Chapter 21
Raven
The elevator skidded to a halt, shuddering slightly as it arrived at the basement. With a swift tug, Raven loosened his tie and tossed it aside. The sub-basement wasn't a place for ceremony, and what was about to unfold here was pure, unadulterated vengeance—no formality would be required.
As the doors parted slowly, a concrete corridor stretched into silence ahead of him.
Two of his underbosses stood guard at the end of it.
The air in the hall was thick with anticipation, as if it was seeded and heavy with the scent of violence that waited to bloom behind its closed doors.
The damp, musty air that surrounded Raven hinted at mildew and memories.
The scent pulled Raven back to the first time he walked halls like these, to the moment his father stood behind him and helped him take a life. That day marked the end of softness.
His first home had always been the cradle of violence his father built around him. Silk sheets and lullabies belonged to another world, one his mother tried to preserve. But Raven no longer needed comfort. He needed control.
He moved forward, steady and sharp, shaped by blood and silence. The past didn't guide him—it reminded him. And with every step, he felt himself becoming more like the man who taught him how to survive.
It was that half of him crafted by his father, the monster, that ebbed and flowed inside of him now, chomping at the bit to take charge.
Try as he might, he would never fully escape that darkness within him.
After all, he was the Capo, his father tempered in fire—beat into shape.
Every scar on his knuckles and every command he delivered with ice in his throat was part of that legacy now, the only part of his father that now remained.
His father's voice lived inside him now—not guiding but echoing. A reminder. A warning. Raven couldn't shake the thought: how much more like him would he become, facing moments like this?
His phone rang. Shelby.
If it had been anyone else, he would've let it go.
He answered.
"Raven—what just happened? Tell me the chatter isn't true. Is your father really dead?"
"It's true," Raven said, voice low. "I don't know how it happened. But I'm about to find out."
"Was Raul responsible for this?"
"It's hard to say," Raven said. "At first, I thought it was a heart attack. But the way his face discolored—the coughing—it looked more like poison."
He paced, jaw clenched. "I sent him to Dr. Emily for tests. She'll confirm it soon enough."
Raven turned his attention back toward the door ahead of him, eyes cold. "Until then, I'll take what I need from their flesh. Someone knows something. And I'm not waiting for the trail to go cold before I get answers."
Shelby's voice trembled when she responded. "Be careful, Raven. If this isn't what it looks like, and you go in swinging, you might drag us into a war we can't win with the Stallions."
"I know what's at stake. I know what war costs. That's why I'm going to end this before it starts." Raven hung up the phone. His father was dead, and someone needed to pay
He stepped forward, each footfall drummed like a toll bell—warning of his arrival to all who might hear.
Until now, his grief had been simmering within him, locked behind a wall of discipline and restraint.
But as he neared the doorway, it was fury that erupted within him, consuming the part of him that might have let the men inside escape with their lives.
It was in that moment that he knew that one of them or all of them would pay for his father's death.
He reached for something inside himself, anything that would help him control that fury.
The ghost of Mynx's hazel eyes fluttered before him in his mind— the soft wings of her lashes trying to beat against his hardened shell.
But even the vision of her—his Butterfly—couldn't stall the blade of vengeance he would wield tonight.
Even she couldn't postpone his judgment on the men tucked neatly inside. They would find no absolution tonight.
Raul's blood would be his first offering to Death as Capo of the Kings. And he wouldn't just break him; he'd unravel the man's soul, stitch by stitch, until he resembled nothing but a monument to the pain Raven inflicted on him.
Maybe he was more like his father than he thought. Maybe it took losing someone you cared about to unleash the violence that being a Capo required entirely. He couldn't ask his father, but he had noticed a change in him since his mother passed away.
The flickering of buzzing lights overhead cast jagged shadows along the corridor walls as he made his way to the Stallions.
Behind that door, the truth sat waiting for him to find—coiled in memory and wrapped in silence behind the men's lips.
