Page 10 of Stormy Knight

“NO killing anyone Reeves. We do not want a war.” Jackson said firmly before dipping the bread into the sauce.

“War? Who’s wanting a war?” Monroe asked, coming in on the ass end of the conversation. Setting down the bottle of wine, he looked from Jackson to Reeves waiting for one of them to explain the comment.

“I was just telling Reeves to not kill anyone while in Dallas.”

Monroe couldn’t agree more. The problem with that was Reeves liked to get his point across by any means necessary. How many times had they seen his hands bloody? More than Monroe cared to think about. “Reeves, I agree with Jackson. No killing anyone.”

Reeves’ eyes flicked over to Monroe, narrowing slightly as if the words hadn’t quite registered. It was almost as if the kitchen, for all its warmth and comfort, was becoming the stage for something darker. Monroe’s voice wasn’t loud, but the firmness in it was enough to draw Reeves’ attention. “Reeves, I agree with Jackson,” he repeated, this time more pointedly. “No killing anyone.”

Reeves stood still for a long moment, his jaw tightening. His hand, the one that had so many times gripped weapons or slammed into things when words failed, was resting on the edge of the counter again. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge tighter as though to ground himself.

“I know what you’re saying,” Reeves said, his voice low, measured. But there was a thread of something dark underneath the calm—frustration, maybe, or something worse. “But you don’t get it. You don’t get what we’re up against.”

Monroe stepped forward, his boots scraping softly against the floor. “Idoget it,” he replied, his eyes steady on Reeves. “You’re not the only one who’s been in this shit. But bloodshed isn’t always the way, Reeves. You’re gonna end up with more blood on your hands than you can live with.”

The silence that followed Monroe’s words was heavy, like a storm about to break. Jackson, who’d let the two have their momentary argument, finally spoke up, his voice reluctant but insistent, “You keep saying that, Reeves. But every time you cause bloodshed, there’s a body. Every. Damn. Time.”

Reeves turned his head to Jackson, something flickering in his eyes. A storm of emotions—anger, guilt, and something even more dangerous stirred in the depths of his gaze. But he didn’t snap. Not yet. He let out a breath, pushing a hand through his hair. “The more I handle, the less others have too. That means the fewer people know. Knowledge is power…power that can be held over us if used.”

Taking a pause, Reeves thought about his words, not wanting to fight with his brothers. “I’m not like you, Jackson,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You always get to walk away, pretend it’s justbusiness. But for me... it’s personal. Always has been. It’s hard to know where to draw the line.”

Monroe saw it then—the weight in Reeves’ words. The scars, not just physical, but deep in his soul. He had always been the one who got his hands dirty first, the one who knew what needed to be done when things went south. But that same ruthlessness was also eating him from the inside out.

“Then find another way,” Monroe said, interjecting, his voice softer now. He took another step forward, trying to close the gap. “You don’t have to carry the weight of this alone. It’s our weight to carry…the three of us, and together we can carry all of it.

Reeves didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the counter. But his shoulders, which had been tense and rigid, relaxed just a fraction. “I don’t know if I can,” he whispered.

Jackson’s expression softened too, and for a moment, the kitchen felt less like a battlefield and more like a place where something might, just maybe, get repaired. Monroe didn’t know if they could fix this, not in one conversation, but there was one thing he knew for sure—this wasn’t just about stopping the bloodshed. This was about saving Reeves from himself before there was nothing left to save.

Seeing Reeves was dealing with things beyond what they realized, Jackson decided to take some of the responsibility off his brother’s shoulders. “What’s this meeting with the New Orleans bosses about?” he asked, changing the subject.

Reeves paused for a beat, then shot him a look that was too serious. “Marcello is having issues with Serrano as well. Martinelli, I’m not sure about.”

“Are you concerned about this meeting?” Jackson asked, trying to sound light, like he wasn’t also stuck in his own thoughts. But as always, there was a pull in his chest that he couldn’t ignore, something that made it feel harder to breathe in the same space as his brother when he worried about the choices they’d all made.

“I’m taking Marco with me. They asked specifically to speak with me.” Reeves kept his eyes on Jackson waiting for a glimpse of what his older brother was thinking. He gave nothing away.

“I’ll be going to Houston with you. And if we need to go to Dallas after, so be it.” Maybe it was time to remove Mario Serrano as the head of the Serrano family.

6

Stormy spent the better part of the morning sitting at a small kitchen table. She’d tried working on her next book, but the thought of being out of a job kept interrupting her. Eventually, she’d given up and started working on her resume.

Now she sat staring at the screen of her laptop, the cursor blinking in the empty space as the uncertainty loomed larger, an invisible pressure pressing against her chest. She’d crafted the perfect resume—polished, showcasing her accomplishments with just the right touch of humility—but it felt as if she was throwing a penny in a wishing well.

Sighing, she leaned back in the chair, rubbing her eyes. The house felt quieter than usual, the sound of her own breath almost too loud. The coffee she’d brewed earlier had gone cold, and the faint bitterness of it clung to her tongue.

She glanced over at the clock—11:42 AM. Too early for a break, but she felt like one was inevitable. Maybe a walk. Clear her head, get the blood flowing. It was something. Anything.

Leaning back she tried stretching the muscles in her back. After sitting for hours her back was tight. Shoving out of the chair, she then padded across the wooden floor to get a drink ofwater. Stormy knew she needed to call Whiskey and let her know she was in town early. But she didn’t want to see her, not yet.

Stormy filled a glass of water, watching the clear liquid swirl in the light before she brought it to her lips. The coldness stung a little against the dryness in her throat, but it did little to quench the gnawing feeling inside her.

Texas Creek was supposed to be a fresh start, a quiet town where she could lie low, get her bearings, and try to piece her life back together. The small town was so different from the noise and chaos of California. No crowded streets or constant sirens, just open space and a slower pace of life.

The first few days in the Airbnb felt almost surreal. The tiny house was cozy—nothing extravagant. She found herself falling into a rhythm, waking up early to the sound of birds outside, cooking simple meals, and spending afternoons lost in books or journaling. It was peaceful, but it felt like a temporary peace, one that could easily shatter if she wasn’t careful.

Stormy hadn’t felt safe in a long time, though. Even now, she couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck would prickle sometimes—as if someone was just outside the window, standing too close. But whenever she’d glance out, there were only the empty streets.

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