Chapter 61
sixty-one
Elijah
The safehouse sits in the dark like it’s pretending to be nothing.
Just another structure tucked away from everything else, quiet, still, unremarkable if you didn’t know what was inside it.
But I feel it before we even step out of the cars, that same pressure that’s followed this entire situation from the moment it started, the sense that something is waiting just beneath the surface, coiled and ready.
This is it.
The last piece.
Christian doesn’t rush.
None of them do.
The shift from the chaos of the gala to this is immediate, controlled, precise in a way that settles something in my chest even as everything else tightens.
His men spread out first, moving in quiet formation, locking down exits, checking the perimeter, positioning themselves exactly where they need to be before we even get close to the door.
Lucian moves beside him like he already knows the next step before it’s spoken, Killian steady just behind them, and I fall in where I’m meant to.
Not leading.
Not rushing.
Not breaking formation.
Even though every part of me wants to.
Because I know now that wanting to surge forward is the problem. I know what happens when I let that take over, and I’m not doing that again. Not here. Not when this needs to be finished cleanly.
Christian lifts his hand slightly.
Everything stills.
And then he gives the signal.
The breach happens fast.
The door gives under force, the first line moving in clean and sharp, and for a fraction of a second it feels like we’ve caught them off guard.
Then the world fractures.
Gunfire erupts, loud enough to tear through the entire space, sharp cracks bouncing off the walls and turning everything into movement and noise and heat in an instant.
There’s no hesitation after that, no pause to adjust, just the immediate shift into something controlled but violent, something that moves fast but doesn’t lose its shape.
I move in behind them, my focus narrowing automatically, everything else falling away as the space breaks down into angles and targets and movement.
A man appears from the left corridor, weapon already up, and one of ours drops him before he gets a shot off. Another comes from the right, panicked, too fast, too exposed, and this time it’s me.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I just act.
The shot lands clean, the recoil biting into my palm, his body dropping before he even registers what’s happened, and there’s no space to process it because we’re already moving forward again.
Room by room.
Clearing.
Advancing.
The air fills with the sharp burn of gunpowder, the echo of shots still ringing through the space even as they slow into controlled bursts instead of chaos. This isn’t the docks. This isn’t reactive. This is deliberate, methodical, and I can feel the difference in the way we move through it.
And then someone goes down.
One of ours.
It happens just off to my left, a shot catching him in the chest and throwing him back hard enough that he hits the wall before sliding to the floor.
It’s quick. Too quick. There’s no time to reach him, no time to do anything but register it and keep moving, because stopping here only means more of that, more bodies, more loss.
My jaw tightens, something dark and sharp pushing up in my chest, but I lock it down and keep going.
This ends here.
It has to.
We push deeper into the house, the resistance thinning the further we move, the last of them either already down or trying to fall back into whatever they thought would protect them.
It doesn’t.
A shot cracks again, closer this time, and I feel the impact a split second before I fully process it, something hot tearing across my arm as the bullet grazes along the outside, ripping fabric, biting into skin.
It’s enough to register.
Enough to hurt.
But not enough to matter.
I don’t stop.
I adjust my grip, ignore the burn, and keep moving because this is too close now, too close to finished to let anything pull me out of it.
We reach the back of the house.
The air changes again.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Christian moves first, his pace steady, controlled, and we follow, the hallway narrowing as we move toward the final room.
The door is already half open.
And inside Mateo Vargas stands waiting.
He’s not running.
Not scrambling.
Not trying to escape.
He’s standing there like he expected this, like he knew we would come, and for a second that almost unsettles me more than anything else we’ve seen tonight.
The room stills.
Everything narrowing down to this one moment.
Christian steps forward.
And something in him shifts.
I’ve seen him controlled. I’ve seen him ruthless. I’ve seen him calculated in a way that most people never understand.
But this, this is something deeper.
Quieter.
Colder.
Personal.
He doesn’t rush him.
Doesn’t raise his voice.
He just walks up to him, each step measured, deliberate, like he’s already decided exactly how this ends and there’s nothing left to consider.
“You’ve killed my men,” he says, his voice low, steady, carrying through the room without needing volume.
Mateo doesn’t answer. Christian takes another step.
“You’ve tried to destroy my businesses.”
Another.
“You attacked my family.”
That’s the one that lands.
That’s the one that changes everything in the room, because this was never just business, not really, not anymore.
Christian’s hand moves, sliding into his jacket before coming back out with a knife, clean and simple and entirely intentional.
“Your death,” he says quietly, stepping into Mateo’s space, “is one I will enjoy.”
It happens fast.
One clean movement.
The blade flashes, then draws across his throat in a smooth, controlled motion, and Mateo barely has time to react before it’s over, his body dropping to the floor as the silence crashes in behind it.
I watch it all. Every second. Every detail. And what settles in me isn’t chaos. It isn’t rage. It’s satisfaction. Because it’s done. It’s finally done and it almost feels like it was too quick, too final. Like the ending didn’t meet the buildup of rage and fear.
Footsteps echo behind us, unhurried, controlled, and I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
Deluca walks in like this is exactly what he expected to find, his gaze moving over the scene once before settling on us.
“I trust this is resolved now,” he says smoothly.
Christian straightens slightly.
“It is.”
Deluca’s attention shifts to me, his eyes sharp, assessing in a way that feels like he’s measuring something I can’t see.
“I hear you’ve made quite the impression,” he says.
Christian speaks before I can.
“Elijah will be taking over operations here.”
The words settle heavily. Deluca studies me for a long moment. I step forward.
“I will.”
There’s no hesitation in it now. No question. Just certainty. He nods once.
“Good.”
He turns slightly, already moving away.
“This was your mess,” he says. “Clean it up.”
A pause.
“And keep it clean. We will not be stepping in again.”
The implication sits heavy in the air as he leaves, his men following without a word.
Silence settles again. Thicker now. Heavier.
I look down at Mateo’s body, at the finality of it, and something in my chest finally loosens.
Relief.
Deep.
Complete.
Christian steps beside me.
“Go home to your wife,” he says quietly.
I glance at him.
“If I’m taking over, I should stay.”
He exhales slowly, something almost tired in it.
“Soon,” he says. “You won’t get a choice.”
He looks around the room, then back at me.
“So take the moment while you can.”
There’s weight in that. More than he’s saying.
“Let me clean this up,” he adds. “I’ll hand you something stable to build on.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer, then nod.
Because I understand what he’s doing.
Again.
I turn and walk out.
The drive back feels longer than it should.
The adrenaline is fading now, the burn in my arm sharper, more insistent, but it barely registers against everything else sitting in my chest.
The memory of the safehouse.
The bodies.
The men we lost.
The sound of gunfire still echoing somewhere in the back of my head.
And over all of it, her.
The way she looked at me before I left. The way she said please. The way she felt in my arms. The promise I made to her.
My grip tightens on the wheel as I push the car faster through the empty streets.
Because all of that, all of the death, all of the violence, all of the things I just walked through, it doesn’t make me want distance.
It makes me want her.
To see her.
To touch her.
To feel her alive under my hands, breathing, real, here.
To remind myself exactly why any of this mattered in the first place.
I don’t slow down.
I don’t hesitate.
Because the only place I need to be now, is home.
With my wife.