Page 117 of House Rules
“Good,” Storm says with a gleeful smile. “Just out of the cameras’ line of sight.”
No one talks as we march downstairs and through the casino lobby. The early Savannah air is thick with humidity, carrying the briny tang of the river. Streetlamps flicker in the mist, their light pooling across wet pavement like molten gold.
I check the map again. She still hasn’t moved.
We walk in a tight line until we see a black van parked at the curb. I spot the flash of Phoenix’s coppery-blonde hair as she backs away from a group of men—five of them, plus one massive tub of lard.
We still say nothing. I tighten my hand around the hilt of my blade as we pick up the pace.
“Well, look at what we have here,” a tall man in a leather cut says as he grabs Phoenix by the throat and looks us over. “You boys here for the?—”
I don’t break stride long enough to engage in conversation. His words cut off when I drive my knife up through the bottom of his jaw. The resistance is brief—cartilage, bone, then the warm slide through the soft palate. His eyes go glassy before his knees even give out.
I do appreciate efficiency.
“We tried to tell you…no one touches her but us,” I say through clenched teeth, ripping the blade free. Blood splatters across my face, and I should probably be concerned about hepatitis and other diseases, but honestly? I don’t give a shit.
The other men freeze for a heartbeat. Maverick winds back and smashes one in the jaw with his brass knuckles. Teeth and blood spray in an arc, hitting the pavement with a wet clatter.
That’s enough to snap the rest out of their stupor. Two scramble for the van, but Storm is alreadythere, knives flashing. Con beats another man down with his baton, each strike thudding against flesh and bone, while Storm giggles like a drunk hyena as he carves.
Boots scrape on asphalt. A man’s wheeze turns into a choking gargle. The air smells of copper and sweat, thick and metallic in my throat.
With the others handled, I go to her.
She’s frozen, her hands still up in a defensive posture from clawing at the man’s grip. Her gaze is locked on his corpse. I grab her arm and turn her toward me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She stares blankly for a second, then nods. Her pupils are blown wide, breath uneven. She smells like fear and the cheap cologne the man who grabbed her wore.
“You’re in so much fucking trouble,” I growl. “This time, it’s just me. This lesson’s going to stick.”
Tears well, but she blinks them back and nods.
“Are they all dealt with?” I ask.
Storm’s covered in blood but uninjured. Maverick has a split lip, Con a scratch on his arm. The men who scared Phoenix are dead at our feet.
“I’ll get the car,” Maverick says. Good—he’s the cleanest.
I turn to Phoenix. “If you want to walk after your punishment, go calm Storm down.”
Confusion flashes in her eyes, then she sees him—wild, panting. She runs to him, pulls him close. He holds her tight, tucks his knife into her back pocket.
He doesn’t trust himself with it.
Maverick pulls up. We line the trunk with trash bags and load the bodies. Storm refuses to let go of Phoenix and pulls her into his lap in the back seat.
I hate that he’s the messiest of all of us and he never cleans up his fucking mess.
But whatever.
We bleach the blood spots staining the pavement until the air stings our noses. The police will know something happened, but they’ll never find the bodies.
And that’s exactly all I care about. I don’t give a shit if they know people died here. I only care if they can build a case.
At the marina—empty, just as I ordered—I shut down every camera feed. We carry the bodies to the yacht, stacking them on a tarp. Storm stows Phoenix below deck.
