24. Kaden

24

KADEN

I picture my next home with a white picket fence staked with all the heads I'll collect tonight.

Wishful thinking, since I haven't had a place to call my own in over a decade. Homes are for people with families, with lives. Not for soulless monsters who leave trails of blood and screams in their wake.

I stalk through the darkened halls of Pulse Dynamics, my footsteps silent as a reaper's sigh. The office rooms and cubicles I pass are quiet at this late hour, save for the distant hum of servers and the occasional flicker of fluorescent lights. I can feel the weight of my blades against my forearms, hungry for flesh. Everyone's on the sixth-floor rooftop, enjoying Dawson's event where he promises to unveil cutting-edge technology and put it up for bid to the wealthy, elite clientele stumbling about the building, drunk on champagne and power.

I've learned a lot in the thirty minutes since Layla gave me the slip, tracking Ethan's van to a spot across the street from Pulse. It wasn't there when I arrived, but that's no matter. Ethan got lucky. I'm confident Layla's not inside the vehicle anymore.

The second I laid eyes on her office building and recalled her brief, frustrated phone call to Dawson, it all fell into place. Wraithling is using the opening that a party gives her to destroy Morelli's new technology, with everyone gathered in one room and the rest of the building empty.

If I weren't so furious with her, I'd be impressed at her gall.

I'm a fool for letting my guard down and allowing Layla to worm her way under my skin. When I returned to her house and found her gone, a cold, familiar wrath gripped my heart. The kind of ferocity I haven't felt since Cassie.

In a blind rage, I lashed out, shards of glass and broken tech slicing into my knuckles, but I barely feel the sting. The pain inside is far worse.

How could I have been so careless? I should know better than to trust Layla, to care for her.

Attachments are a liability. They make you vulnerable, distracted. And now, because of my foolishness, Layla is out there alone, unprotected, and at the mercy of men like Dawson who make friends with the Mafia.

The nightmare of my daughter's lifeless eyes, her tiny body broken and bloody, floods my mind. I never got to say a final goodbye to her. Never got to hold her one last time, warm or cold.

I can't lose Layla, too.

I move through the shadows of the service corridors like a phantom, my tactical suit and mask obscuring any move I make. The layout of the building is etched in my mind from when I initially stalked Layla, memorized from blueprints and hours of surveillance. I know every blind spot, every potential choke point.

As I round a corner, I recognize a lone security guard patrolling the hallway ahead. He's young, barely out of his teens, with a bored expression on his face as he scrolls through his phone. Poor kid. Wrong place, wrong time.

I wait, still as a panther spotting a rabbit, until he's just a few feet away. Then, with a burst of speed, I lunge, one hand closing over his mouth while the other finds the pressure point at the base of his neck. He struggles for a moment, eyes wide, but my grip is iron. In seconds, he goes limp.

I ease the unconscious guard to the floor, propping him against the wall as if he merely dozed off.

Old habits die hard. I could have easily snapped his neck, but I'm trying to avoid unnecessary kills tonight. The urge to end him still lingers though, like a dark whisper in the back of my mind. It would be so easy, so satisfying to feel that familiar crunch of bone and cartilage...

I shake my head. Focus . I'm here for Layla.

I continue my silent prowl through the building, senses heightened for any signs of trouble. The sound of my heartbeat echoes in my ears, a metronome of calm. The server room should be just ahead, down a flight of stairs and through a reinforced door. That's where Layla will likely be, trying to sabotage Dawson's grand unveiling.

And when I get my hands on her…

"Nah, boss, she wasn't the one."

The voice stops me short, and I dart into a cubicle room, the lights off, and press against the wall near a window overlooking the hallway.

I peer through the slats of the blinds, making out a figure striding down the hallway with his phone to his ear. His shirt is untucked and hair mussed, like he's had one too many to drink, but his gait is too steady, his eyes too focused as he talks.

"I'm tellin' ya, it wasn't the girl," the fake drunk insists, his words crisp and clear. "I got a long look at her when I grabbed her. Both her eyes were brown, and the boss said the Verona girl's got one blue eye and one brown, like a circus freak or somethin'."

I should rip his stomach open and tie his intestines around his flaccid dick. Layla is worth a thousand of him.

I'm about to do just that, and more, when I hear the fake drunk chuckle and say, "Nah, I played it up real good. Stumbled around, got a little handsy. She bought the drunk act hook, line, and sinker, but the broad is just one of the whores who got lost on her way to the VIP room, as a gift to Morelli. Those chicks are hot but ain't too bright. Yeah, I'm headed there now. Later."

Crimson bleeds into the edges of my vision and a roar fills my ears. Rage courses through my veins, heating my blood to a volcanic level.

Morelli.

I've been chasing the Ghost Leader for years, coming close, but never close enough. And now, one of his lackeys is right here within my grasp.

I move without thinking.

In one fluid motion, I'm behind the fake drunk, one hand covering his mouth, the other pressing a blade to his throat. He starts to struggle, but I dig the knife in deeper, drawing a thin line of blood.

"Quiet," I hiss in his ear, my voice a guttural rasp through the mask. "Or I'll paint the walls using your intestines as my paintbrush."

The man stiffens, phone clattering to the floor.

With a flick of my wrist, I have him flying face-first into the wall with a satisfying crunch. He yelps in pain and surprise, but I'm already wrenching his arm behind his back, twisting until I feel the pop of dislocation .

"Where's Morelli?" I snarl through the mask's voice modulator.

