Chapter 31

I don't know how many days I've been here, but I'm fucking over it.

If Gus' goal was to make me feel like a caged beast, he's succeeded. I pace the length of the cell, which isn't much—just a few steps from one wall to the other. The concrete floor is cold against my bare feet, and the walls seem to close in on me with every second that passes.

I'm losing my mind.

I've been trying to keep track of how long I've been here, but I've repeatedly fallen into a restless sleep. My brain is pounding, my gut is twisting. I've already thrown up more times than I can count, and the acidic taste still lingers at the back of my throat.

At first, I thought it was just the tranquilizers they pumped into me. Whatever they used knocked me out cold, leaving my first day a blur of angry voices and flashing memories. But when the pounding in my skull started and didn't let up, I knew it was more than that. Somewhere between getting taken and ending up here, I got a head injury. Whether it was from being tossed around like a sack of potatoes while I was out, or someone deciding to take a few kicks at me while I was down, I have no idea. All I know is a concussion is the last thing I need right now.

I stop pacing for a moment, leaning against the rough cinder block wall as another wave of dizziness hits me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will it away, but it doesn't help.

My eyes flick open, almost against my will, and I find myself staring at the tiny gap between two blocks across the room. It's barely noticeable, just a small crack where the mortar didn't quite fill in, but it's big enough for what I've hidden there: one of my cufflinks.

My heart skips a beat just thinking about it. It's a lifeline, or at least it could be. I can't afford to lose it, can't afford to have it discovered. My eyes dart away from the gap, moving to the tiny divot in the concrete ceiling where I've wedged the second transmitter. There's a little lip there, barely enough to hold it, but it's out of sight.

At least I hope so.

I just need someone—anyone, to find us. To get me out of this goddamned cage so I can fuck up the assholes who put me here, before they get their hands on her.

Isabella.

I ball my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms to keep myself grounded, to keep myself from looking at the hiding spots again. I can't draw attention to them.

The guards may be complete idiots, but they're not blind. They talk when they think I'm out of it, and I've picked up more than they realize. I know their rotation, their schedule. I've been here for three, maybe four days—it's hard to be sure with how hazy that first day was. The drugs were still messing with my head, but every hour since, things have become clearer.

And the clearer it gets, the worse it is.

I'm fucked.

There's no other way to put it.

I've been listening, paying attention. They're unorganized. Definitely not professionals. And as the days have ebbed on, I've noticed they're scrambling. Something's changed. They're getting desperate.

My throat constricts as their words come back to me.

They are desperate. But what they're desperate for is enough to send me into a blackout rage befitting of Madd.

Last night, in the pitch black of my cell, I laid awake, staring at the ceiling, and listened. Their conversation, a mix of English and Spanish, was heated. Two, maybe three, guards were arguing about their boss. About the woman they were searching for.

From what I could gather, the raid at the Den wasn't meant for us—it was meant for Ella. We'd been distracted by that sick fuck, Eric Keaton. If it hadn't been for the second group of masked people that showed up, Gus would have gotten the jump on us.

My heart slams against my chest at the thought. Fuck . What would have happened if he'd gotten his slimy hands on Ella? If she were here with us?

Gus wants her. For what? I have no fucking clue. I've heard whispers of money. A shit ton of money, from the sounds of it. But it makes no sense. Ella's a foster kid with a lost memory. What could she possibly have that Augustus wants? He has money, drugs, and women.

Unless…

I choke back a ball of emotions I can't afford to feel.

Could it be true? Could our girl, mi princesa, actually be a queen? The heir to Le Milieu, the French fucking Mafia?

Another sharp pain shoots through my skull, and I grit my teeth against it. I can't let it slow me down, can't let it weaken me. My mind has to stay sharp, my body ready to move the second I see an opportunity. I force myself to pace again, trying to push through the fog in my brain.

Outside my cell, a metal door clangs. The only sign I have that someone's coming. I tense, but don't stop moving. It puts my back to my cell door for a brief second, and I quickly spin, keeping my eyes on the impending threat.

My mind flits through the mental tally I've been keeping, and my brows furrow. It's not time for the guard to do their ritualistic hazing. Morning, afternoon, and night, someone walks by, throws shit at me, shouts at me, leers, and laughs.

