Chapter 45
forty-five
Elijah
The warehouse is already alive when I arrive.
Engines ticking as they cool, low voices carrying across the open space, the metallic scent of oil and steel mixing with something sharper underneath it, something familiar enough that my body registers it before my mind does.
Men.
A lot of them.
Christian’s.
Spread out across the perimeter, inside, near the loading bays, positioned in a way that isn’t random, isn’t casual, each one placed with intent, each one watching.
And when I step inside, it changes.
The noise doesn’t stop completely, but it shifts, drops a fraction lower, like something has been pressed down, like a current has moved through the room and altered it without anyone needing to say a word.
I feel it.
The weight of their attention. The way their eyes follow me as I walk past. Not openly. Not disrespectfully. But enough. Enough that it’s noticeable. Enough that it doesn’t sit right.
My gaze flicks across a few of them as I move deeper inside, catching the way a couple of them look away a little too quickly, the way another mutters something under his breath to the man beside him.
What the fuck. I don’t slow down. I don’t acknowledge it. But I clock it. Store it.
By the time I reach Christian and Lucian, irritation is already sitting under my skin.
“What’s wrong with everyone?” I ask flatly, my eyes moving between them.
Lucian looks amused. That slight tilt of his mouth like he’s already enjoying this. Christian doesn’t say anything. He just watches.
“You’ve earned yourself a reputation,” Lucian says.
I frown.
“What does that mean?”
His amusement deepens.
“The guys have given you a nickname.”
A beat. I don’t react immediately.
“What nickname?”
“The Butcher,” he says easily. “The Bellandi Butcher, to be exact.”
My jaw tightens.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Lucian lifts a shoulder, completely unbothered.
“The men who were there when you handled Paul have been talking.”
I look at both of them now.
“And you didn’t think to shut that down?”
Christian finally speaks.
“Why would we?”
I stare at him.
“It’s contained within our own,” he continues calmly. “And in this world, reputation matters.”
Lucian steps in beside him.
“Not just matters,” he adds. “It’s currency. Power. Fear. Control.”
I shake my head slightly, irritation building.
“I don’t need a nickname like that.”
Lucian’s expression doesn’t change.
“You don’t get a choice.”
Silence stretches between us.
“It’s already out there,” he continues. “And to be honest, it works in our favour.”
I don’t respond.
“Blacklight will take notice,” Christian says. “They’ll see you stepping into something more permanent.”
“And Vargas?” I ask.
Lucian’s gaze sharpens slightly.
“They’ll hesitate,” he says. “Or they’ll react faster.”
“Good.”
Because I don’t care which one it is. I just want it done.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
Christian doesn’t waste time.
“Blacklight has offered support,” he says.
“What kind of support?”
“They’ve got Vegas connections,” Lucian answers. “They’ve offered to remove Alex Vargas from play entirely.”
My focus sharpens.
“What does that mean?”
“He’s still in hospital,” Christian says. “They can send someone in. Make sure he doesn’t walk out.”
No hesitation.
“Do it.”
Christian nods once.
“Already done.”
Good. One less problem.
“What about here?” I ask.
Christian gestures toward the far side of the warehouse.
“Mateo landed a few hours ago. We tracked movement to the docks. Vargas warehouse.”
“So we hit it.”
Lucian smiles faintly.
“I thought you’d say that.”
I look between them.
“We’re not waiting.”
Christian studies me for a moment.
“You follow our lead.”
I frown.
“I’m not—”
“You’re not getting yourself killed tonight,” Lucian cuts in quietly, stepping closer. “You’re no use to Lia dead.”
The words land harder than they should. Christian doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s listening.
“We move first,” he says calmly. “You follow. You don’t break formation unless I tell you to.”
Every instinct in me pushes against that. Because I want to go in. I want to end it. I want to make sure there is nothing left that can ever touch her again.
But that’s exactly the problem. Lucian glances at me.
“Control,” he says quietly. “That’s what keeps you alive in this world. Not rage.”
I don’t respond. But I don’t argue again either.
Christian gives the signal and we move.
The docks are quieter than they should be. Not empty. Not safe. Just wrong in that way that tells you something is waiting beneath the surface, something held tight and ready to snap the second pressure is applied.
Christian lifts a hand before we breach.
Everything stops. I feel it immediately, the difference between what I’ve been doing and what this actually is.
This isn’t rage. This isn’t reaction. This is structured. Deliberate. Lucian steps in closer to me, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
“You stay behind us.”
My jaw tightens slightly.
