31. Nash #2
He looks completely relaxed, dark hair falling across his forehead, that perpetual smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
His olive-toned skin catches the pale light filtering through the dirty windows, and I can see the edge of tattoos peeking out from under his black shirt.
Everything about his posture screams casual confidence, like warehouse confrontations are just another Tuesday for him.
If I had to begrudgingly admit one positive thing about Antonio, it's this—he lets Morgan have her fun. And I appreciate she found someone that will never hold her back.
"I was expecting someone more... intimidating," Antonio continues, circling Morgan and Ethan like a predator studying his prey. "This guy looks like he gets his nails done professionally."
Morgan has Ethan pinned now, one knee pressed into his spine while she wrenches his arms behind his back.
He's still struggling, still trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it's useless.
He outweighs her by about fifty pounds, but every ounce of her is pure muscle and lethal training. He never stood a chance.
"You want to do the honors?" Morgan asks me, her voice completely calm despite the violence she's inflicting. "Since this is personal for you?"
I look down at Ethan, at this man who tried to steal Eve's life and her father's legacy.
Who hired people to kill her when she threatened his carefully constructed lies.
Who just spent ten minutes explaining exactly how he planned to murder the woman I love and make her father believe it was an accident.
I should want to kill him myself. Should want to feel his life drain away under my hands, to look into his eyes as he realizes that his calculated cruelty has finally caught up with him.
But that's not who I am.
"I don't really care for this kind of thing," I tell Morgan, holstering my retrieved weapon. "Actively killing, I mean. You can do the honors."
Morgan grins, the expression sharp and predatory. "My pleasure."
"Wait, wait," Antonio interrupts, raising a hand like he's asking for permission to speak in class. "Shouldn't I get to do it? I mean, I've been dealing with entitled rich boys my whole life. This feels like it should be my specialty."
"You had your fun with the last one," Morgan replies, not loosening her grip on Ethan. "Besides, this asshole threatened Eve. That makes it personal."
"Everything's personal with you," Antonio argues, but there's no real heat in it. "You can't just claim all the best kills because you have emotional investment."
I would find their banter amusing if we weren't standing over a man who just tried to murder my girl. But this is how they process violence—with dark humor and casual discussion, like they're debating who gets the last slice of pizza instead of who gets to end someone's life.
Ethan, meanwhile, has gone very still beneath Morgan's grip.
I can see the exact moment when the reality of his situation finally penetrates his privileged worldview.
These aren't random criminals he can buy off or manipulate.
These are people who kill for a living, and they're discussing his death like it's already a foregone conclusion.
"Please," he gasps, his cultured voice cracking with panic. "I have money. A lot of money. I can pay you whatever you want."
Morgan and Antonio exchange a look that speaks volumes about how many times they've heard this exact plea.
"See, that's where you fucked up," Antonio tells him, crouching down so they're at eye level. "You think this is about money. You think everything's about money because that's the only way your tiny little brain can process the world."
"But this isn't about money," Morgan adds, her voice soft and deadly. "This is about the fact that you tried to kill someone we care about. And that's not something you can buy your way out of."
I glance toward Eve, checking to make sure she's free from her restraints. She's rubbing her wrists where the zip ties had dug into them, her brown eyes focused on the scene playing out in front of us. There's no horror in her expression, no shock or disgust at what's about to happen.
She knows exactly who Ethan is, what he's done, and what he deserves.
"Eve," Ethan calls out desperately, trying to crane his neck to see her. "Eve, please. Tell them to stop. I love you. I've always loved you. Everything I did was for us, for our future together."
The lies come so easily, even now. Even with his face pressed against dirty concrete and a professional killer holding him down, he's still trying to manipulate her with declarations of love and promises of devotion.
Eve steps closer, her boots clicking against the concrete with deliberate precision. When she speaks, her voice is steady and clear, carrying the kind of quiet authority that comes from absolute certainty.
"You never loved me, Ethan," she says. "You loved what I represented. Access to my father's money. A respectable wife to complete your perfect image. But you never saw me as anything more than a means to an end."
"That's not true?—"
"It is true," Eve interrupts, and there's no emotion in her voice at all. "I remember everything now. The way you pushed me to get more involved in the family business. The way you always steered conversations toward my father's finances. The way you made me feel guilty for wanting independence."
She crouches down beside Morgan, close enough that Ethan can see her face clearly.
"I remember finding the evidence of what you were doing.
I remember you trying to have me killed rather than face the consequences of your choices.
And I remember that you never once—not once—actually looked for me after I disappeared. "
"I thought you were dead?—"
"You hoped I was dead," Eve corrects. "Because that was cleaner for you. Easier than dealing with the mess you'd made."
The truth of her words hits Ethan like a physical blow. I can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his struggles become more desperate and less coordinated. He's finally understanding that there's no way out of this, no clever manipulation or smooth talking that's going to save him.
"Morgan," I say quietly, "finish it."
She doesn't hesitate. The blade appears in her hand like magic—a tactical knife with a black handle that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.
It's the kind of weapon designed for efficiency rather than intimidation, and Morgan wields it with the casual competence of someone who's done this hundreds of times.
The cut is quick, precise, clinical. Across the throat in one smooth motion that severs the carotid artery and ensures a rapid death. Ethan's eyes go wide with shock, his mouth opening in a silent scream as blood spreads across the concrete beneath him.
It's over in seconds.
Morgan wipes the blade clean on Ethan's expensive coat before sliding it back into its sheath. She stands gracefully, brushing dust from her tactical pants like she's just finished an evening jog instead of ending someone's life.
"That felt good," she says with satisfaction. "I hate entitled assholes who think they can buy their way out of consequences."
Antonio nods approvingly. "Clean work. Though personally, I would have made it last a little longer. Guy deserved to suffer for what he put Eve through."
I look at Eve, checking for any sign that the violence has affected her. But her expression remains calm, almost serene. There's no shock, no guilt, no second-guessing about what just happened.
Her heart was never with Ethan. It was always with me.