They stopped coming into my cage on the second day. The first time someone tried to piss me off face to face, I turned his face into a bloody pulp. I expelled every ounce of pent up rage and fear on the guy, and then I turned to his shaking friend. The man pissed himself and ran away, leaving his friend's body with me.

I'd wasted no time stealing the guard's set of keys from his pocket and letting myself out. At the time, I'd been completely tunnel-visioned. All I cared about was getting my brothers and finding Ella before anyone else could. I was blindsided by the second guard and the backup he'd called for.

A grin curves the edges of my lips, and I run a thumb over it, making sure it's real. I killed most of them too. I should feel bad, but I can't find it in me to give a shit.

Footsteps thud down the rotting concrete path outside my cell, echoing in the cavernous, empty space. Something else I discovered in the few seconds of unobstructed freedom—we're in a prison. An old, abandoned prison.

The walls are crumbling, the metal bars rusted and pitted with decay. The stench of mold and dampness clings in the air, thick and oppressive, like the building itself is suffocating under the weight of the horrors it's seen.

The footsteps grow louder, closer, until they stop right outside my cell. Two hulking figures step into view, and I take them in with a bored expression.

They're big—bigger than most, both easily six feet tall, and built like brick walls. Their skin is dark, covered in tattoos that snake up their arms, across their necks, and disappear under their shirts. One has a jagged scar running down the side of his face, cutting through an eyebrow, while the others got a nose that's clearly been broken more than once. They look rough, like they've seen and done things that would make most men piss their pants.

But they can't hide the fear in their eyes when they look at me. Because for as big and rough as they are, I'm worse.

I'm their fucking nightmare.

Even under all that muscle and bravado, they're terrified. I can see it in the way they hesitate, the way their gazes flicker just a bit too quickly between me and the cell door. They're scared of something—or someone—far worse than me.

"Did someone pay the price for letting me kill your men?" I murmur, knowing exactly how their boss treats his followers.

When I hulked out and went on a killing rampage, Gus no doubt lost his shit, and did some murdering of his own.

Neither of them speaks, but one swallows so hard, I hear it in my cell. My grin grows, and I nod once. I briefly consider trying to get them on my side. In the Bay, loyalties are easily flipped. We've seen it time and time again. We saw it with Quan and Raptor. There's fall out in Augustus' ranks. Flipping them wouldn't be difficult when they're this scared.

Instead, I decide to piss them off.

"Did one of your friends have to die for your mistakes?" I taunt, circling the cell door. "Did your boss bend you over and spank your naughty asses for failing? Again?"

I chuckle at the horrible joke. Nothing gets information faster than a bitch boy with a short leash and no control. Especially when you talk shit about their manhood.

The scarred one sneers as the other fumbles for his keys. It's comical watching them scramble.

"You motherfucking piece of shit!" One shouts, his voice bouncing around the prison as he gets the cell unlocked.

That's it, asshole. Keep yelling. Tell everyone where you are. Lose your mind. Forget the door's open.

I roll my shoulders back, popping my knuckles one by one, the sound echoing in the small space. I've been waiting for this. My heart rate doesn't even pick up; it's like I'm wired for this, for the fight, for the blood. It's the one thing I've always been good at.

One of them growls, trying to cover his fear with aggression. "You think you're tough shit, huh?" he spits, his voice thick with a Mexican accent. "You think you can take us both?"

The other one cracks his neck, stepping forward as he adds, "Gonna enjoy breaking you, cabrón."

I can't help but laugh, the sound low and rumbling in my chest. They've got no idea who they're dealing with.

"You two gonna keep yapping, or are we gonna get to it?" I grin, popping my neck side to side, the movement deliberate, controlled.

They're shit-talking, trying to psych themselves up, but I'm calm, unaffected. I've been in too many fights to let a couple of scared gangbangers get under my skin. They clearly have no idea who they're dealing with. I'm not just some lowly, ganged up thug like them.

I'm the fists of the Diablos. The man who incites violence and torture. I'm the controlled, calm killer.

I'm in my fucking element right now.

The one with the scar lunges first, and I'm already moving, slipping to the side with practiced ease. His fist sails past my head, and before he can recover, I slam my elbow into the back of his neck, sending him crashing into the bars. The other guy rushes in, and I meet him head-on, driving my fist into his gut with a force that doubles him over.