“I’m not—”
“You’re not getting yourself killed tonight,” he repeats, quieter this time. “You’re no use to her dead.”
The words settle deeper now. I don’t argue again.
Christian gives the signal and then it starts.
The first wave moves in ahead of us, men clearing the outer edges, fast, efficient, controlled. Gunfire breaks out almost immediately, sharp cracks splitting the air, but it’s contained, directed, not the chaotic explosion it felt like before.
We move in after. Following. And it feels wrong in my body. Every step measured. Every movement deliberate. Every second forcing me to stay where I am instead of pushing ahead. I can feel the pull of it.
That urge to surge forward, to close the distance, to take control of the situation myself, and I have to lock it down.
Because Lucian is right. Because Christian is right. Because if I lose control here, I don’t just risk myself. I risk everything.
We move through the warehouse in sections, clearing as we go. I stay close enough to see everything, far enough that I’m not the first line taking the hits.
And I see it. The way they work. The way Christian directs without raising his voice. The way Lucian shifts before something happens, like he’s already read it before it plays out.
The way their men move around them, not waiting for orders, but understanding them.
This is what I’m stepping into. Not what I was before. Not reaction. Not instinct.
This.
Someone goes down to the left. Another shot answers from the far side. A man tries to run past one of the containers, and one of ours drops him before he makes it three steps.
It’s over quickly.
Too quickly. The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, settling into the space like dust.
“Clear,” one of the men calls.
Christian steps forward first. Lucian follows.
I move in behind them. And I know before anyone says it, he’s not here.
“This was a shipment crew,” Christian says.
Frustration hits. Sharp. Contained, but only just.
“He’s not here,” I say.
“No,” Lucian replies. “He’s not.”
One of the men drags someone forward.
Alive. Barely. Christian studies him for a second.
“We keep him,” he says.
I don’t argue. Because this, this is how this gets finished now.
Not by rushing. Not by losing control. By doing it properly. Even if every part of me is still screaming to tear through it faster.
They take the man away. Christian turns slightly toward me.
“We’ll get what we need.”
It doesn’t feel like enough. It won’t feel like enough until it’s done. Until there’s nothing left. But I nod anyway. Because I understand now, this isn’t something I can force to end in one move.
And that sits wrong in my chest.
Because it means she’s still not completely safe.
And that’s the only thing that matters. The drive back is quieter than it should be as my thoughts drift to Lia’s hand in my shirt.
The way she pulled me back. The way she looked at me like she needed something I didn’t give her. The way I kissed her, and held it back.
My grip tightens on the wheel. Because I know what she wanted. And I know exactly what I would have given her if I let myself.
Rough.
Possessive.
Consuming.
The way I’ve always been with her. The way she responds to me. The way she needs. And I can’t.
Because all I can see when I think about it, is her on that floor. Is her going still in my arms. Is the possibility that I push too far. That I don’t stop. That I hurt her. And I won’t risk that.
Even if it means holding myself back until it feels like it’s tearing something out of me.
Even if it means I’m the one creating distance between us.
Even if I can see that it’s breaking something in her too.
I pull into the building. I go upstairs. The apartment is quiet when I walk in.
Dim.
Still.
I move down the hallway. The bedroom door is open. I see them immediately. Lia in the middle. Zach on one side. Jackson on the other. Both close. Both touching her. And she’s peaceful. Zach glances up at me.
“Everything sorted?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I answer. “Not yet.”
I step closer. Carefully.
I lean over the bed and press a kiss into Lia’s hair, breathing her in for a second longer than I should.
Zach shifts slightly.
“I can move if you want to sleep next to her.”
The offer sits there. Heavy. Tempting. I hesitate.
Because I want to. But then I see it.
The way the sheet has shifted. The bare line of her skin. The fact that she’s naked. And I know.
Something happened. Something she needed. Something I didn’t give her.
My jaw tightens.
“If I get into that bed right now,” I say quietly, “I’m going to want to take her.”
Zach watches me carefully.
“Maybe you both need that.”
I shake my head.
“No.”
Because I know what that looks like. And I can’t risk it.
“I’ll hurt her,” I say flatly. “And I’d rather put a bullet in my own head than do that.”
Silence settles. Heavy. Final.
“I need a shower,” I add.
Zach doesn’t push. He just nods. I step back.
Force myself to turn away. Because staying, wanting, and refusing, is already too much.
“I’ll sleep in the spare room.”
And walking away from her, from what I want, feels like the hardest thing I’ve done all night.
Because this is something I actually want.
And I’m still choosing not to take it.
For her.
Even if it’s killing me to do it.