Page 54 of Unleashed
“So her murderous lover smoked. Nasty habit.”
I’m about to run my mouth, then remember the car I have parked outside—Caelian’s car. A comeback that cannot be put into words.Fucker.
Two hours later, we finally leave the scene with our cleaning crew. Usually, we don’t stay around for cleanup, but tonight’s different. Itfeelsdifferent. We need our hands on this fucking mess at all times.
Our crew got the place scrubbed of anything that could trace back to us—surfaces wiped, papers burned, pocketed cameras. Not one fingerprint, not one shred of evidence left behind to invite cops or reporters sniffing around our business. The last thing we need is a media frenzy splashing our family name across every headline.
But even stripped clean, the stench clings—the copper bite of blood, the stink of death, and that carved cross still seared into my vision like it branded me too.
“It’s not finished,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Nicoli shoots me a look. “What’s not finished?”
“The sentence.”
“What sentence?” Caelian snorts. “Jesus, Isaia. Are you glitching?”
I ignore him, drag in a breath that feels sharp as glass. “The first cross said punishment. This one—‘owed to.’” Blank stares meet me. Christ. “Don’t you get it? Punishment, owed to…? It fits with the scriptures. Vengeance?” I pace through the penthouse. “Vengeance doesn’t exist without purpose. You punish because something’s owed.” I lift my gaze to Alexius, my gut iced over. “And whoever this fucker is, he’s not done. He needs to finish that sentence.”
Alexius goes pale. “I hope you’re wrong, brother. I really do.”
“Me too.” But it’s clear as fucking day. Punishment. Owed to. The words line up in my head like a noose being knotted. And I know—we’re waiting for the rest of the rope.
The night air slaps cold against my face as we file out of the penthouse, boots crunching over salt-dusted concrete. My head’s still thick with blood and scripture, Tyla’s hollowed sockets burned into the back of my eyelids. I can’t get her father’s screams out of my chest, like they branded themselves into my ribs. Every step feels too slow, too loud, like the city itself might hear us bleeding.
I move fast, shoulders hunched, the need to get out of here crawling under my skin like ants. By the time we hit the curb, I’m already digging for my phone, already thinking of her. Of Everly. Of the baby.
Then I stop mid-stride. “Here,” I mutter, tossing something over my shoulder without looking.
Caelian snatches it from the air, and it makes him freeze. “Wait. Are these—?” His voice spikes. “Thefuck! These are my car keys. You drove my car?”
I glance back, smirking despite the sour taste of blood in my throat. “Yeah. It’s parked out front.” I pause, let it hang a beat, then add, “Oh, and I jerked off in your car. While you drive home, you can try to figure out where.”
His face goes slack, then red. “You sick son of a—” He cuts off, jabbing the keys into his pocket like they might burn him. “You better hope it wasn’t the driver’s seat, or I swear?—”
“Relax,” I throw over my shoulder. “Maybe.”
Nicoli steps up beside me, his brows furrowed, voice low. “Where the hell are you going?”
I slide my phone into my pocket, jaw tight, eyes already locked on the skyline like it might lead me to her. “I’ve got an angel to look over.”
Chapter 19
EVERLY
Most women daydream about sushi rolls or a bloody steak once the pregnancy ban list kicks in. Me? I want coffee. And not just any coffee. A real shot of espresso—freshly pulled, crema thick as caramel, roasted beans ground seconds before they hit the machine. I crave that sharp bitterness, the kick in the back of the throat, the kind of cup that smells like heaven and tastes like decadence.
And here I am, the pregnant masochist, working in a coffee shop—one that, for once, doesn’t trace back to the Del Rossas. At least, not that I know of. Anthony’s been sliding money into my account like he’s still entitled to me. And then there are the other deposits—anonymous, clean, deliberate.
I refuse to touch a cent. But when Molly checked her balance last week and found a neat, round number sitting there, too? I didn’t need proof. I know exactly whose hand it came from. My husband’s.
I balance a tray with four mugs, smile until my cheeks hurt, thank customers whose names I’ll never know. Hours blur intothe same motions—wipe the counter, sweep the crumbs, refill sugar jars.
It’s been weeks since I pressed his name on my phone, weeks since the call that went unanswered. Weeks of pretending I’m moving forward, of working shifts at a coffee shop that isn’t his, of telling myself that if I just keep busy, maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m suffocating. But no matter how many lattes I pour or tables I clear, I’m stuck. Stuck in the place where I’m Isaia’s wife. Stuck in love with a man who branded himself into my bones. Stuck in the moments on that island where it was only us, no lies, no shadows—just fire and freedom.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up from where I’m wiping down the counter. A man in his mid-thirties ambles in, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbow like the day’s wrung him out.
“Am I too late?” he asks, glancing at the chalkboard menu like it might grant him mercy.
