Page 108 of Single Mom's Daddies
I turn toward the west wing and start moving. Adrenaline’s back. Hot and ruthless. Every inch of me is wired for violence now. Every footstep is calculated, grounded. I feel like I did five years ago, when my world shattered.
I can’t come back from that again. Wouldn’t know where to start. So, I’m not going to. I’m going to end this, one way or another.
I pass one of the broken windows and spot movement outside—figures retreating into the tree line. One limping. One being dragged.
Good. They’re running now. But not all of them.
The thundering sound of a shotgun rips through the west wing. I sprint. I reach the end of the hall and find a pool of blood soakinginto the hallway rug. One of our guards lies prone, still breathing but barely.
Two men still in the hallway. They see me. One raises his weapon.
I fire twice. His neck bursts open. The other goes down trying to reach for a blade. I kick it out of his hand and drive my fist into his temple.
He slumps. Not dead, but done.
Not done enough. I pop a shot into his skull to be on the safe side, and step back, chest heaving, blood dripping down my arm again. Funny how the old ways still feel right.
Gunfire crackles again from the far east of the compound. Nik’s voice cuts through the comms. “They’re trying to break through the outer perimeter—north fence. I need backup.”
I’m already running because there’s no rest for the wicked, and I won’t stop until every last one of them is gone.
31
VICTOR
The moment I see him,my vision goes red.
Joe Costello.
Broad-shouldered, scarred, and walking through our shattered main hall like he didn’t just send men to kill our children. Like he didn’t try to finish the job his brother started.
The bastard has the nerve to smirk at me.
He’s in tactical gear—black vest, black boots, black gloves. The only color on him is the scar that slashes down the left side of his face. A crooked reminder of the night we burned half their network to the ground.
“Victor,” he drawls, slow and deliberate. “Been too long.”
I don’t answer. I drop the empty mag from my sidearm and let the weapon fall. I close the distance between us in four strides.
The first punch comes from him—wild, fast, aimed straight at my jaw. I duck, slam my shoulder into his ribs, and drive him back against the wall. Plaster cracks. He grunts and knees me in the thigh, hard. I pivot, swing, and land a hook to his face.
The sound is wet and solid. His head jerks sideways. He laughs. “There’s that Orlov temper.”
“You picked the wrong fight, Costello,” I snarl.
He tackles me. We crash through the broken frame of the study doors, scattering paperwork and splinters across the floor. We roll, and the moment we come to a stop, his knuckles graze my cheek. My elbow slams into his sternum. He claws for my throat. I grab a fistful of his vest and yank him forward, smashing my forehead into his nose. Blood gushes, and we both scramble to our feet.
He presses his palm to his forehead and stumbles back. The broken nose might also be a concussion. Good.
I follow, swinging my fists for his solar plexus, hitting his Kevlar vest until I yank his arm out of my way and clock him where the vest doesn’t cover. It hurts to punch ribs directly, but I’m beyond feeling right now. Nothing exists but seeing him in pain.
He hits the wall again, and suddenly, his eyes go bright. The fucker’s been faking his dizziness. He shoves me backward with both arms. I trip on a toppled chair, catch myself, and come back swinging, meeting him punch for punch.
He’s good. Too good. Fights like he’s done it a thousand times—brutal, fast, efficient. No wasted movement.
But I’ve got more to fight for. I see Ivy in my head. Saffron. Mila. Alex.
Joe has nothing and no one, last I heard. Just an empty throne he thinks he can reclaim. I might pity him if he weren’t such an asshole.