They're big, but they're sloppy—too scared to be anything more than muscle. I've dealt with worse. Hell, I've taken down worse, with less to work with. As the scarred one staggers back to his feet, I step forward, cracking my knuckles again, just for show.

"Come on, pendejos," I taunt, my voice cold. "Let's see what you've got, bitch boys."

Oh. They really don't like that. I smirk, waggling my brows.

"That's what you are," I say with a laugh. "Augustus Luna doesn't give a fuck who you are. He doesn't care about your mama, or your sister. He doesn't give a shit if you're ten, or fifty. You're nothing but a wall between him and his enemies. He'll sooner watch you die than lift his manicured finger and fight for himself."

I get up in the scarred one's face while the other uses the bars to pull himself up.

"Don't you get it?" I hiss, gritting my teeth. "You're nothing!"

Their fear is palpable now, and it fuels me, sharpens my focus. They came here thinking they'd take me down, but they're about to learn the hard way that I'm not the one who needs to be afraid.

His eyes widen but he's too slow. My fist connects with his jaw, the crack of bone echoing in the small cell. He crumples to the floor, unconscious before he even hits the ground. The other one barely has time to react before I'm on him, driving my knee into his gut with all the force I can muster. He folds like a cheap chair, wheezing as he collapses next to his buddy.

I step back, catching my breath, my heart still pounding, but my mind is laser-focused. They thought they could take me down, but they were wrong—dead wrong. I scan the room, eyes darting to the scarred one first. I kick him over with my foot and drop to a crouch, searching for the keys that might give me another shot at getting out of this hellhole. But before I can find anything, I hear the slow, deliberate thud of heavy footsteps approaching the cell.

Goddammit!

I suck in a harsh breath and let it out slowly. My head is pounding so hard, it feels like it's about to split in half. Fuck. Whatever this fresh hell is, it's going to hurt.

I look up, and my blood runs cold. A third man is standing in the doorway. He's massive, easily the biggest guard I've seen yet, built like a damn tank. His eyes gleam with a twisted kind of amusement as he takes in the scene, a slow grin spreading across his face.

My gaze slides across his hulking body, looking for any signs of recognition. It doesn't escape me that I haven't recognized a single one of these men so far. The guys and I know the vast majority of Gus' lackeys. Is it possible we're not with Gus after all? I take in his tattoos before zeroing in on his forearm, where a large, smirking clown tattoo stretches grotesquely across his skin.

My brows furrow. Why does that look so familiar?

The asshole cackles, a sound that sends a chill down my spine.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, his voice deep and mocking as he scans the room. "Looks like you've been having some fun, huh?" He steps into the cell, taking in the two fallen men with a casual glance. "They're nothing compared to me, though. Better pray they're dead, ‘cause if they aren't, Gus is gonna kill them for failing."

I slowly rise to my feet, rolling my shoulders as I square up to him.

"You want some, fucker?" I jerk my chin, daring him to make the first move. I know I'm outmatched in size, but I've taken down bigger ones before. It's all about precision, timing, and the willingness to go further than they will.

It's about having something—someone, to fight for.

The guy just smirks, and without breaking eye contact, he waves his hand behind him. A group of men file in, each one cracking their knuckles, their faces set in grim determination. My eyes flicker over them, assessing the threat.

They're not just muscle—they're here to send a message.

The man with the clown tattoo shakes his head, still smirking.

"Oh no," he says, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "Boss has something special planned for you and your bitch boys ." He sneers as he uses the term, clearly trying to get under my skin. "But first, we've got a thank you gift from the men you've killed."

The tension in the room snaps like a wire stretched too tight, and they descend on me all at once. I brace myself, fists up, ready to fight like hell.

The first one who comes at me gets a solid hit to the throat, but the others close in quickly, overwhelming me with their sheer numbers. It's chaos—fists, boots, and bodies all crashing into me from every direction.

I'm fighting back, but there are too many of them.

The pain is blinding, every hit sending shockwaves through my body, but I can't stop. I won't stop. All I need to do is survive until I can get back to her.

Mi princesa.

The thought of Isabella is the only thing that keeps me going, the only thing that matters. As the darkness starts to creep in at the edges of my vision, I cling to that image of her, refusing to let it go. No matter what they do to me, I'll survive. I have to. For her.