I looked down at Miguel, the quiet of the night having cimed him completely. He'd fallen asleep fast, breath slow and even, shes resting softly against his cheeks.

  After everything he'd done—cooking, fussing, making sure me and all my lieutenants were fed and happy—his body had finally given in. He was exhausted in that gentle, honest way that only comes from caring too much.

  He deserved this rest. More than that—he'd earned it.

  I shifted just enough to study him properly, memorizing the way his face softened when he slept, how all the worry and tension drained out of him. My fingers brushed along his cheek, careful, almost reverent, as if I might break something precious if I touched him too roughly.

  "You made me so proud," I whispered, my voice barely there. "Putting together a whole feast like that... taking care of everyone."

  My thumb traced a slow line along his jaw, my chest tightening in a way that still surprised me. For someone who'd seen so much violence, so much cruelty, it was this—this quiet, domestic tenderness—that undid me the most.

  "I love you," I murmured softly, the words meant just for him, even if he couldn't hear them.

  I stayed there a moment longer, watching him sleep, guarding his peace the way I promised I always would.

  My phone then buzzed softly in my hand—brief, insistent. It was time.

  I leaned down one st time, careful not to wake him, and pressed my lips to his. The kiss was slow, lingering, a promise more than a goodbye. His warmth grounded me for just a second longer.

  "I'll be back soon..." I whispered, barely moving my mouth as I straightened up.

  I rose slowly, every motion deliberate, and slipped toward the door. When I opened it, Le stood there like a statue, rifle resting easy but ready. Our eyes met. She gave a single nod. That was all that needed to be said.

  The night air hit me the moment I stepped outside—sharp, cold, biting at my fingers until they ached. It felt wrong against my skin, uncomfortable, but welcome. It reminded me that I was awake. Focused.

  This was it.

  My boots echoed faintly as I crossed toward the garage, the massive structure looming ahead. I didn't slow down. I didn't hesitate. I reached the elevator and pressed my palm ft against the seamless, invisible door. It responded instantly, sliding open to reveal a sterile gray interior, cold and lifeless.

  I stepped inside.

  As the doors closed and the elevator began its descent, I shut my eyes. Images flickered behind my lids—not rage exactly, but something steadier. Heavier.

  What I was about to do. Why I was about to do it.

  My jaw tightened as the hum of the elevator filled the silence.

  "First these..." I murmured to myself, voice low and certain. "Then I'll get the rest. Eventually."

  The elevator slowed with a low, mechanical hum before coming to a smooth stop.

  For a brief moment, everything was silent.

  Then the doors slid open.

  Cold, artificial light spilled in, sharp and unforgiving, washing over concrete walls and steel fixtures. The air down here was different—dry, metallic, tinged with oil and disinfectant. It smelled like a pce where things ended, not where they began.

  I stepped out, my boots echoing softly against the floor, the sound carrying farther than it should have. My shoulders loosened as if my body already knew where it was. This pce fit me too well.

  And then I saw them.

  Strapped to metal chairs, wrists bound tight, mouths gagged—eyes wide, red-rimmed, darting the moment they realized I was no longer a shadow but flesh and bone. Fear rolled off them in waves. It was almost visible, clinging to their skin, soaking into the room.

  My boy's abusers.

  The women who had broken something precious.

  Three of my guards stood off to the side, rifles slung low, ughing quietly about something meaningless. The instant they noticed me, the mood snapped. Spines straightened. Voices died. Respect snapped into pce like a switch being flipped.

  "Jefa," one of them muttered.

  I didn't look at them. I walked past without a word, slow, unhurried, each step deliberate. I wanted them to feel it—to feel time stretch, to feel the weight of every second I chose not to speak.

  I stopped in front of the older woman.

  She trembled so hard the chair rattled beneath her. Her breathing came in short, panicked bursts through the gag, eyes shining with tears she didn't bother trying to hide anymore. The other one turned her head away, as if not seeing me might somehow make me disappear.

  It didn't.

  I crouched slightly so we were eye level. Close enough that she could see her reflection in my eyes—steady, cold, unwavering.

  No yelling. No theatrics.

  Just truth.

  "Ustedes mismos se hicieron esto," (You did this to yourselves) I said quietly.

  The words settled into the room like dust, heavy and inescapable. One of them whimpered. The sound scraped against my nerves—not because it hurt me, but because it meant nothing now.

