48

48
I woke with a groan, my whole body was aching as if I’d been beaten. My mouth was dry and my head pounding. When I finally blinked the sleep from my eyes, the glow of the phone on the nightstand told me the hour.

1:45 a.m.

Damn. I’d been out since morning.

No surprise. Last night had drained me to the bone, and the past week had been nothing but hell.

The bridge ambush. The warehouse. Marisol in chains, the blood on her lips when I found her. And before all that, nights spent chasing shadows, spilling blood across the city while we clawed at the Riveras.

I swung my legs off the bed, dragging myself upright. My reflection in the mirror caught me—my hair tangled, eyes hollow, with bruises blooming purple across my arms. I looked like a ghost of myself.

The memories came rushing fast

The convoy job—the armored trucks funnelled into the tunnel, the explosions ripping the air. Lucian at the front, cutting men down like it was a game, while I barked orders through the comms, keeping us alive.

For what? For crates of cash that turned out to be half counterfeit. Blood spilled for scraps. Someone had fed us poison, and someone who was now our new enemy.

The warehouse strike after—me begging him to stop, to wait, to think. He hadn’t listened. He never listened when rage took the wheel. And so he burned it all—Rivera pharmaceuticals, yes, but medicine too. Medicine people relied on. Now the streets buzzed with anger, not at the Riveras, but at us. At me.

And then Marisol was stolen again, dragged into their hands, bait for my fury.

I rubbed at my face, the exhaustion was almost like a weight dragging me down.

Enough, I told myself. Dwelling wouldn’t change a damn thing.

I pulled on a sweatshirt, shoved my pistol into the waistband of my sweatpants, andwalked down the stairs barefoot. The house was silent, it was heavy with the kind of quiet that only came in the dead of night.

The kitchen light was on.

Lucian sat at the table, a glass in his hand, a bottle of whiskey half-empty beside him. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his dark hair falling loose against his forehead. He looked up as I entered, his eyes was sharp even in the low glow.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked,

I pulled out a chair across from him, then dropped into it. “I’ve been sleeping since morning. Doesn’t feel like it did me any good.”

He studied me in silence. His eyes flicked to the bruise on my cheek, the cut at my jaw. He didn’t comment, but the feeling of his stare was heavy enough.

I snorted. “You don’t have to look at me like that. I already know I look like hell.”

A faint smirk touched his lips, gone before it could settle. He poured another glass, slid it across the table. I took it, the burn of whiskey biting at my throat as it went down.

We sat in silence a moment, the silence stretched between us.

Finally, I broke it. “It’s been one week. One week, and we’ve bled more men than I care to count. The convoy job—worthless. The warehouse—an entire city cursing our name. And Marisol…” My throat closed a little, but I forced the words out. “She nearly died. Again.”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes never left me.

“You don’t see it, do you?” I went on“You’re burning too fast, Lucian. Throwing everything into the fire. You think you’re playing chess, but it’s chaos. And one day, it’s not going to be the Riveras that kill us—it’ll be your arrogance.”

His grip on the glass in his hand,his knuckles were white around it.
“And what do you suggest, tigress?” His voice was calm “That we wait? That we cower in the dark while they chip away at us piece by piece? They stole your worker , Vivienne.You think restraint will stop them?”

“I think fire for fire leaves us all ash,” I snapped back. “And you’re too damn blind to see it.”

We were staring at each other again, like always, like enemies pretending to be allies. His eyes pressed against mine.

Then—

A sound cut through the house.A dull thump. Then another.

My body froze, ears straining.

Lucian heard it too. He was already on his feet, his hand going to the pistol tucked at his back.

The thump came again. Then Gunfire split the silence,echoing through the halls.

My blood went cold.“Riveras,” Lucian hissed.

The house shook with footsteps, doors slamming, men shouting.

Adrenaline surged, drowning the exhaustion. I shoved back from the table, my chair toppling as I drew my pistol. Lucian’s hand brushed my arm, quick, firm.

“Stay close,” he said,

I almost laughed—of course he’d say that. Of course he’d try to control me even now. But there wasn’t time to argue.

The first shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. Masked, armed. His rifle swung up.

I fired first.

The shot cracked, the man’s body slammed back against the frame, sliding to the floor.

Shouts erupted from the hall. More of them.

Lucian grabbed the bottle from the table, smashed it against the counter, and hurled the jagged remains into the dark. Glass shattered, someone screamed.

Then the world became noise and fire.

Rivera assassins poured into the house. Gunfire rattled the walls, glass shattered, wood splintered. My heart pounded as I ducked behind the counter, returning fire in short, sharp bursts.

Lucian was a storm at my side, moving with brutal precision, every shot a kill. His voice cut through the chaos—sharp commands, low growls.

The Demarco estate, my supposed fortress, was under siege.

And as I fired into the sha
dows swarming my home, I knew this wasn’t just another fight.

This was war clawing at my door.