Page 128 of Sadistic

"Alive. In custody. He went after Bembe's lieutenant at the warehouse. Walked right in during a meeting, guns blazing." Dad runs a hand through his hair. "Three of Bembe's men are dead. Bembe himself took a bullet to the shoulder."

"Jesus," Dalla breathes.

"Njal?" I ask again.

"Beaten pretty badly, but breathing. Cops have him now. He'll be processed, but given his mental state, probably psychiatric hold first." Dad's expression softens slightly. "He'll get help now, Rev. Real help."

I should feel relief.

Instead, I feel hollow.

Someone I cared about was used as a weapon, his illness turned into a tool.

Three people are dead.

Bembe's wounded.

And tomorrow I'm supposed to put on a white dress and pretend this is a fairy tale.

"The threat?" Mom asks, wringing her hands.

"Neutralized. Bembe's in the hospital under guard. His crew is scattered, dealing with the aftermath." Dad looks at me. "The wedding can proceed safely."

"Safely," I repeat. "Because we used a sick man as a guided missile."

"Because we protected our family," Dad corrects. "I don't like it either, baby girl. But between Njal in a psychiatric ward and you dead, I choose this every time."

My phone buzzes and I see it’s a text from Doran:

You're safe. That's all that matters tonight.

I stare at the words.

He knows what happened, probably knew it was happening as it occurred.

This is the world I'm marrying into—where people are chess pieces and violence is currency.

Another text:

I know you're awake. I know you're struggling with this. Tomorrow, after everything, we’ll talk. About all of it.

"I need air," I announce, standing abruptly.

"Rev—" Dalla starts.

"Just for a minute. I'm not running." I look at Dad. "Though that would solve everyone's problems, wouldn't it?"

"That's not?—"

I'm already moving, heading for the back door.

The night air hits like a slap, thick with humidity and the promise of rain.

The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few bikes and cars belonging to some of the club members..

I sink onto the picnic table where members sometimes eat lunch, pulling my knees to my chest.

The stars are invisible, hidden by light pollution and clouds.

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