BLOOD AND LEASHES

The visitor room at Rikers Island became a slaughterhouse in seconds.

Glass partitions exploded inward under a hail of suppressed 9mm rounds. The sterile fluorescent lights flickered as bodies hit the floor. Lucien Moreau’s six-man entry team moved with surgical precision black tactical vests, red-dot optics sweeping, cutting down the paid-off corrections officer before he could even draw his sidearm. Blood sprayed across the concrete in a wide arc.

Silas reacted faster than thought.

He vaulted the steel divider like it was nothing, Glock already up, two center-mass shots dropping the point man before the brass hit the tile. “Aiden down!”

Aiden dove, dragging Marcus through the jagged hole where the partition used to be. Shards sliced his palms; he ignored the sting. He snatched the dead guard’s service weapon a heavy Glock 22 and came up firing low and fast. The round punched through a shooter’s thigh; the man collapsed screaming, clutching the wound.

Marcus whimpered beside him, orange jumpsuit already spattered red from flying glass. “I didn’t mean for this—”

“Shut up and move,” Aiden hissed.

Silas was everywhere at once pure violence distilled. He slammed a second attacker face-first into the wall, drove a knee into his spine until vertebrae cracked, then spun and put two rounds through another man’s chest. Blood misted the air. His scarred lip pulled back in a feral snarl.

Moreau stood at the far door, gray suit still pristine, gray eyes calm. “You can’t kill a syndicate, Vane. We’re older than your little mafia fairy tale.”

Silas’s answer was a bullet that grazed Moreau’s ear, taking a chunk of cartilage with it. The older man flinched finally and retreated through the doorway.

Reyes and Marco burst in from the service corridor, Silas’s crew unleashing disciplined three-round bursts. Bodies dropped like marionettes with cut strings. Marco took a round to the vest, grunted, and kept coming massive hands snapping a man’s neck with casual brutality.

Aiden hauled Marcus toward the exit. A Kurogane remnant lunged from the side katana flashing. Aiden parried with the Glock barrel, metal ringing, then drove his elbow into the man’s throat. The blade clattered; Aiden finished him with a point-blank shot to the chest.

Silas appeared at his side, blood streaking his face not all his own. “You good?”

Aiden nodded, breathless. “Let’s go.”

They ran the gauntlet of corridors alarms screaming, red emergency lights pulsing. Moreau’s reinforcements poured in from side passages. Silas’s crew fought a rolling retreat: suppressing fire, flashbangs, controlled pairs to the head. The air stank of gunpowder, copper, and fear-sweat.

At the gate, Moreau waited one last time pistol raised, flanked by two final men.

Silas stepped in front, shielding Aiden. “Last chance, Lucien.”

Moreau’s smile was ice. “The boy dies first. Then you watch your empire burn.”

The shot cracked.

Silas shoved Aiden aside; the bullet tore through his side below the vest line, hot and wet. He staggered but returned fire, putting one through Moreau’s shooting hand. The pistol spun away.

Reyes finished the guards with surgical headshots. Marco tackled Moreau to the ground, zip-tying wrists with brutal efficiency.

They burst outside. SUVs idled, engines growling. They piled in Silas bleeding, Aiden pressing a torn sleeve to the wound, Marcus cuffed and shaking in the back.

The convoy screamed across the bridge, sirens wailing in the distance.

In the rear seat, adrenaline crashed into something darker, hungrier.

Silas’s hand fisted Aiden’s hair, yanking him into a kiss that tasted of blood and gun oil-savage, claiming. Tongues battled; teeth grazed lips until copper bloomed between them. Aiden straddled him without hesitation, grinding down against the hard length straining Silas’s tactical pants.

“Fuck-now,” Silas growled, voice wrecked.

Reyes kept his eyes fixed on the road. Marco stared straight ahead. Marcus turned his face to the window.

Aiden ripped Silas’s fly open. Thick, veined cock sprang free already leaking, flushed dark. Aiden sank down, taking him to the root in one wet glide. Throat constricted; Silas groaned, hips snapping up, fucking Aiden’s face with short, brutal thrusts.

