Page 7 of Monstrosity
While I was torturing Santos, they were watching her.
Learning her patterns.
Planning her death.
I forward the message to Doran immediately, then to the clubhouse, then to every number I trust.
Within minutes, my phone is buzzing with responses—offers of help, demands for intel, promises of violence that would make Santos' death look gentle.
But all I can think about is Flora, bleeding out at the pool party.
All I can think about is Dasha, working at the coffee joint, with no idea that she's become a target in a war she never asked to join.
Tor parks in my driveway at 4:23 AM.
The house is dark except for the kitchen light Dasha always leaves on—a beacon of warmth in the predawn darkness.
I get out of the vehicle, and Tor heads back.
I watch his taillights disappear into the darkness, then turn to study my house.
From the outside, it looks peaceful. Safe. The kind of place where good things happen to good people.
But I know better.
I know that monsters like me don't get to keep good things without paying for them in blood.
I know that Dasha's kindness and my daughters' innocence are luxuries this world doesn't allow.
I know that Bembe Reyes is coming for everything I love, just like his people came for Flora.
The difference is, this time I'm ready.
This time, I will be ready when they come calling.
This time, I'll make sure they understand exactly what it costs to threaten a dead man's only reasons for living.
My phone buzzes one final time as I unlock my front door.
Another unknown number, another message that confirms my worst fears:
Tomorrow night. The coffee shop girl learns what it costs to matter to you, Rio. Say hello to Dasha for us.
I delete the message and slip inside, moving quietly through my own house like the ghost I've become.
In the living room, toys are scattered across the carpet—evidence of a normal evening, of children playing while someone who loves them watches carefully.
On the couch, Dasha sleeps curled under my leather jacket, still wearing her Beans & Babes apron.
Her dark hair spills across the cushions, and in sleep, she looks younger than her thirty-nine years.
Innocent.
Untouched by the violence that defines my world.
She has no idea that loving me is a death sentence.
She has no idea that her kindness toward my daughters has painted a target on her back.
