Page 41 of Psycho Boys

Ash, with his tech skills, begins tracing the calls. Killian, ever the pragmatist, starts compiling a list of potential allies—old contacts, people who owe us favors, anyone who might have information on our fathers' operations. I focus on my own father, trying to decipher the subtle nuances of his voice, searching for any clue to his intentions. He'd always been a fucking master manipulator, twisting words to suit his needsand making promises he never intended to keep. This time, however, there's a chilling undercurrent of something else—a cold, calculating ruthlessness that sends shivers down all of our spines.

Minutes bleed into hours. The investigation is fucking slow and painstaking. Still, we work tirelessly, fueled by drugs, coffee, adrenaline, and the unwavering support we offer each other. Calista, despite her own internal battles, remains the fucking rock, the unwavering center of our little rebellion. She pushes us forward, her fierce spirit a beacon in the darkness. She even manages a few rare smiles, genuine this time, not the strained attempts of the past.

Ash manages to trace one of the calls to a secluded warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It isn't a place our fathers would normally operate from; it's too exposed, too risky. But the location, combined with the timing of the calls, suggests something significant is happening. Something big.

We're armed though, not just with weapons but with the knowledge that we’re fighting for our lives, for our future, for each other. This isn't just about revenge; it's about survival. It's about reclaiming our stolen lives. And as the rain begins to fall again—heavier this time—washing away the last vestiges of our fear, leaving behind only the steely resolve to face whatever awaits us. The fight has truly begun, and this time, we won't fucking back down.

SIXTEEN

TEAMWORK

THE ART OF SHARING LOVERS: A STATIC LULLABY

CALISTA

1. Mother

2. Father

3. Holden Graham

4. Gunnar

5. Adam Moretti (Ash's father)

6. David Blacksburg (Kill's father)

7. Jackson Gray (Dom's father)

8. State Senator Pete Gallagher

9. Mayor Kyle Benjamin

10. City Councilman Marcus Rutherford

11. Judge Hayden Wilson

12. Brockton Chief of Police Robert Bailey

13. City Councilman Mr. Josè Brown

A chilling satisfaction washes over me as I review my list, the crossed-out names a testament to vengeance already served. Myfingers twitch; the craving for another strikes strong after these long months without the feeling of blood coating my hands.

Holden Graham, the only unrelated name, stands out; he'll be next. The fathers of my best friends will follow, their deaths meticulously orchestrated for maximum suffering, their final moments etched with our faces. My parents and Gunnar can wait. I want them to fucking suffer. I want their deaths to be as fucking painful as I can make them, and I want my face to be the last thing they see before they take their final breath.

The rain has ceased, yielding to a fresh snowfall, draping Boston in a stark, dirty white blanket that, in my mind's eye, transforms into a breathtaking crimson canvas—a testament to the blood of those who have wronged us. Leaning against the balcony, I tuck the list into my bra, my leggings offering no pockets, and inhale deeply from the blunt between my lips, watching for the others' return.

Five remains inside, arranging underground races to supplement our income, while Dominic, Killian, and Ash conduct surveillance on their fathers, gathering crucial information for our next strike. They're blissfully unaware of the impending storm, but we're not, and the anticipation is fucking intoxicating.

A familiar sound—the sliding door—makes me jump, a force of habit I still have yet to get over. Five emerges shirtless, his black sweatpants low on his hips, revealing a sculpted physique and the sharply defined V that leads straight to his cock. My lips part as he approaches, his arms encircling me, his warmth a welcome gesture to the biting cold.

"Come inside, Little Mystery," he murmurs against my ear, his pierced tongue playfully flicking my lobe. "You're freezing."

"Not yet," I reply, smiling. "The night is too exquisite to be inside." My gaze remains fixed on the street below, still empty, with no sign of the guys just yet.

"But I can warm you up," he counters, gently swaying us back and forth as if to a silent rhythm only the two of us can hear.

"You can warm me up out here," I tease, subtly drawing a knife from my waistband.

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