I’ve never heard Kane scream before.
Not like this.
Not broken. Not devastated. Not like someone who’s just lost half his heart.
He cradles Diego’s body against his chest, blood soaking through his clothes, slick and vivid against his hands, pooling slowly on the pale stones beneath them. Lucia clings desperately to Rosa, her white quinceañera dress streaked with crimson, ruined innocence, tangled curls stuck to her tear-streaked face. Her sobs echo sharply, a child’s grief carving deep into my bones.
The courtyard is a blur of movement, a storm of voices, shouting, crying, cursing, as guards swarm through the wreckage, guns still drawn, family members staggering helplessly, faces streaked with dust and horror. But it all feels distant. Unreal. Because nothing matters but the man kneeling in front of me, broken beyond recognition.
I don’t remember moving, don’t remember my feet carrying me forward, but suddenly I’m there on my knees beside him, fingers trembling as they touch his arm, voice cracking open. “Kane. Baby, please…”
He doesn’t hear me.
His forehead presses hard against Diego’s, eyes closed, lips moving in an anguished whisper too quiet for me to hear clearly, but I feel every raw syllable. His blood-slicked knuckles shake violently, grief and fury radiating off him in waves.
“Mi hermano… mi sangre…” he rasps, voice splintered, breaking around each word. “No te vayas, cabrón. No me hagas esto.”
My brother. My blood. Don’t leave me, asshole. Don’t do this to me.
My throat closes painfully, tears burning sharp behind my eyes as I cup his face, desperate, begging. “Kane, please. He’s gone.”
The word gone snaps something in him violently, brutally.
He jerks away as if my touch burns, rising swiftly to his feet, fists clenched, dripping blood. His eyes, God, his eyes, they’re hollow. Flat. Drained of everything but an empty, endless rage. He’s slipped somewhere far away, beyond reach, beyond reason.
Javi storms toward us, breathless, gun still gripped tight, expression grim and ruthless. “Twelve confirmed kills, three wounded, the rest scattered.”
Joaquin’s voice is ice-cold fury, lethal promise in every word. “They won’t make it far.”
Kane doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even acknowledge them.
Instead, he turns slowly, every muscle in his body coiled, vibrating with restrained violence.
He steps forward, gaze fixed ahead, silent, deadly.
And then he walks each step deliberate, heavy, unstoppable toward the darkness, toward vengeance.
Toward war.
Kane
I can’t feel my fucking hands.
They’re numb, shaking, drenched in Diego’s blood, blood that should never have been spilled. Blood I failed to stop. My pulse pounds violently in my ears, sharp and relentless, drowning out every rational thought. This was my fault. My responsibility.
I should’ve anticipated it. Should’ve seen it coming a mile away, tightened security, shifted patrols, something. Anything. I should’ve known.
Instead, Diego is lying dead. Shot down in front of his wife, his daughter. In front of me.
And Camille…God, Camille. She stood frozen, watching death tear through our family, clutching her stomach like she could shield the fragile life inside her from this brutal, relentless storm I’ve brought into our world.
They wanted to deliver a message.
Now I’ll send one back written in blood, sealed with vengeance.
I storm down the corridors, every step echoing violently, boots pounding the floor, adrenaline and fury driving me forward. Guards flatten themselves to walls, eyes downcast, not daring to speak, barely daring to breathe as I pass.
They know this look. They’ve seen it once before, years ago, when I lost my father.
