Page 146 of Desperate Actions

Beneath the club, it is dark, quiet—almost like the place is closed for business. But it’s not. It’s Thursday and after three decades the Den is still one of the hottest night spots in Jersey City.

Still, the evidence of last night’s invasion lingers.

The security panel the robbers dismantled still sits near the back entrance.

A bullet hole in the hallway leading to the offices.

The stink of bleach lingers, and the noticeable lack of blood on the floor greets us. It’s been scrubbed clean, but I still know what was there.

Angel walks ahead of me, pointing out key security flaws—positions that were compromised, exits that were breached, and new protocols he’s already put in place.

He’s meticulous. Efficient.

And for the first time since marrying Aella, I feel something close to respect for him.

The man is a fucking fortress.

I motion for my team to move, positioning them strategically throughout the club, covering any remaining vulnerabilities.

I won’t say it, but Angel’s done a damn good job securing this place in the aftermath of the attack.

Not that he’d accept the compliment anyway.

When the brief walkthrough is done, Angel leads me to his office.

He moves behind his massive black desk, gestures toward the chair across from him.

The room is thick with tension, the kind that sinks deep into your bones and coils around your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Angel Fury sits across from me, his massive frame hunched forward over his desk, forearms braced against the polished wood.

His bright, assessing eyes burn into mine, and even though I know he wants me to squirm, I don’t give him the satisfaction.

I settle into the chair, back straight, shoulders squared. If this is a pissing contest, I’m not losing.

“Now,” he says, his voice the low growl of a man who’s spent a lifetime in power, commanding men, striking fear. “Tell me what the fuck you know.”

I take a moment, slow and deliberate, inhaling through my nose as I consider how to phrase my answer. I know it’ll piss him off, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“I spent all day on the phone with my old contacts. I came up empty.”

“In other words, you got nothing.” His lip curls in disgust. “Big fucking surprise.”

The door swings open, cutting through the thick hostility in the air. Nico Fury and Luc Batiste step inside, bringing with them a shift in energy. The weight of authority is different now—not just suffocating, but layered.Political.

The King of the Vipers levels his gaze on me, and I see the resemblance immediately. Nico Fury is like an older, more calculated version of his son, Nico Jr., but the power rolling off him is different.

Colder. More absolute.

He doesn’t just command respect. He owns it.

“Sammy.” Luc offers a nod before extending his hand. “Good to see you. How’s your father?”

I shake his hand, firm but not too eager. “He’s good, thank you.”

“Are we done with the fucking hellos?” Angel growls, eyes flashing with barely restrained rage.

Luc smirks, deliberately slow and unbothered, like a man who enjoys pressing buttons. “Alright.”

---