Chapter Seven
~ Welcome Home Gift ~
Soren
The SUV rolls to a stop right in front of the Vanderburns’ garage, tires crunching over loose gravel and broken glass.
I don’t wait for the engine to fully die before I push the door open and step out.
The afternoon light catches on the dried blood still streaked across my cheek and jaw, like war paint I have no intention of washing off.
Three of the boys are lounging outside, cigarettes dangling from their lips, cheap pistols tucked visibly into their waistbands.
The second they clock the SUV and see me unfolding from the back seat, their casual postures snap tight.
One of them actually drops his smoke, the ember scattering across the concrete.
They know exactly who I am, they know what my arrival means: nothing good.
Armen climbs out after me, that signature cocky grin already splitting his face as he stretches like we’ve just pulled up to a casual barbecue. Ray exits last, calm and silent, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than it should.
One of the Vanderburn idiots… tall, skinny, neck tattooed with a badly done snake, tries to play it cool, stepping forward with forced swagger. “Mr. Sinclair… we weren’t expecting…”
Armen cuts him off with a bright, easy laugh, slinging an arm around the guy’s shoulders. “Relax, boys. Boss just wants a drink. Long day, you know how it is. Thought we’d stop by and see what kind of hospitality you lot can offer.”
The lie is so casual, so cheerfully delivered, that it almost sounds believable. The Vanderburn boys shift uneasily, eyes darting between Armen, Ray, and me. They know better than to argue. They know what happens when you argue with me.
I don’t wait for permission. I walk straight past them, boots heavy on the cracked concrete, shoulders squared. My inked arms swing loose at my sides as I push through the side door of the garage like I own the place.
The interior is dim and oily, smelling of rust, cheap whiskey, and fear.
A few more of their crew are scattered around…
some working on a stripped-down car, others playing cards at a rickety table.
Every head snaps up the moment I step inside.
Conversations die mid-sentence. Tools clatter to the floor.
Someone actually knocks over a bottle of beer, the liquid fizzing across the concrete.
I keep walking, slow and unhurried, eyes sweeping the room with that flat, predatory stare that makes grown men sweat.
I don’t greet anyone. I don’t explain myself.
I simply move through the space, boots echoing, the dried blood a silent promise of exactly how bad this day is about to get for every single person in here.
Behind me, I hear Armen’s cheerful voice ring out again as he and Ray follow me in. “Drinks all around, gentlemen! Mr. Sinclair is thirsty.”
A psychotic little grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I keep advancing deeper into their territory, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. They can feel it; they all know it… this isn’t a social call.
I let the silence stretch, my gaze sweeping over every face, every shadow, and every nervous twitch.
Then I see them… one of the boys is kicked back in a folding chair, feet propped up on a crate, wearing a brand-new pair of black combat boots that look far too familiar.
The same reinforced soles, the same matte finish, the exact cut I had ordered for my own men. My blood runs hotter.
I sniff once, casually, like I’m just stretching my neck, and stroll straight toward him. He notices too late. His smirk fades as I stop right in front of him and stare down at those boots for a long, silent beat.
Without warning, I yank the knife from my belt and drive it straight through his thigh with a wet, meaty thunk. The scream that rips out of him is high and raw, echoing off the concrete walls. His body jerks violently, hands flying to the blade buried deep in his leg. I ignore it completely.
Across the room, two of his friends start to rise, hands twitching toward their guns. They don’t make it far. Armen and Ray are already on them… Armen’s thick arm locking around one guy’s throat from behind, Ray doing the same to the other with cold efficiency.
“I wouldn’t try anything,” Armen says cheerfully, pressing the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple while still smiling like we’re at a fucking picnic.
I tilt my head toward Ray, voice low and calm. “Don’t these boots look very much like part of your new gear?”
Ray glances down at the screaming man’s feet, then back up at me with a small, unimpressed hum. “Hmm. Dumb bastards clearly don’t know what S.S stands for.”
I lean down slowly, eyes locked on the carved initials sat on the outside of the boot, my initials, ‘S.S,’ blatant and unmistakable on every piece of high-end gear I supply to my team.
Armen and Ray are wearing theirs right now; the mark is subtle on most items, but on these new boots it’s deliberately obvious. My signature.
A low laugh crawls up from my chest, creepy and jagged, the kind that makes even my own men shift uncomfortably.
I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the knife still buried in the man’s thigh and yank it free with a wet rip.
Blood pours down his leg in a heavy rush.
He gasps in desperate relief, thinking I’m showing mercy.
I smile wider, lean in close, and jam the blade straight through the side of his neck. The scream cuts off into a wet gurgle. His eyes bulge, hands clawing uselessly at my wrist as blood sprays across my already-stained shirt and the concrete floor.
