Brick makes his move—fast and brutal. His ass moves like he ain’t pushing sixty, more like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for this moment. One blink and he’s already halfway across the lot, crouched low like death itself, a reaper in motion. Before I can even lock down my rifle, he’s in it—silent, controlled violence. Two guards don’t even get to breathe right. One drops with a blade in his throat, the other stumbles back with a hole in his gut. Quick. Surgical. No hesitation. Brick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t slow. He’s not here to send a message—heisthe message.
I follow, slinging my rifle across my back, boots slicking through fresh blood as I stalk the tarmac. The jet sits behind us like a forgotten monument, but all I focus on the man slumped near the armored car.
Don Salvatore.
He’s bleeding out, groaning, trying to crawl toward salvation like it’s owed to him. His white dress shirt is soaked in red, a smear of a dynasty that’s just been gutted.
He sees me.
And for the first time in his smug, bloated life, he looks afraid.
“Gabriella,” he rasps, voice thin and wet.
I crouch beside him, slow and deliberate. Close enough for him to see the truth in my eyes—everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve become.
“You came for my family,” I say, voice flat and sharp like broken glass. His eyes twitched at that. Good. Let it sink in.
“You should’ve done your research. The Barones made it clear—the Mastersons were off-limits.” His pupils widen. That hit landed. “You knew who we were. Youknowwhat we are. And you chose to test us.”
I lean in, my voice dropping into something colder than winter steel.
“Now you get to find out what happens when you come for the father of my children.”
His eyes buck, another gut punch of revelation. He tries to lift his chin, laugh, act like he’s still in control—but pain short-circuits the act. He winces, breath hitching, then coughs up a broken sound that might’ve been a chuckle once.
“You were always your father’s savage little girl.”
I blink once. No smile. No emotion.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m worse.”
Behind me, chaos tightens its grip. Brick hauls Gianni across the pavement, dragging him like trash. Gianni kicks, curses, and tries to fight. It’s pathetic. Brick ends it with one blow—smashes the butt of his pistol into Gianni’s jaw. Bone cracks. Gianni drops like wet meat.
“Shut him up,” I say without looking.
Brick nods. Bellamy moves in, zip-tying Gianni’s hands behind his back with efficiency. The air smells like smoke and blood. Like fire and old sins. It smells likeretribution.Don Salvatore coughs again, spitting blood, blinking up at me with glassy eyes.
“This doesn’t end here,” he croaks.
I rise to my full height, towering over the man who once tried to write my family’s ending.
“You’re right,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
I raise my gun.
“But you do.”
One shot. Clean. Final. Blood spatters across the pavement like a signature. I turn my back on the corpse. No hesitation. Just closure. Clean. Between the eyes. Silence descends, heavy and final. Brick exhales slowly beside me, and I feel the shift.
“You good?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the dead man at my feet.
“Never better.” He says with a nod and smirk.
We look out over the airstrip, watching Bellamy’s team sweep the area, securing what’s left. My kids are already in their SUV heading home, their job here is done. They wave at me and I give them a nod.
Behind us, Gianni is threatening death on any and everyone. Let him. He’s going to learn what it feels like to be powerless, what it means to be a prisoner to the sins of your bloodline.
Because this night?