Raven didn't know who would talk first. He only knew that someone would.
The only question now was how much pain he would need to administer to them to find it.
Luckily for him, pain was his native tongue— he spoke it fluently and without hesitation.
"Are they in there—?" Raven asked the men stationed by the door as he removed his coat and cufflinks.
They were his father's cufflinks—he saw his reflection in them as he held them in his hand.
These were the ones he'd given him on the day he became a man.
Grief washed over him momentarily before he carefully set them down in a neat pile on the coat by the door.
Rolling up his sleeves, he took a deep breath and faced the men as he waited for a response to the question that he already knew the answer to.
Slowly—methodically—he would obtain the names of everyone involved. Raven prepared a mental checklist. After all, this was no longer a negotiation; it was about to become an all-out war.
"They're in there. We strung them up all pretty for you, boss.
They're waiting-- to be dealt with however you see fit," the man replied, sweat beading at his temple and beginning to drip down his face while he spoke.
But he stood rigid as he answered, as if afraid Raven's wrath might land on him if he moved.
Raven didn't blame him. Even the full force of all the legions of Hell didn't have enough power to restrain him in this moment.
"If you need any help, I'd be glad to assist you in doling out some punishment, boss," the bolder of the two men added, popping his knuckles in preparation for being used as a weapon in Raven's capable hands.
"There's no need. I got this—. If ever there was a time I wanted to bathe in the blood of my enemies, today would be that time.
Right now, I want them alone. No distractions.
They're about to learn what it feels like to be cracked open and left in pieces.
And depending on the information they give, they may have even more pain in their futures. "
"As it should be," the man said. "I'll send Stoker in when he arrives. Is there anything else we can do for you while you are indisposed?"
"Just make sure I'm not disturbed. And inform me immediately if Dr. Emily figures out what caused my father's death."
"You got it, boss."
From the moment Raven stepped into the room, he could see the fear etched on two of the men's faces.
The room reeked of their sweat and desperation.
All three men were strung up like slabs of meat—shirtless, bruised, their heads hanging like wilted flowers.
They looked up at him as he entered, waiting to hear what he would say— see what he would do. But he wouldn't make it easy for them.
Raul watched Raven approach, his apparent defiance flickering beneath bloodshot eyes. His arrogance still clung to him like his dried sweat—habitual and unearned.
It wouldn't survive the hour.
Raven's gaze slid to the countertop by the door and around the room's interior.
He stepped into the room and scanned the shelves.
Every bottle, every file, every weapon sat exactly where it belonged.
Shelby had stocked it with intention. Nothing here happened by accident.
These tools weren't symbols. They were solutions to problems. Every gouge in the floor was a reminder of a problem that had found its solution here.
Every stain he created today would tell a story the walls would never repeat. She would ensure that too.
He picked up the tin snips, weighing them in his hand—not testing, but appreciating. Every tool had its reason, its purpose. These spoke of the first bit of agony he would administer.
"You ever see what happens to a hand when the knuckles are split in two, Raul?" Raven asked nonchalantly. "First, the tendon goes slack. Then the whole thing forgets how to grip. It's really quite painful."
Raul spat at his feet, his voice cracking as he answered.
"You think those make you powerful, you little shit?
I hope you realize what you're about to do here—the war you're about to unleash on yourself and your people.
If you think I won't demolish you all— one by one— you're wrong.
If you put a finger on me or my men, it's war.
I'll say this only once—I had nothing to do with your father's death, and neither did the Stallions.
It's not too late to admit your mistake here and let us go.
Bruised pride is a lot easier to forgive than a mistake that could take everything from you.
You'd do well to remember that— before you take this too far. "
He watched Raul's spit land near his boot. Raven didn't flinch. He didn't even look away. The threats bounced off him like dust—acknowledged, but irrelevant.
Raven didn't blink. "Powerful? No. But pain's an excellent interrogator. Don't you think? We've already taken this too far, Raul. Don't play dumb with me. You and I both know that."