The man whimpers, tears and snot mixing with the blood dripping from his broken nose. "I don't know, I swear! I'm just a grunt. Morelli don't tell me nothin'!"

I slam his face into the wall again, relishing the wet fracturing of cartilage. "Wrong answer."

Keeping his dislocated arm wrenched behind him, I drag the man into the empty office and throw him to the floor. He scrambles back against a cubicle wall. The green slits of my mask's eyes track him in the dark.

"Last chance," I growl, flicking out another knife. The blade gleams hungrily. "Where is Morelli hiding?"

"I'm just the muscle! I follow orders, and I was told to come to this floor to check out a girl coming through the service entrance who matched the description of the one he's looking for. That's all. I don't know where he's at right now."

I hunch down in front of him, and with methodical precision, I dislocate each of his fingers one by one, the snap-crackle-pop a morbid rhythm. His cries escalate into shrill, agonized shrieks that reverberate off the walls. It's a miracle no one comes running.

Probably because he's not worth it.

"The VIP room!" he gasps out between sobs, snot and blood dribbling down his chin. "Top floor, northwest corner. But you'll never get in. It's guarded to shit for the auction."

"Auction?"

"Yeah, the black market tech being auctioned off. A bunch of the crime families are here. Morelli's got some sort of bid war going on for—fuck, I don't know the exact stuff. I'm no techie."

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I yank his head back, exposing his neck. I lean in close, so he can feel my breath through the mask. "And the girl? Where was she headed?"

"The girl!" the man gasps out as if overjoyed that he can provide the answer without difficulty. "She went through the exit door to the stairs. That's all I know. I fucking swear. Please, guy…"

I press the blade to his throat, the steel kissing his skin. "If you touched her..."

The man's eyes widen in terror, pupils constricting to pinpricks.

"No, no, I didn't!" he babbles. "I just grabbed her arm, that's all. I swear on my mother's grave!"

"Swear on your own grave," I say with enough malice to split our shared air in half. "You'll be in it soon enough."

I slash the knife across his throat, crafting a scarlet smile from ear to ear.

Blood gushes, splattering the cubicle walls in abstract arcs. His body convulses, his useless, crooked fingers scrabbling at his neck.

I watch dispassionately as the light fades from his eyes.

I feel nothing. No remorse. No satisfaction. Just a cold, empty void where my spirit used to be.

I leave the corpse sprawled on the office floor, blood puddling around him, then stride down the hallway to the stairwell door and yank it open, the metal clanging against concrete. The stairs are somewhat lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering and buzzing like dying fireflies.

I pause, head cocked, listening for any sign of Layla.

Peering over the railing, I gauge which direction I should go. Up to the VIP room to confront Morelli directly? Or down to the server room to protect Layla?

The basement or the rooftop. Of course it has to be opposite ends of the building .

I weigh the possibilities. Layla is brilliant but guileless, driven by a misplaced sense of justice. She doesn't understand the true depths of human depravity, the lengths men like Morelli will go to protect their interests.

If she tries to take on Morelli alone ... if she's cornered by any member of a crime family, idiot brute or otherwise, she may not be so lucky next time.

I clutch the banister to the point that it whines in distress, torn between two conflicting desires. The primal, vengeful part of me yearns to charge up these stairs and continue to add crimson pieces to my museum of art, the most prized being the blood of the man who murdered my baby girl.

But downstairs contains another precious gift. Layla.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, drawing my attention. I frown when I pull it out and read the screen.

It's a text from Layla, which is impossible because she purposely left her phone at home, but I read it anyway.

Hi so this is Ethan. I found Layla's phone on the floor and plugged it in to charge. Layla told me to come back and tell you Morelli's at Pulse somewhere. She's there too and I'm worried about her. I don't have your number but saw that the only contact in this phone other than me is Jerk and I assume that's you, Kaden? I'm sorry please don't kill me.

I suck on a tooth while scrolling through the message. The kid's terror is palpable even through a screen. Layla certainly knows how to pick her accomplices. This one's about as threatening as a marshmallow. My thumbs tap on the screen, composing a terse reply.

I'm already here. And Ethan? Breathe. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have had time to send that text. Stay at the house to remain safe. And feed Reaper .

I pocket the phone and take a step, but it buzzes again almost immediately. Sighing, I fish it back out.

Ethan: Feed Reaper? Is that some kind of assassin code? Like, am I supposed to lure someone named Reaper with snacks so you can ... you know what, I don't want to know. I'll just stay here and definitely NOT google "how to feed the Grim Reaper" or "do supernatural entities prefer wet or dry food." Nope. Not me. I'm just a simple coder who's suddenly very interested in learning SQL injection. For completely innocent reasons.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling slowly. This kid might give me an aneurysm before Morelli ever gets the chance. With a swift, annoyed motion, I type out one last message.

It's my cat, you idiot. Dry food. Top shelf.

Shaking my head, I silence the phone and shove it deep into my pocket. Enough distractions.

I'm at war with myself, the Scythe and Kaden battling for dominance within the fortress I've made of my mind. The Scythe demands blood, craves the visceral satisfaction of watching Morelli choke on his own stomach acid as I gut him.

But Kaden, the broken man beneath the mask, the father who failed to protect his little girl, needs something else entirely. He needs to shield the woman who's come to mean more to him than vengeance itself. The one who's slowly, painfully, stitching his shattered heart back together with her quicksilver smiles and unbreakable spirit.

I take the stairs two at a time, my boots scarcely making a sound on the concrete steps.

To the server room.