“Deeper,” Silas ordered, fingers twisting in dark hair. “Choke on it.”

Aiden did gagging, drool spilling down his chin, eyes watering. The SUV hit a pothole; Silas drove deeper, hitting the back of Aiden’s throat. Aiden moaned around the girth, hand slipping between his own legs to stroke himself.

Silas hauled him up suddenly, spinning him to face forward. Pants shoved to thighs, Aiden braced on the seatback. Silas spat into his palm, slicked himself, then pressed in slow at first, letting Aiden feel every burning inch, then slamming home.

Aiden cried out, forehead thumping the headrest. Silas set a punishing rhythm deep, possessive, hips snapping with enough force to rock the vehicle. One hand clamped Aiden’s throat from behind, squeezing rhythmically edging blackout, amplifying every stroke against his prostate. The other wrapped Aiden’s leaking cock, stroking in time, thumb smearing pre-cum over the head.

“Say it,” Silas snarled against his ear.

“Yours,” Aiden gasped, voice breaking. “Only yours.”

Silas bit down on the curve of Aiden’s neck hard enough to bruise, to mark. “Louder.”

“I’m fucking yours!”

Aiden came first violent, spilling hot over Silas’s fist, clenching so tight Silas hissed. Silas followed seconds later growling low, flooding Aiden deep, hips grinding as if to brand the release inside him.

They collapsed together, panting, sweat-slick, blood and cum mingling on skin.

Silas kissed the bite mark gently. “Never letting you go.”

The convoy reached the Brooklyn warehouse—Silas’s black-site fortress. Moreau was dragged inside, zip-tied to a metal chair under a single hanging bulb. Blood dripped from his ruined hand onto the concrete.

Silas, wound hastily bandaged, stood over him. “Talk.”

Moreau’s laugh was wet, pained. “You think I’m the top? My syndicate has roots in Paris, Marseilles, New York since the seventies. Art laundering, ports, judges in pockets. You were supposed to be my successor clever, ruthless. Instead you built your own little street mafia from foster-home scraps.”

Silas leaned in. “And I’ll tear yours apart brick by brick.”

Moreau’s eyes gleamed. “Too late. The real play is already running.”

A deafening explosion rocked the outer wall breach charges. Shrapnel flew; dust billowed.

Moreau’s elite squad stormed in ten men in heavy plate carriers, flashbangs popping, automatic fire raking the room.

Silas’s crew met them head-on.

Reyes sniped from the catwalk headshots dropping two before they cleared the door. Marco charged like a freight train, shotgun roaring, turning a man’s chest to red mist. Aiden grabbed a fallen rifle, firing controlled bursts that stitched across another attacker’s vest.

Silas fought like a demon knife and gun in tandem. He slashed one man’s throat, shot another point-blank, then tackled a third to the ground, driving the blade through his eye.

In the middle of the firefight, Silas grabbed Aiden, shoving him behind a steel crate. Bodies hit the floor around them.

“Can’t lose you,” Silas rasped, voice raw.

He dropped to his knees, yanking Aiden’s pants open. Mouth engulfed him hot, wet, sucking deep with hollowed cheeks. Tongue swirled ridges; throat worked him relentlessly. Aiden fucked Silas’s face, fingers tangled in silver-streaked hair, hips snapping.

“Take it,” Aiden growled, power flipping. “All of it.”

Silas moaned around him, hand slipping between his own legs, stroking himself frantically.

Aiden pulled him up, bent him over the crate entered rough, no prep beyond spit and need. Silas arched, pushing back, taking every inch. Aiden pounded mercilessly hand fisting Silas’s cock, stroking in brutal rhythm. Teeth sank into Silas’s shoulder, drawing fresh blood.

They came together Silas spilling over Aiden’s fist with a choked cry, Aiden flooding him deep, bodies locked in shuddering release.

The assault ended. Moreau’s men lay dead. But the chair was empty Moreau gone, vanished in the smoke.

Silas’s phone lit up: You won the skirmish. The war ends at your penthouse. Bring the boy.

Aiden met Silas’s gaze storm-dark, vengeful.

“Home,” Silas said quietly.

The leash pulled tighter.

They were coming for everything.