The morning of the battle came not with sunlight, but with steel-gray skies and a bitter wind that cut through my coat. Everything felt sharper. The air. The noise. The tension that coiled tight in my gut like a wire waiting to snap.
I stood beside Helios, and even though we hadn’t spoken since that night in the warehouse—since that kiss that still burned on my lips—I could feel him with every breath I took. He didn’t have to say anything. His presence was enough. Solid. Grounding. A silent vow that he hadn’t gone through with the deal. He had chosen to fight. With me. For me.
Around us, the Moretti compound buzzed with motion. Men loading weapons into SUVs, whispers traveling like wildfire about who had betrayed whom, who had run, who had stayed. The Volkovs were coming, and they weren’t coming quietly. The third party Nico had aligned with? We still didn’t know their name. Just that they wanted the Moretti family to fall—and they’d use anyone to get what they wanted.
Even me.
He
