he did. And when it's over, I'm going to stand in the ashes of my shop and know that I didn't let him win."
Edge stared at her for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression—not defeat, but recognition. Understanding. Pride.
"Pike." His voice was commander-sharp. "How long until we can move on that warehouse?"
"Two hours to get everyone in position."
"Make it one." Edge's hand found Angela's, his fingers lacing through hers. "We're ending this tonight."
Angela squeezed his hand. Let herself feel the solid warmth of him, the promise in his grip.
Her shop was gone. Her grandmother's legacy was ash. Four years of work had disappeared in an hour.
But the woman who'd built that shop—the woman who'd scraped her way up from nothing, who'd refused to let her past define her, who'd survived men trying to break her and come out stronger—that woman was still standing.
And that woman wanted blood.
"When we find him," Angela said, her voice steady as stone, "I want to be there. I want to watch. I want him to know that the florist he tried to break is the reason he's dying."
Edge pulled her close. Pressed his lips to her forehead.
"You'll be there," he promised. "And he'll know."