The man laughed. Too loud. Then he pulled a gun.
Not at me.
At Rome.
The tunnel went quiet.
Rome didn’t flinch. His face stayed still. The gun pressed center to his chest. His pulse didn’t even jump.
Mine did.
Weak men pulled guns. Weak men thought pointing made them strong.
And weak men forgot what happened when you pointed at a Crow.
The restraint I usually kept broke clean in half.
I moved before the man could breathe. My hand closed on his wrist, bone snapping sharp under my grip. He screamed once—cut short when I shoved the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.
His body dropped before the sound finished echoing.
Two more went for theirs. I didn’t hear the shouts. Didn’t need to. My fists knew the rhythm.
First one—jaw shattered on impact, teeth spraying red across concrete. He fell choking. I didn’t stop. Boot to his throat until it collapsed.
Second one tried to run. I dragged him back by his hair, slammed his skull into the wall hard enough to paint it.
And then I lost it.
I didn’t feel my body anymore—just the weight of everything I couldn’t touch. Every fist, every crack of bone, every spray of blood was the same word pounding in my skull.
Take.
Take.
Take.
They took ground that wasn’t theirs. Pointed a gun at my brother. They tried to take him from us.
And somewhere else, someone had already taken what mattered most.
I wanted her back.
Our girl.
But everywhere I turned, men reached for what wasn’t theirs.
My knuckles were soaked in blood. His face wasn’t a face anymore. The sound of bone giving way was all I could hear.
Rome’s voice cut through, distant. “Luca.”
I barely caught it. Didn’t stop. Because this wasn’t about the De’Valours anymore.
It was about every theft. Every contract. Every hand that had reached where it shouldn’t.
I punched until my arm went numb. The man’s body stopped twitching.
Chest heaving but I kept swinging.
