Page 53 of Unleashed
Alexius crouches in front of Andrew, placing his hands on the man’s shoulders, squeezing firmly enough to ground him but not cruelly. His voice is steady, low, carrying the weight of someone who’s seen too much death but refuses to let it hollow him out.
“She’s with God now, Andrew,” Alexius says, sympathy threaded through steel. “And I swear to you—whoever did this will pay. You’ll have your justice. You’ll have your vengeance. That’s my word. But right now, we need to comb this scene. My brothers and I have to keep our heads if we’re going to catch the motherfucker who did this.”
He straightens, and with a single nod toward Maximo the order’s clear.Get him out of here.
As soon as Andrew’s led out of the penthouse, I drag my hands down my face, desperately trying to get my shit together.
“Jesus Christ.” Caelian leans against the floor-to-ceiling windows and lights a cigarette.
“Bet you got no other lame-ass theories now, do you?” I quip.
“Don’t start your shit,” Alexius warns.
I scoff then scan the room. The penthouse itself is high and glossy, walls of glass staring out at Chicago’s skyline. Expensive furniture in shades of white and neutral tones, steel trimmings and silver accents gleaming under recessed lighting. But it doesn’t feel like luxury anymore. It feels like a coffin dressed up in designer fabric.
Blood spatters the chrome-legged coffee table and streaks down the column in jagged ribbons that catch in the light, turning it all into a sick kaleidoscope of crimson. A half-finished glass of champagne sweats on the counter. A silver laptop lies open on the couch, frozen mid-Netflix episode, a pink throw blanket folded neatly over the armrest. All the trappings of a young woman’s night in.
Now destroyed.
With a gloved hand, Alexius picks up the note Maximo extracted from her mouth earlier and reads it aloud.
“For the day of vengeance was in my heart, and my year of redemption had come. Isaiah, sixty-three, verse four.”
“Isaiah,” Caelian scoffs. “Bet that annoys the shit out of you, doesn’t it?”
“Shut up,” I snap, and he smirks. “Is it too early to call a pattern?”
Alexius looks at me with question.
“Both scriptures are about vengeance.” I point out the obvious then cross my arms. “I think, whoever this fucker is, it’s personal. It’s not a warning. It’s a fucking prelude.”
Caelian exhales smoke. “To what?”
“I dunno.” I glance down the body, one part specifically. “Has anyone checked…” I swallow hard, “you know…for?—”
“No,” Nicoli’s voice cuts clean through, final. “I’ll do it.”
He crouches beside Tyla’s body, the latex of his gloves squeaking faintly as he presses his palm against her thigh to steady himself. For a moment, the room is hushed, everyone watching. Then his other hand slips between her blood-smeared legs.
The wet sound that follows makes my stomach pitch. A slick, sucking resistance as he grips something wedged deep inside her and starts to pull. Inch by inch it drags free, tearing loose with a grotesque squelch, thick strings of blood sticking, stretching, snapping.
The cross comes out dripping, heavier than it looks, carved wood stained crimson, the edges serrated with gore. The air reeks instantly sharper—iron, rot, something foul that coats the back of my throat.
Nicoli holds it up, and the man pales as blood runs down the grain and spatters against the white floor.
“Something written on it?” I try to study the cross from a distance.
“If you mean carved, yeah.” Nicoli wipes carefully at the wood with a gloved hand. “Owed to.”
“Owed to?” Caelian frowns. “What the fuck does that mean? Owed to what?”
“Or to who,” I say absentmindedly.
Nicoli bags the cross and gets rid of the gloves. “We can try to figure it out back at the house. Right now, we need to scrub this place before the cops get here.”
“Make it look like a lovers’ quarrel?” Caelian drops the cigarette and stomps it out with his shoe.
“Seriously?” I stare at him, gobsmacked.
