Page 141 of Princess of Vengeance

Together, they make me whole in a way I never thought possible.

A soft thump at the foot of the bed signals the arrival of our final family member. The cat—Princess—pads up the blanket, kneading the fabric with small paws before settling into a ball at my feet.

I close my eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day finally take me.

The next fewdays blend together in a haze of sleep, food, and the sweet fucking relief of not having anyone actively trying to kill us. We’re all moving like old people, wincing with every stepand groaning when we sit or stand. The safe house has become our recovery ward, with a collection of bandages, antiseptic, and painkillers scattered across every surface.

We spend most of our time sprawled on the couch together, watching shitty TV and trading barbs about each other’s injuries. But beneath the lazy domesticity, our minds are working. Planning. Figuring out what happens next.

“Where the fuck are we going to live?” Atlas asks on the third day, wincing as he shifts on the couch. “We can’t stay in this shitty little house forever.”

It’s a good question. One we’ve been dancing around because it opens the door to a hundred others. What are we going to do now? Do we continue to rebuild Enigma and Carnage? Do we even want to?

“We could rent a place,” Nico suggests, his fingers absently stroking my hair as I rest my head in his lap. “Something bigger than this.”

I smile, closing my eyes as I consider the possibility. A real home like the one I had—the one we shared before it burned down. Not a temporary hideout or a place we’re forced to stay in. Somewhere that’s ours by choice.

“We’ll have to figure something out soon,” I say. “But maybe not today. I’ve been sort of enjoying not really stressing about shit these past few days.”

The conversation shifts to other logistics—what to do about the remnants of our gangs, how to merge them, whether to keep our current operations running or try something else entirely. For the first time in our lives, we have options.

Word trickles in from the streets over the next few days. Our people—the ones loyal to Enigma and Carnage—have been keeping their ears to the ground and feeding us information about the aftermath of our little coup.

Kendrick stops by with bandages, food, and the latest updates. “Malcolm’s organization is eating itself alive,” he tells us, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “His lieutenants are fighting over territory, clients, even his fucking furniture.”

I snort, then wince as the movement jars my ribs. “It sounds like they’re a bunch of vultures circling the corpse.”

“Exactly.” Kendrick nods. “And Elliot’s operation isn’t doing any better. Without him giving orders, his human trafficking network is falling apart. The cops have already raided three of his warehouses.”

“Good,” Atlas says, grimacing. “Let that shit burn to the ground.”

Nobody is going to mourn Elliot or his operation. The world is better off without both.

Later in the evening, Hudson stops by with more news. He’s got a fresh scar across his jaw from the fight at Elliot’s warehouse, but he wears it like a badge of honor.

“Nobody seems to be looking for payback,” he tells us, accepting a beer from Nico. “Not for Malcolm, not for Elliot. Their people are too busy grabbing what they can for themselves.”

“What about the Dark Lotus Syndicate?” I ask, thinking of Cassandra and Owen. “Any word on what’s happening there?”

Hudson shrugs. “Word is they’re dissolving it and going their separate ways, but with some kind of non-aggression pact in place. There won’t be any more forced alliances or blood debts.”

I nod, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. The Syndicate is done, and Malcolm’s sick legacy has ended with him.

“And no one’s gunning for us?” Killian asks. “No leftover loyalists with a hard-on for revenge?”

“Nah,” Hudson says, taking a pull from his beer. “That’s the thing about guys like Malcolm and Elliot. They don’t inspire loyalty—they demand it. They surround themselves with peoplewho work for them out of fear or ambition, not love. When they die, no one gives a shit.”

I think about my father, about how his death left a hole in the heart of Enigma that I’ve been trying to fill ever since. How his men still talk about him with respect. How they followed me not just because I was his daughter, but because he earned their loyalty in a way Malcolm never could have done.

“Their mistake,” I say softly. “Building empires on fear instead of respect.”

I’m glad we’re building something different, something based on choice and sacrifice and a bone-deep understanding of each other.

“So we’re clear?” Atlas asks, probably because we’re each having a hard time wrapping our heads around the concept. “No targets on our backs? No vendettas to worry about?”

“Nope.” Hudson shakes his head. “You’re all free and clear, as far as anyone can tell.”

Free. The word echoes in my head. Free to choose the lives we want. Free to build. Free to live.

---