Behind me, chaos erupts. The remaining Vanderburn boys start resisting…
chairs scraping, shouts rising, and hands scrambling for weapons.
Armen moves like lightning. Two quick, silenced shots drop two men instantly, bodies hitting the floor with heavy thuds.
Ray puts down another with a single precise bullet to the forehead before the guy can even clear his holster.
Three men dead in seconds. The rest freeze, chests heaving, eyes wide with raw terror as they stare at me.
I pull the knife from the dead man’s neck with a wet schlick, wipe the blade casually on his shirt, and straighten up to my full height. Blood drips from my fingers and runs down my face, mixing with what was already there.
My voice comes out low, cold, and perfectly controlled.
“I’m a fair man,” I say, slowly turning in a circle so every remaining coward can see my eyes.
“Most families in this city do their part. They run their own shit, they pay their respects, they stay off my fucking toes. I let them live; I let them thrive. But no one, no one, steals from me.”
I take a slow step forward, boots leaving bloody prints.
“This isn’t even about what was inside the shipment.
It’s about the disrespect. You are… sleazy…
low-rent bottom-feeders… in a shitty little garage, and somehow you thought you could take what belongs to me.
The wealthiest man in this city. The man whose estate is bigger than anything your pathetic minds can imagine. ”
I let the knife dangle loosely from my fingers.
“I highly doubt you idiots pulled this off on your own. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me exactly who helped you, where my gear is, and who gave the order. And you’re going to do it quickly.”
I smile again, that same jagged, psychotic grin. “Because if you don’t… well, you’re gonna end up like your friends here.”
The remaining boys are still standing there, shaking, eyes darting between me and the bodies on the floor, but not one of them opens his fucking mouth to give me the information I want.
Silence stretches, thick and stupid. Their fear is so palpable I can almost taste it, but they’re too loyal or too dumb to talk.
Ray doesn’t wait for my order. He steps forward, grabs the collar of the most terrified-looking piece of shit in the room… one skinny rat-faced kid whose eyes are already wet with panic… and yanks him forward so hard the guy’s feet barely touch the ground.
“This one’s coming with us,” Ray says flatly, already dragging the squirming man toward the door. “We’ll have fun with him later.”
I don’t argue; the rest can burn.
I turn on my heel and walk out without another word. Outside, the afternoon light feels too bright against the gore.
I glance back at Armen, who’s lingering just inside the doorway with that same eager grin. “Light it up.”
Armen gives me a mock salute, happy to oblige.
I keep walking, following Ray toward the SUV.
Behind us I hear the sharp crack of a silenced shot, then the deep, satisfying whoomph of a car engine catching fire.
Within seconds an explosion blooms, loud and messy.
Flames will be licking up the side of the garage in no time.
It’ll look like one of the own idiots fucked up with their own guns.
The cops will find the bodies, find their own weapons, and write it off as another gang-related accident.
The man Ray snatched is already thrashing and whimpering in the trunk when we reach the SUV. Ray slams it shut on him mid-scream. We all climb in, me in the back, Armen sliding in beside me, Ray up front. The engine roars to life and we pull away from the burning garage.
As the SUV speeds down the street, I lean my head back against the seat, staring out the tinted window while the city blurs past. My thoughts drift to the other team I sent to the Vanderburns’ house.
I wonder if they’ve found any of my stolen gear yet.
I wonder if they’ve freed whatever women those lowlifes were keeping locked away.
Aria should be useful for that part at least…
comforting the terrified ones while the men do the dirty work.
Right now, though, the important thing is the scum currently kicking and screaming in our trunk.
He’s coming home with us. He’ll be thrown into one of the dingy, soundproofed rooms in the lower levels of the estate…
cold concrete, no windows, just a drain in the floor and whatever tools we feel like using.
We’ll take our time with him. Extract every name, every detail, every pathetic excuse until he’s begging to tell us who helped them steal from me.
I wipe a streak of blood from my jaw with the back of my hand, smearing it across my knuckles instead of cleaning it off. A dark, satisfied hum settles in my chest.
And… I’m going to see my boy. The thought of him, small, soft, dark curls, those wide green eyes that still look at me like I’m the monster from his nightmares…
sends a different kind of heat curling through my veins.
He ran from me this morning. Shouted at me in front of everyone.
Shrugged out of my grip and disappeared like he could actually hide from me.
I’m going to find him, drag him back into my bed.
Remind him that even when I’m covered in someone else’s blood, even when the city trembles at my name, the only person who gets to see the version of me that isn’t pure ice is him.