Page 158 of Riot

Because I was gonna make sure he didn’t have time to ask for it.

We pulled up in front of Havoc’s building. It was a sleek, steel-and-glass high-rise that jutted into the Brooklyn skyline like it belonged on the cover ofArchitectural Digest. Valet out front in pressed black suits. Doorman behind bulletproof glass with eyes like a hawk but the posture of a man who’d seen too much and didn’t give a fuck anymore. One of those new-money buildings with rooftop herb gardens and keycard-only elevators.

The building had no character. It was one of those new soulless buildings. It had that tight, sterile feel—like a hospital room after a bad diagnosis. I scanned the sidewalk, the windows, every passing car, hoping, no,prayingfor something that felt normal.

But all I felt was dread. And guilt. And rage I couldn’t shake.

Creed leaned against the car for a second, eyes sharp as glass, jaw flexing. “He’s still in the penthouse?”

“Top floor. PH2,” I muttered, not looking away from the mirrored glass of the entrance. “Let’s go.”

We walked in like we owned the place, dressed in black from head to toe, boots heavy on marble, no smiles, no words. Creed flashed the badge from one of our burner identities, some Homeland Security bullshit I paid good money for. The doorman didn’t ask questions. Just pressed a button and buzzed us through like we were expected.

Inside, the elevator was sleek and cold. Mirrors on all four sides. Brass accents. Soft jazz playing from speakers overhead like it was supposed to soothe your nerves.

Didn’t work.

I stood there watching the numbers climb—34… 35… 36—heart beating like a fucking war drum. My fingers twitched at my side, itching for my Glock.

Creed said nothing. Didn’t have to. I could feel his pulse rising too.

Ding.

The doors opened into a private vestibule—clean marble floors, minimalist art on the walls, a single oak door with a brushed steel handle that looked like it hadn’t been touched in days.

I stepped forward and knocked. Hard.

Nothing.

I banged again. Louder this time. Still no answer.

Creed pulled out his Glock, thumb resting on the slide. His eyes met mine.

I nodded once. “Do it.”

The lock took me less than a minute. Havoc had taste, but not enough paranoia. I’d told him once he needed better security.But he was always too arrogant to think someone would come for him.

Click.

The door swung open into silence.

We stepped inside.

And instantly, I knew something was wrong.

Too neat. Too staged. The furniture was designer—sleek black leather, chrome accents, untouched. Bottles of scotch lined up perfectly on the bar like they’d just been cleaned. The kind of scene you walked into after someone wiped the place down. Sanitized. Covered their tracks.

But they missed something.

“Yo,” I said, voice tight.

Creed followed my line of sight.

Rollo’s phone.

Sitting on the marble island. Cracked screen. Tiny droplets of blood on the glass. A thin smear trailed from the edge of the island toward the back hallway.

“Fuck,” Creed breathed, already moving.

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