Our night reeked of blood and vengeance. The kind of night that stains your soul and makes the devil proud.
After Gerald Carmichael’s brains painted the inside of that marble foyer, we didn’t stop to celebrate. No drinks. No smoke. Just another name on the list.
Hudson Antonelli.
My father’s longtime shadow. His fixer. His fucking puppetmaster when it came to tying loose ends no one else could stomach. The man knew every buried body and which knife belonged to which betrayal.
He was next.
“Who’s got Hudson’s location?” I ask, voice low, eyes straight ahead.
He used to spend every waking moment up my father's ass, whispering like a serpent, twisting facts into strategy. But even snakes need a hole to crawl back into. Everyone has a place they think is safe.
“Me,” Dash says without hesitation.
Of course.
Dash doesn’t lose trails. Doesn’t forget faces. You could change your name, burn your prints, erase yourself from every fucking government system, and Dash would still find you by scent alone.
“Load it. GPS. Bluetooth. Let’s go.”
“Already done,” he says, tapping the screen as the car’s speakers come alive with directions to Hudson’s last known address.
The engine growls. Tires spin. And we ride into the dark like hounds with a scent of blood in our lungs.
No one speaks. There’s no need.
We all know the rules tonight.
Hudson either sides with us, or we bury him in the same grave my father should’ve rotted in.
Either way, his name gets crossed off the list by sunrise. Wedon’tleave without blood under our nails.
Not anymore.
Not after what they did.
The GPS leads us deep into the forested outskirts of Cliffside, no street lights, no neighbors, no fucking witnesses. Just a sprawling estate buried behind a surge of trees and an electric fence.
Hudson Antonelli’s safe haven.
Dash’s voice cuts through the silence. “Six Dobermans roam the perimeter. Three German Shepherds patrol the inside. He’s not alone.”
I don’t ask how he knows. Dash doesn’t guess. He hunts.
“Who’s inside?”
“Wife. Two kids. Two bodyguards.”
“Bodyguards die,” I say without hesitation. “The kids stay breathing. The wife’s life... depends on how cooperative Hudson is.”
“Dash, you got the floorplan?” Karter asks.
Dash grins. Of course he does.
He pulls out his phone and flashes the layout, infrared. Detailed. Labeled. Every exit. Every blind spot. Even the panic room.
We study the screen like wolves circling prey.
