Chapter Six
Trey
Kiss Kiss – Holly Valance
We’re buried beneath the casino, several levels down where the lights thin to a jaundiced glow and the shadows gather thick enough to conceal anything that doesn’t wish to be found, which is convenient, because concealment is exactly what this is.
An army, quiet and patient.
Fifteen men spread through the concrete arteries around us, armed and watchful, with more stationed inside the casino above and others positioned on the roof, their presence forming a living perimeter of eyes and weapons and intent, the kind of preparation that only ever exists when someone important is about to bleed.
I sit in the front seat, restless energy moving through me like an electrical current I cannot ground, my leg bouncing despite every effort to still it, the engine silent, the interior dim, the air stale with anticipation and the faint, metallic scent of gun oil.
Niko is late.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, if only to contain the impatience threatening to splinter through my composure, and after a moment I turn my head slightly, cracking one eye open to look at Chace beside me.
“You know what I need, brother,” I murmur, my voice threaded with exaggerated gravity and something far less innocent beneath it, because if I don’t reach for levity now, I may very well reach for violence too soon. “I think the occasion calls for it.”
I smile, open and hopeful and entirely unapologetic.
Chace doesn’t even blink.
His expression settles into that familiar, immovable refusal, brows drawn, mouth flattened, his entire face communicating his answer before he ever speaks.
“Give me your phone,” I say, extending my hand toward him with quiet expectation.
“No.”
The answer comes immediately, without hesitation.
“Oh, come on,” I groan softly, tipping my head back again as if the injustice physically pains me. “I died. I deserve this.”
One of the Russians in the back leans forward slightly, curiosity overtaking discipline. “What he need?”
“My healing mix,” I answer, solemn as prayer.
The second Russian lets out a low snort of laughter.
Chace shakes his head slowly, his restraint visibly fraying. “Not here. Not now. This is not the time.”
“Chace,” I reply patiently, as though he is the one being unreasonable, as though we are arguing over something trivial instead of standing on the edge of bloodshed, “your uncle isn’t even here yet, and I have recently returned from the afterlife, so I think you can afford me three songs.”
The first Russian tilts his head. “Who this Chace?”
“Nickname,” I say easily. “Comes from all the pussy he chases.”
Both Russians break into deep, unrestrained laughter, the sound filling the confined space, and Chace shoots me a look sharp enough to draw blood, though I catch the faint betrayal of amusement at the corner of his mouth before he forces it away.
Victory is mine..
He exhales hard, the sound heavy with resignation, and hands me the phone like it costs him something.
“Three songs,” he mutters darkly. “Then I’m putting a bullet in my own fucking head.”
I flash him a grin in silent agreement and immediately scroll to my playlist, turning the volume up until the speakers hum with promise before leaning back and pressing play.
Holly Valance’s Kiss Kiss erupts into the silence.
The bass reverberates through the concrete chamber, bright and defiant and wildly out of place in a tomb filled with armed men waiting for violence.
“What the fuck,” one of the Russians says, raising his voice to be heard over the music, staring at me as if reevaluating every assumption he has made about my sanity.
The other studies me in the rearview mirror, his gaze narrowing with something like respect. “I read people,” he says quietly. “This one dangerous.”
I close my eyes.
Tonight, I’mma give you my kiss, kiss. Just hold on a little longer, baby.
The music moves through me, loosening muscles that have been locked tight for days, smoothing the jagged edges of my thoughts, allowing something cleaner and colder to rise in their place.
This isn’t psychological warfare. This is medicinal.
Call it whatever you want, but it works.
For a moment, a stray thought drifts through me, something about doctors and warnings and limitations and whether getting hard qualifies as a medical emergency… but it dissolves before it can fully form, lost to the rhythm and the strange, necessary calm settling into my bones.
Chace sighs beside me. “Just let him listen.”
I do.
I let the song fill the car, let it anchor me here in this moment suspended between what was and what is about to be, while beneath the surface my mind sharpens, aligning timelines and exits and outcomes, every path eventually leading to the same inevitable conclusion.
