Lassiter hurried inside, looking every inch the cornered man. His suit was wrinkled, his tie hanging loose, hair damp and plastered to his forehead. Sweat glistened at his temples despite the cold. From my vantage point, tucked into the shadows, I could see the panic under his skin—eyes darting, sharp and jittery.
He wasn’t here to posture. He was here because he was scared.
Good.
“McKendrick?” he called, his voice thin and anxious, echoing off the warehouse walls.
A ghostly Enzo emerged from the shadows, silent and controlled. He was behind Lassiter before the man even had time to turn. In one swift, brutal motion, he grabbed him—one arm locking around his chest, the other pinning his arms with precision.
Lassiter wriggled, cursed, and tried to break free, but it was useless. Enzo didn’t budge. He was driven by love—raw and bright—for Robbie, by hate—dark and jagged—for the man he now held. And, ofcourse, it helped that Enzo was just fucking enormous.
“Got him,” Enzo muttered, voice low and flat.
Lassiter’s feet scraped over the concrete. “Get off me! What the fuck is this?”
I waited for the next bit.Five. Four. Three…
“Do you know who I am?”
There they were, the last words of a condemned man who thought the position he’d abused was enough to shield him from the reckoning we had planned.
Enzo didn’t answer. He and Rio moved as one—silent, swift, practiced. Enzo shoved Lassiter forward, and Rio met them at the chair. Lassiter fought, twisting and thrashing, but it didn’t matter. They had him.
His knees buckled as they forced him down, and Enzo clamped a hand on his shoulder while Rio secured his ankles into the cuffs bolted to the floor. Theclinkof metal echoed in the space, jarring in its finality.
Lassiter’s voice broke into desperate pleas, words tumbling over each other. “Wait—no—you don’t understand—I came here to talk?—”
He jerked sideways, but the wrist restraints closed, biting into flesh. He was sweating hardernow, hair stuck to his forehead, jaw clenched in panic.
Then, I stepped in, drawing the rope across his chest and yanking it tight, looping it around the back of the chair. The cord dug into his suit jacket, pinning him in place, and still, he shook, heaved, wriggled like a man caught in a nightmare he couldn’t logic his way out of.
It was over. He just didn’t know it yet.
I gave an upnod to Enzo.You’re on.
Enzo walked with a measured calm that made my skin crawl. He crouched in front of Lassiter, elbows resting on his knees, staring as if he was looking at something he’d already broken in his mind.
“What do you want?” Lassiter demanded, his voice shaking but trying for authority. “I’m a goddamned district attorney. I have people expecting me home.”
Enzo didn’t blink. He said two words heavy with pain and anger. “Roman Lowe.”
Lassiter stiffened, panic flashing in his eyes, followed by a jolt of fear he quickly buried beneath a mask of control. “I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
Enzo stood, glanced around, and grabbed something from a nearby stack of salvage—a brokenmetal pole caked in dust. He brought it down fast and hard on Lassiter’s right knee.
The scream tore through the warehouse like a gunshot.
Lassiter heaved against the restraints, eyes wide, mouth slack with pain. “You fucking psycho!”
Enzo watched him, calm as ever. He was good at this—finding weapons from nothing, turning junk into justice.
“You’re going to want to try that answer again,” Enzo murmured, voice like broken glass.
“I swear,” Lassiter gasped, panting through the pain. “I don’t know anyone called Roman Lowe.”
Enzo smiled, and it was the kind of smile that meant nothing good. “But you know John Mitchell, right?”
Lassiter flinched. “Does he owe you money? I have money. I have a lot of money.” His voice cracked, desperate and uneven. “If this is about a deal, I can fix it. I can make it go away.”
