CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The front gates lay in a heap of twisted iron across the yard, useless against the bulldozer that tore it off the hinges. No less than ten trucks fully loaded with heavily armed goons roared in after, but this was what my men were trained for. We were always ready for an attack. We had a backup plan for every backup plan. We didn't take prisoners, nor was I about to as I instructed my elite crew of murderers and assassins to kill.

That bastard was not getting Naya. I would kill every last one of them with my bare hands before I allowed him to even look at her again. The fucker had no idea the demons he'd provoked or the monster willing to die to protect what was his.

Bullets pinged off metal and shattered windows. Engines roared as drivers were taken out. Head shots.

Sloppy.

Everyone knew you didn't barge into enemy territory openly like that. You didn't announce your attack. It was about skill and stealth. I knew they were coming ten minutes before they took the gates down. Ten minutes was nine minutes more than I should have been given. That was eight minutes too many before I had my men in place and their mission clear — kill everyone, except Brixton.

I wanted him.

He was mine.

For however long it pleased me, he was going to be my new toy. I had a whole basement designed for this very thing, but I wouldn't be putting him under the same roof as Naya. I wouldn't allow him to breathe her air or soil her home with the blood and filth he would be spilling. Ever since Naya told me what he'd done, hearing the pain and fear in her voice, reading between the fucking lines ... Brixton would not be allowed to die for a very long fucking time.

The kind of men Brixton brought with him were messy. Disorganized. They had no strategy. No unity. They fired at will. Spraying the yard with bullets. Hitting air and night because my men were shadows. They made no sound and left no trace. I watched from the front porch, hands in my pockets as his men peppered the silence with rapid and wasteful fire.

This couldn't be right.

With all that money at his disposal, this was the best he could do? This was what he hired?

I searched the dirt road beyond the gates, hoping this was just a diversion to distract us.

"Are there more coming?" I asked Cyrus who stood mutely at my side.

The man shrugged. "No. Guards have gone all the way up to the main road. Nothing."

So, this was it.

I was insulted.

You don't ambush the home of a ruthless arms dealer with a handful of men and no fucking backup plan.

I was actually angry. I could feel the heat sticking my clothes to my spine. I could have stayed in bed with Naya. That pissed me off most.

"Kill them," I muttered, disgusted. "Except Brixton. Take him to the empty factory. It's still mine for another month. No one will question a little more blood after the accident."

I would move him later, but the factory was abandoned. The investigations and legal process complete. No one was going in until I sold it.

I wanted privacy and silence.

Cyrus started to incline his head only to stop. It cocked to one side as he listened to his earpiece. His expression morphed from alert, to confused, but still alert.

"There's a car coming this way. Fast."

I paused to look back towards the road. "How many?"

Cyrus met my gaze. "One."

Intrigued, I stopped and waited for the newcomer. Did someone accidentally sleep in? Maybe it was Brixton himself charging in to see how his failed attack was going. Well, he was about to waltz into a massacre because only three trucks remained and only because they'd been smart enough to bullet proof their glass.

"Wrap this up," I said to Cyrus. "Tell the men to stop playing with their food. It's late."

Cyrus pulled up his walkie and ordered the 30-60 rifle.

The glass splintered with the first shot. Shattered with the second in the same spot. The driver tried to put the truck into reverse, but he'd been blocked in. His rear end crunched into a Hummer, filling the air with the grind of metal and glass.

I almost face palmed.

What the fuck was this? I was beginning to feel bad. Like shooting ducks in a barrel. It wasn't even a fair fight anymore.

The sniper took out the driver. Then the idiot who jumped out of the backseat, wildly firing his gun. A last-ditch effort to hit something.

The sniper got him between the eyes. His brain splattered across the open door, and he slumped to the ground.

He went for the next truck. The first bullet hit the glass.

"Cease fire!" someone yelled. The passenger side door creaked open. "Cease fire!" he yelled again.

I sighed. "I guess that's my cue." I took a single step off the porch. "Come out, Brixton."

The door was nudged wider, and the mother fucker crept along the side of the hood.

"Lacroix, I think you know why I'm here," he shouted from across the field. "If you give her to me, I will leave peacefully."

I stared for probably too long at the lump of a man standing unarmed and unprotected on my front lawn.

"No," I said flatly.

The fucking idiot actually blinked like he hadn't expected me to refuse. "I beg your pardon?"

I rubbed two fingers between my brows where a throbbing had started. "I'm not giving you my wife."

Comical horror passed over his face. "She is my fiancé and she's coming back with me. I paid a lot of money for her. She's mine. She belongs to me."

I wasn't in the right mindset for this. I had expected more and maybe that was my fault. Maybe I gave this idiot too much credit.

"No," I said again, not playing his game of who owns Naya.

I did.

My ring was on her finger.

She was in my bed.

Her heart belonged to me.

I didn't need to prove anything to this pile of filth.

"You can't keep—"

The shriek of tires and engine exploded through the night and a bright, yellow charger screamed through the broken gates. Mud flew as it swerved in like some dramatic action movie scene.

"What the fuck now?" I muttered under my breath.

The driver door was literally kicked open and a man emerged, tall, lean ... pissed. Eyes the glacial blue of the arctic found Brixton standing alone amongst a sea of dead bodies and cars. They narrowed over flared nostrils and curled lips.

Long, toned legs encased in black jeans and combat boots stalked across the ground. Despite the chill, he only wore a black t-shirt and the veins twining up his arms bulged from the twin fists at his sides.

Brixton blinked, looking both confused and suspicious at the sight. "Malcolm?"

My eyes widened.

Malcolm.

Naya's brother. Even without the introduction, I could almost see the resemblance in the eyes.

"You fucking piece of shit!"

Before anyone could stop him — not that anyone would — five knuckles drove into Brixton's jaw with the force of a charging bull. The crack snapped through my whole body like the shockwaves of a nuclear blast. It echoed through the night, muffled the snap of Brixton's neck as his entire body flew backwards as if he weighed nothing.

"Jesus," Cyrus breathed from next to me.

Brixton didn't move. He lay sprawled across the dirt. Legs outstretched. Blood trickling from his mouth. Whether he was dazed or knocked out was hard to tell, but I was praying for dead.

Then the furious blond turned to where I stood. The moment he started forward, I knew he was about to get himself shot.

"Hold fire!" I yelled, because the last thing I needed was to have to explain to Naya how I let her brother get riddled with bullets.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, chest straining against his top as he breathed hard. Eyes the mirror twins of Naya's, minus the sweet warmth, met mine from amongst a tangle of unruly, blond strands. Not as light as Naya's.

"Where the fuck is my sister?"