Page 7 of Celestial Combat

“What do you do?” I asked, taking in his dark, golden hair and light brown eyes.

He set the empty noodle cup down, wiped his hands, and leaned back in the armchair like he was at home. “Head of the Mexican Cartel.”

I raised a brow. “You’re a long way from Tijuana. How old are you again?” I could’ve sworn the leader of the Di’Ablo Family had been around for decades.

“Twenty.”

“Kinda young for a Boss.”

He smirked. “Not much different from a seventeen-year-old assassin.”

“I turn eighteen next month.”

He chuckled like I was a kid. My frown sharpened.“You’re a lot like my brother.”

“He turning eighteen too?”

“No,” He murmured. “Just turned ten in January. Haven’t seen him a while, actually.”

I paused. “He with your parents?”

Matteo’s jaw tensed, just slightly. “No. I take care of him. But he’s staying with the Sus while I… Finish taking care of our father’s unfinished business.”

He met my eyes, and I saw it – something old and violent burning behind them. Something familiar.

“Why are you here?”

“I need you to help me capture the man who killed my parents.”

I leaned back, shaking my head. “The Yakuza will skin me alive if they found out I was even speaking to you.”

“Maybe it’s time to be your own man.”

I laughed once, dry, and got up from the couch. I was over this conversation. He could have me killed. “I don’t do kidnappings. I just kill.”

His voice lowered, like a sword drawn slow, as he spoke behind me.“This man burned my parents alive in our childhood home. Thought me and my brother were inside too. He left us withnothing. His death won’t be a hit with no pain. It will bemonthsof agony. He’ll tear his own skin off just to try and escape it. He will feel my revenge in the deepest parts of his soul.”

I faced him again.

Not out of fear, but memory.

Something about his voice didn’t just speak of pain.

It carrieda certain type of hate I’d only ever recognized in myself.

“All right,Diablo,” I said finally, sitting back down. “Who are we kidnapping?”

He smiled, calm and cold. “The head of the Colombian Cartel.”

Chapter 4

Present

Midtown, New York City

I LEANED MY FOREARMS ON the ropes of the training ring, watching.

Meisa was warming up with Tony. She moved quick and precise, her footwork nearly soundless. Every shift of her body was calculated, controlled. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

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