  My thoughts spiraled fast, stacking on top of each other—too many options, too many ways this could go. Control was the only thing keeping it clean, keeping it mine.

  "Trae al perro," (bring the dog) I said calmly, not raising my voice. Just a signal. Just a choice.

  One of the guards hesitated for half a second before nodding and moving off. The others stayed where they were, silent now, watching me instead of the prisoners. They knew better than to interrupt when I got quiet like this.

  I turned away from the women and walked toward the weapons wall.

  It stretched across the concrete like a shrine—orderly, meticulous. Rifles polished and aligned, pistols locked into custom mounts, bdes arranged by length and weight. Tools too. Not weapons of war, but instruments of intent. Each one had a purpose. Each one told a story.

  My fingers hovered for a moment.

  So many choices.

  I exhaled through my nose, amused despite myself. "On second thought..." I murmured. "Maybe the hammer."

  I reached to the side, past the firearms, and took it from its pce among other tools. It wasn't special. That was the point. It fit perfectly in my hand, familiar in a way that made my grip tighten naturally.

  When I turned back around, the change in the room was immediate.

  They felt it.

  Both women stiffened against their restraints, eyes locked on the hammer like it was alive. One of them shook her head weakly, a muffled sound escaping the gag. The other squeezed her eyes shut, as if refusing to look might save her from what she already knew was real.

  I stopped a few steps in front of them. Not too close. Not yet.

  I didn't smile.

  I didn't shout.

  I just stood there, letting the silence stretch, letting their fear fill every corner of the room.

  Above us, far removed from this pce, Miguel was safe. Warm. Sleeping peacefully, unaware of the weight I was carrying for him.

  I gnced down at the hammer once, then back at them.

  "You had choices," I said quietly.

  I approached the older woman, Victoria, or whatever her name was—it didn't matter now.

  Her wrists were bound tight with coarse rope, the skin already chafed and raw from her futile struggles. I gripped the hammer, its cold, heavy weight familiar in my hand, and raised it high.

  The first strike came down hard on her tied hands, the dull thud of metal against flesh echoing in the small, dim room. A muffled whimper escaped her lips, barely audible through the cloth gag stuffed in her mouth.

  Again and again, I brought the hammer down—each blow deliberate, the force reverberating through my arm. Her hands twitched and jerked under the impact, the pale skin blooming with dark, angry bruises.

  With every strike, the purple deepened, spreading like spilled ink, until her hands were a swollen, discolored mess.

  I counted each hit in my head, methodical, unrelenting. By the tenth strike, the whimpering had turned to choked sobs, her body trembling uncontrolbly.

  Her daughter, bound a few feet away, watched in wide-eyed terror. Her own hands were untouched, but her face was streaked with tears, her chest heaving as she tried to scream through her own gag.

  She flinched with every strike, as if the hammer were hitting her instead. I didn't stop until I reached thirty blows. By the end, Victoria's fingers were unrecognizable—mangled, bent at unnatural angles, the bones likely shattered beneath the bruised and torn skin.

  Blood seeped from splits in her flesh, pooling beneath her hands on the grimy floor.

  Victoria's cries were barely audible now, reduced to weak, shuddering gasps through the gag. Her head hung low, her body limp against the restraints, as if the fight had been beaten out of her.

  Her daughter's horrified gaze never left her mother, her own muffled whimpers filling the suffocating silence between the hammer's strikes.

  I then heard the faint chime of the elevator door sliding open, right on schedule. A sharp, eager bark cut through the tense air as a rge dog, its fur bristling with excitement, was led toward us on a taut leash.

  "Grab the peanut butter," I ordered, my voice ft, directed at another guard stationed a few paces away. She gave a quick nod, disappearing briefly before returning with a jar of creamy peanut butter and a dull butter knife. The dog's barking grew louder, more insistent, as if it could already sense what was coming.

  I let the hammer ctter to the concrete floor, the metallic echo ringing out for a moment before fading. Taking the jar and knife, I unscrewed the lid, the faint scent of roasted peanuts wafting up.

  Scooping out a thick dollop, I smeared it over Julie's bound hands. Her wrists were tied tightly with rough twine, her skin red and irritated from the restraints, just like her mother's.

  The sticky spread clung to her trembling fingers, coating them unevenly as she squirmed in the chair, her muffled sobs growing more desperate through the gag.