Somewhere deeper in the structure, an engine rumbles, the sound low and deliberate.
My lips curve faintly.
Right on schedule.
The hum of distant traffic filters down through layers of concrete the moment the third song ends and Chace cuts the music.
Nothing moves. The structure itself seems to hold its breath.
Broken lights flicker overhead, casting warped shadows across rows of parked cars and thick concrete pillars.
Dust drifts lazily through the stale air, catching in weak beams of yellow light.
The smell of oil and cold cement settles deep in my lungs.
A soft crackle breaks the quiet. Niko’s voice slides into my ear through the comm.
“Hold positions. Target is inside. Approaching Johnathon Baker’s suite now.”
My eyes snap open. Pulse detonates. Inside. He’s already inside. Fifteen men hold their positions, silent and perfect. No engines, no footsteps—just waiting.
“Valentino,” Niko murmurs. “Thirteenth floor. Approximately thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes.
My pulse slams hard enough to rattle my ribs, sending a flare of pain through my chest. The stitches pull, lungs burn as I drag in a breath that feels too shallow, too tight.
Thirty minutes—that’s all that stands between me and her, between the man who ruined my childhood, between the monster and the woman I love.
My hands curl into fists in my lap, fire shooting up my arms. I welcome it.
Let it ground me. Let it feed the rage coiling tight in my gut.
He’s inside. With my girl. My wife. The image crashes in unbidden…
Seraphina on her knees, crying, bruised, trembling, blood on skin that should only ever know my touch.
My vision goes red.
My dad’s hands flash in my mind—rough, unforgiving, teaching me early that pain is power. My chest and side ache. I sweat. My skin pales. If he touched her, if he hurt her, I won’t just kill him. I’ll break him. Slow.
Every breath becomes a countdown. Thirty minutes. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. The comm is quiet again, but the urge to break protocol claws at my throat. Where is she? Is she hurt? Is she scared? Is she thinking I’m dead? My finger twitches toward the mic. I swallow it back. Not yet.
I force my breathing to steady, even as every inhale drives pain through my ribs, every heartbeat a hammer. Control—that’s how I survive. That’s how I win.
Chace shifts beside me, eyes scanning me like he always does. He sees it. The tension wound tight, the storm building.
“You look like shit. You good, brother?” he murmurs.
A humorless smile tugs at my mouth. “Patience has never been my strong suit. Feel like I’m tensing, pulling out stitches… dying to know the state of my wife… angry, upset, kinda horny. Other than that, never better.”
He exhales slowly, understanding exactly what that means.
Another crackle.
“Security rotation just changed,” Niko whispers. “You’ve got a clean window.”
That’s it.
I push the door open. Cold air rushes in, sharp and damp, carrying the scent of rain drifting down the ramps above.
My boots hit concrete, pain shooting up my legs and through my ribs, but I straighten anyway.
Chace steps out beside me. We move into shadow, thick pillars keeping us unseen while the men subtly tighten the perimeter.
Broken lights buzz overhead like dying insects. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Chace reaches behind his back, pulling his Colt.
He drops the magazine with a practiced press of the release, glances over the rounds, slides it back in with a firm click.
Then he racks the slide, chambering a round, eyes sharp as he checks the ejection port.
Satisfied, he eases the safety on and tucks the gun back into his holster at his lower back, jacket falling naturally over it. He looks at me.
“If anything goes down, don’t play the hero. Got it?”
My ribs ache with each inhale, but I hold his gaze.
“If we get inside and you die—for real—at your wife’s fucking feet again… I’ll bring you back to life and kill you myself.”
A smirk tugs at my lips despite everything. “Is that your way of saying you love me?”
His lips twitch. “Shut the fuck up.”
The comm crackles once more. “Positions set,” Niko breathes. The seconds stretch, each heavier than the last. I’m here, baby…and my dad’s about to pay the price. Because the man who made my life hell is about to learn what happens when the monster he created comes back for blood.