Page 152 of Princess of Vengeance

Finally, Cassandra sits back, a satisfied expression on her face. “I think we have an agreement.”

Owen nods. “We’ll need a name. Something that represents what we’re building, but doesn’t carry the Syndicate’s baggage.”

“The Collective,” I suggest, the word feeling right on my tongue. Simple, direct, honest about what we are.

Cassandra’s lips curve into a smile. “The Collective,” she repeats. “I like it.”

We raise our glasses, sealing the deal with a toast. As I look around the table at my men, at Cassandra and Owen, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—hope. Not just for survival, but for something more. Something better.

We’ve torn down the old world. Now we get to build a new one.

And this time, we’re doing it right.

EPILOGUE

QUINN

Six Months Later

I’m standingat the front counter of Blood and Ink, reviewing inventory numbers on a tablet when Cabby approaches, hat in hand.

“We’ve got confirmation on the shipment through Hendricks’ territory,” he says. “Tanner’s guys from Carnage met them at the drop point and report everything went smooth as silk. It’s a twenty percent increase over last month’s haul.”

I nod, swiping to update the figures. “Any problems with the border crossing?”

“None. Hudson says the new documents are holding up perfectly. The Carnage boys even had a run-in with a state trooper who didn’t look twice at the paperwork.”

“Good,” I say, feeling that familiar rush of satisfaction. Six months ago, we were cobbling together scraps of a broken empire. Now we’re running a well-oiled machine that spans three states. “Tell Hudson I want him at the meeting tomorrow. We’re going to expand farther north.”

“Will do,” Cabby says with a grin. “I gotta say, this partnership with Carnage is working out better than any of us expected. I never thought I’d see the day.”

I follow his gaze to where two members—one Enigma, one Carnage—are laughing together over coffee near the back of the shop. They’ve got matching fresh ink on their forearms—a new combined symbol for our allied forces. Not a merger, but something completely new. Something stronger.

“The old guard adapts or dies,” I say with a shrug. “And nobody here is looking to die anytime soon.”

Cabby chuckles. “Ain’t that the fucking truth.” He hesitates before adding, “Damon wanted me to tell you he’s planning a welcome party for the new recruits next week. He says it’ll help solidify the ranks if they see leadership there.”

“Tell him we’ll be there,” I promise. “All four of us.”

Back in the day, a declaration like that would have raised a few eyebrows and sparked a few whispers. Now it’s just a statement of fact. The four of us are a unit. Everyone knows it. Everyone accepts it. Even members who initially had their doubts have seen the benefits of our particular arrangement. Everyone has witnessed how it’s strengthened both gangs.

Cabby nods and walks away, already barking orders into his phone. He’s stepped up in ways I never expected, becoming one of my most reliable lieutenants. Everyone has found their place in this new world we’re building.

“Quinn,” Atlas calls from across the shop. “I need your eyes on this.”

He’s hunched over one of the drafting tables we installed last month, surrounded by sketched pages and a couple of open books. His dark hair falls across his forehead as he scowls at whatever he’s working on, and there’s a smudge of graphite along his jaw.

I make my way over, indulging in the simple pleasure of watching him work. We’ve been working on a fanfiction graphic novel for Twilight City Chronicles together—I do most of the drawing, and he does most of the writing, although we each get creative input on all aspects of the story.

It’s been surprisingly fun, nerding out with him about the shared interest that brought us together all those months ago.

“What’s up?” I ask, sliding onto the stool beside him.

Atlas gestures at the page before him—a dramatic spread showing Luther standing on top of a skyscraper while Danica approaches from behind. I did a damn good job of capturing the anger and the longing in her expression, if I do say so myself.

“I’m trying to finalize the dialogue for this moment,” he says. “I think Luther should finally admit he loves her here, but you were arguing for a slower burn.”

I study the page, glancing between the two sketched characters. “I still think Luther’s too stubborn to admit it this early,” I counter. “I’m willing to give you the fact that they’re meant to be together, but we need to drag it out a little longer.”

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