Page 78 of Tangled In Vengeance

"That's for not protecting my sister," Julian seethes, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

I taste blood and feel it trickle from my nose, wiping it away on my shirt before locking eyes with Julian again.

"I'll help you. I'm not doing this because you asked. The Nightingales brought me into this the moment they attacked my sister. What's the plan?" he demands, his anger now edged with a keen sharpness of purpose.

I take a breath, steadying myself. "Victor is tracing her location now," I say, regaining my equilibrium. "Meet me at my warehouse on Main in twenty minutes."

I stride into the dimly lit warehouse, every muscle coiled tight, eyes scanning for Victor. "Did you get her location?" I bark the moment I spot him.

Victor turns, his face a hard mask under the flickering fluorescents. "Yeah, they're about two hours away, in the middle of nowhere. We don't have eyes or ears over there. We'll be going in blind."

Nodding, I feel the icy resolve harden in my chest. "That's why we're taking all the firepower we can."

"And of course, you'll have me and my hooligans," Julian's voice echoes as he saunters through the doors, gang trailing like shadows.

"Tell me the plan," he demands, the tension in his voice as sharp as the knives we carry.

I look between the men, my eyes steel. "We split into two teams. Victor, you lead the first team around the back and create a diversion. They'll be expecting a frontal assault. Meanwhile, Julian and I will take the second team and move in under the cover of the chaos. We stay in constant contact. If you find the women, you radio in. No heroics. We extract and regroup. We do this clean and by the numbers."

Victor nods and heads to an arsenal laid out on a nearby table. We're systematic as we arm ourselves, handguns sliding into side holsters and back holsters, the cold metal familiar and oddly comforting. Ankles get a lighter piece, something quick to draw. I tuck a knife into my boot and another at my back, hidden but easily reached.

Julian smirks as his own weapons are a mirror of deadly intent. "After all this time, you still know how to gear up for a war."

"This isn't war," I correct him, checking the clip on a gun. "It's a massacre."

I make my rounds, my gaze hawk-like as I double-check the weapons and gear of my men. Each firearm is cleared, and each magazine is fully loaded, and not a single pin is out of place. It’s more than thoroughness. It's a silent vow to myself. No fuckups, not this time.

These weapons are the key to retrieving Isabella and my child, to bring them home safely where they belong. As I move towards Julian's crew, intent on inspecting their equipment as well, Julian steps in front of me, blocking my path.

"My guys are good," he says sharply, eyes leaving no room for questioning his authority.

I glare at him, the muscles in my jaw tensing with the effort to hold back a retort. Time is slipping away like grains of sand in an hourglass. I can't waste it feuding with the help. So, I turn away, biting back any comments, because every minute we stand here is another minute Isabella and our child are in the hands of the Nightingales.

The air in the warehouse is electric, crackling with the collective tension of predators poised for the hunt. Everyone's demeanor is taut, coiled energy, and focused rage, barely restrained by discipline and the need for quiet calculation. They understand what's at stake. This isn't just another skirmish in the underbelly of the city's criminal wars. It's personal. The beast inside me, an insidious shadow that quivers with the promise of violence, is ravenous now, its thirst for blood a burning echo in my veins.

It thrashes against the barriers of my control, demanding release, hungry for the taste of retribution. My hands itch for the weight of my gun, the cold caress of the trigger under my finger, even as my mind plots the downfall of those who dared to target my family. They've awakened a fury they cannot comprehend, let alone contain. The Nightingales will know what it means to go up against Damien Blackhart. Their mistake will be their last.

We finish gearing up in silence, each lost in our own thoughts of vengeance and rescue. The air is thick with the promise of violence, but it's nothing compared to the shared understanding hanging between us. We get our people back, or we don't come back at all.

33

CHAPTER 33

Damien

The roar of the engine fills my ears like a snarling beast that matches the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white and aching, as the convoy of vehicles behind me eats up the miles of road. Each second is an eternity. I'm desperate to get to Isabella. To tear her away from the Hell she must be enduring.

Images of her in distress, in danger, fuel my rage and feed the frenzied pace of my heart. I make a silent vow to myself, a promise that cracks with the intensity of my resolve. When Isabella is back and safe in my arms, I'm going to spend the rest of my life ensuring she never feels an ounce of fear again.

Nothing, and no one, will be allowed to shadow our lives like this, not when I'm done. The Nightingales will regret their mistake. That's the only guarantee they'll have. After the carnage I leave behind, it will be a long, cold day in Hell before anyone dares to cross me again. I won't stop until every last one of them is made an example of. They will learn the price of their audacity. They will understand fear.

We hit the dirt road with gravel crunching under our tires in record time as the last of the sun's rays bleed out over the horizon. We pull over, two miles shy of the target location Victor gave us. The air outside is cool and heavy with the scent of dust and untamed wilderness. We kill the engines and slide out of the vehicles.

I lead my group silently, our boots muffled against the natural underbrush. Underneath the faint glow of moonlight, the large house finally comes into view. The large, forsaken structure looks like it hasn't seen life in decades. The windows are broken, and its siding is weathered and peeling. The sight of it sends a shiver through my spine, not from fear but from the thought of Isabella being held in such a place.

It's a blight in the desolation. We press forward, each of us a silent shadow moving with lethal purpose through the night, closing in on the house that seems as dead as the silence that envelopes it.

"Positions," I whisper, the word barely a breath. Our eyes meet, and I see the fire of a shared mission reflected back at me.

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