Page 67 of Prince of Carnage

"Clear," comes the terse response, one after another, until the chorus of survival confirms our win.

I lead, opening the door to the container carefully, keeping myself pinned to the side, just incase some unlucky bastard thought he'd make a last stand, but it's as silent as a graveyard inside.

I continue inside. I step over a body, my boot sticking slightly where the dark pool beneath it has begun to coagulate.

My men fan out behind me, weapons still raised, eyes scanning for any sign of movement among the twisted figures sprawled on the ground.

The scent of death is potent, cloying. It's a smell you never get used to, no matter how many times you've been the architect of such scenes. I nudge a lifeless arm with the toe of my boot, searching... always searching.

But he isn't here.

Declan O’Leary is not among his men.

"Shit," I hiss through clenched teeth. This was supposed to be the endgame, the final act where I'd watch the light fade from his eyes. But the stage is wrong; the players are all understudies.

"Boss?" One of my guys, Tommy, looks at me, waiting for orders. His face is splattered red, but his eyes are clear, cold.

"Get out of here," I order, my voice low but fierce. "Find somewhere to lay low until I call." No need for them to get caught up in what's coming next.

As they scatter, I sprint back to my car, leather jacket flapping against my sides. The engine roars to life under my touch. I hit the gas hard, tires screeching against the asphalt as I take off into the night.

Every red light is an enemy, every second wasted a dagger twisting in my guts. Evelyn and Evan—alone, unprotectedbecause I got so damn caught up in playing king of the hill. I left them without a guard, like some greenhorn who doesn't know his ass from his elbow. They're sitting ducks, just like those poor saps in the container.

"Fuck," I growl, slamming a fist against the steering wheel. I should have known better. Should have felt it in my bones that something was off the moment this godforsaken night began. But I let the thrill of the hunt blind me, let my own grudges paint targets on their backs.

And if I find that apartment empty—if Declan's laid one fucking finger on them—I swear there won't be a hole deep enough for him to hide from what I'll unleash.

"Please," I whisper, a prayer to a god I don't believe in, "let them be safe." The streets are a blur, the city lights streaking by like falling stars as I push the engine harder, faster. I can't afford to lose them—not when I've lost too damn much already.

Tires screech as I pull up to the curb. I'm out of the car before it even stops rocking, my boots pounding the pavement as I take the stairs two at a time, heart slamming against my ribs hard enough to bruise. The door's not even locked; I burst through it with the force of a wrecking ball.

"Evelyn! Evan!" My voice echoes through the empty space, bouncing back at me like some cruel joke. No answer. Just the lonely hum of the TV rolling credits over some film. A cold pizza box sits by the door. It's untouched. That's not right.

I'm on full alert, senses straining for any sign of life. A half-finished puzzle lies abandoned on the kitchen table, pieces scattered like breadcrumbs leading nowhere. It's a domestic scene straight out of a magazine, if you ignore the terror clawing up my throat.

"Where the fuck are you?" My hands are shaking as I yank my phone from my pocket, fingers fumbling to dial Evelyn's number. The line trills, mocking me with each tone. Once, twice,a dozen times before someone answers—but it's not the soft voice I'm desperate to hear.

"Hello, old friend." Declan's laughter is a knife twisting in my gut. I hate him with every fiber of my being, and yet he's got the one thing that could make me come crawling.

"Declan, you son of a bitch, where are they?" I snarl into the phone, my grip so tight I'm surprised it doesn't crack.

"I should thank you first," he says coolly. "You really did help me take out the trash. Those men you killed tonight were rats. But thanks to you, they're no longer a problem."

"Fuck your games. Where's Evelyn? Where's the boy?" My voice is a lethal whisper, promising pain. "If you hurt them?—"

"Relax, they're under my protection now." I can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Give me the address, Declan. I swear, if this is another one of your tricks?—"

"Check your phone." He cuts me off, his tone as cold and dead as the bodies in the container.

The text comes through, an address glaring up at me like a challenge.

“You've got one hour, Constantino. Tick tock.”

"What happens after one hour?" But the line is already dead.

One hour.

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