Page 74 of Thunder

I hear the bathroom door splinter, shatter, surrender. Marcus screams a final war cry and I cling to the cold railing of the fire escape, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. The icy night air bites at my exposed skin, but I barely notice it; all I can think about is Marcus, trapped inside that bathroom, and the fear and remorse that paralyzes me.

I should run.

I need to run.

But I can’t.

I know what I’m going to do, too—I’m going to stay here until the last moment, just to be present, just to be nearby, when the man I love dies.

Just when hopelessness threatens to engulf me, a distant but unmistakable sound reaches my ears—the roar of motorcycle engines. My pulse quickens, excitement and anticipation welling up within me. I break out in laughter as hope overwhelms me.

Shouts of confusion break out inside.

Suddenly, there’s a heavy crash and I hear familiar voices screaming in vengeance—family coming to save their own. Gunfire erupts, this time in the other direction. It's as if a dam has broken and chaos floods the room. The Steel Reapers have arrived.

I creep to the window, drawn by the sounds of struggle.

"You motherfuckers are in for it now!" Marcus lets out a ferocious cry, propelling himself into the enemies like a human cannonball. His green eyes are bright, fierce, and full of raw determination. I stare, transfixed by his wild strength.

"Rook! Bullet! Striker! So glad you could make it to the party," Marcus bellows, his voice hoarse but commanding. I strain my ears and hear them both screaming on the attack.

"Hang on, Thunder. We got you, brother," Striker shouts, his voice taut with adrenaline.

"Second damn time I'm saving your ass, Thunder," Rook yells between gunshots. "You owe Eliza and me a nice dinner!"

"Deal," Marcus roars back, his fists flying, connecting with the faces of Antonio's goons. “Your next trip to McDonald’s is on me.”

“You son of a bitch, I will turn right back around,” Rook says. “That damn angel deserves better than McDonald’s.”

“Fine. Burger King. Final offer,” Marcus retorts, fists flying as he lays into another of Antonio Mancini’s men.

I can't tear my gaze away from Marcus; he moves with the lethal grace of a predator, each strike calculated, precise, and devastating.

"Get down, Lia. This isn’t a fucking movie," Rook shouts at me.

I instinctively drop to my knees. The deafening sound of gunfire fills the air, and I press my body flat against the metal of the fire escape. When it fades, I rise to my knees, carefully peeking through the window, and I see Marcus engaged in a furious fistfight with Antonio. Their faces twisted in rage and insults spill from their lips with vicious vehemence.

"Is that all you got?" Marcus taunts, dodging a vicious swing from Antonio. “Your mother hit harder when she was slapping my ass the other night.” Marcus swings, a staggering combination of lefts and right hitting Antonio in the face, the stomach, the ribs.

"Pathetic," Antonio snarls back, landing a brutal hit on Marcus' face.

I shout, sensing the pain he must feel at the heavy blow. Blood oozes from his split lip, but he doesn't back down. Instead, he strikes back, his fists connecting with Antonio's body like gunfire.

I grip the windowsill tightly, the metal cold and unyielding beneath my fingers. Every punch, every kick, sends a shockwave of fear and adrenaline surging through me. But I can't look away.

"Go to hell, you bastard!" Marcus yells, driving a hard knee into Antonio's stomach. The wind is knocked out of him, and he doubles over, gasping for breath.

"Already been there, sweetheart," Antonio wheezes, straightening up and slamming Marcus into the wall. Antonio’s nose is visibly broken, blood streaming down his face, but he grins through the pain—a feral, wicked grin that chills me to my core. "And I'm not going back alone."

"Sorry, seeing your mother once was enough for me," Marcus growls, launching himself at Antonio with a primal yell.

They grapple, muscles straining, sweat and blood mingling as they clash like titans. The room around them has become a battlefield—shouting, punching, furniture splintering, bullets flying. It's chaos incarnate.

“Enough with the fucking talk about my mother,” Antonio snarls. “She’s actually a really nice woman.”

“Would you rather hear what I have to think about your face?” Marcus snaps. “Because it ain’t going to be pretty.”

There’s a whirl of action—one of Antonio’s men tries to sneak up behind Marcus—and I cry out. "Marcus!" I scream. "Behind you!"

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