  This was going to be brutal, and I didn't flinch at the thought. The dog, a muscur pit bull with a sleek brown coat, strained against its leash, its nose twitching wildly as it caught the scent of the treat waiting for it.

  Finishing up, I wiped the st bit of peanut butter onto her knuckles, stepping back to survey the scene. Julie's eyes were wide with terror, tears streaking down her dirt-streaked face.

  With a sharp kick, I sent her chair toppling sideways. It hit the ground with a harsh thud, and a stifled cry escaped her as her shoulder smmed into the cold floor, her bound hands now exposed and vulnerable at her side.

  "Go on," I said, my tone cold and clipped, giving a nod to the guard holding the leash. She didn't hesitate, releasing the dog with a quick flick of her wrist.

  The animal surged forward, a blur of muscle and teeth, its barking turning into a low, hungry growl. It lunged straight for Julie's hands, jaws snapping as it began tearing into the peanut butter-smeared flesh.

  Julie's body convulsed, her muffled screams piercing through the gag as the dog's teeth sank in, ripping at skin and sinew with savage determination.

  Blood mixed with the sticky residue, smearing across the floor as the dog worked, oblivious to her thrashing and the raw, guttural sounds of her agony.

  I heard one of my guards choke back a cough, her face twisting in revulsion as she watched Julianna's hands being torn apart by the dog's relentless jaws.

  Blood and shredded skin mixed with the sticky peanut butter, a grotesque mess pooling on the cold floor. The guard's discomfort didn't faze me.

  They deserved this—every st bit of suffering. Julianna's muffled screams were barely audible over the wet, ripping sounds of the dog's feast, her body jerking helplessly against the tipped-over chair.

  I turned away, my boots echoing on the concrete as I strode back to the wall where my collection of weapons hung. My fingers brushed over the handles before settling on a combat knife, its bde glinting under the dim, flickering light.

  The weight felt right in my grip, sharp and unyielding, a tool meant for precision and pain. I walked toward Victoria, her bruised and broken hands still tied, her head slumped forward in exhaustion from the earlier beating.

  Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps through the gag, her body trembling as she sensed my approach.

  I didn't waste a second. Leaning in close, I pressed the tip of the knife against her cheek, the cold steel kissing her skin just below her eye. Her body tensed, a muffled whimper escaping as I applied the slightest pressure, the bde breaking through the surface with ease.

  Blood welled up instantly, a thin trickle running down her face as I began to slice with measured control. The knife moved with practiced technique, skimming just deep enough to peel through yers of flesh, following the contours of her face.

  Each cut was deliberate, tracing along her jawline, up around her cheekbones, and across her forehead, the sharp edge gliding through skin like a butcher's tool through meat.

  Her screams erupted, raw and guttural, even through the gag. The sound was piercing, animalistic, a howl of pure agony that reverberated off the bare walls.

  Her head thrashed against the restraints, but I held firm, my hand steady as I continued the gruesome work. Blood streamed down in rivulets, painting her neck and chest red, the metallic tang thick in the air. I worked methodically, fying the skin from her face, exposing the raw, glistening tissue beneath.

  Muscle twitched and pulsed under the open wounds, her features stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left of her recognizable face—only a mask of bloody, quivering muscles remained.

  Yet, somehow, she was still breathing. Her chest heaved unevenly, each inhale a wet, shuddering rasp, her body clinging to life despite the horror I'd carved into her.

  Her screams had faded into low, broken moans, her strength sapped, but the faint rise and fall of her torso told me she wasn't done yet. I stepped back, wiping the knife on my sleeve, the bde streaked with crimson, and watched her tremble in the aftermath.

  I drew my 1911 from its holster, the weight of the pistol familiar and cold in my hand. Without hesitation, I aimed at Victoria's ravaged, faceless head, the barrel steady as I squeezed the trigger.

  The gunshot cracked through the air, a sharp, deafening bst that echoed off the bare walls. Her body jerked once, violently, before slumping forward, lifeless, the restraints barely holding her upright in the chair.

  Blood and brain matter spttered across the concrete floor beneath her, pooling in a dark, viscous mess that spread slowly with each drip from her shattered skull. What a mess it was, the crimson stark against the dull gray of the ground, the metallic stench hanging heavy in the stifling air.

  I sighed, the sound low and tired, as I turned my attention to Julianna. She was slumped over on the tipped chair, unconscious by now, her mangled hands a grotesque sight—torn flesh and exposed bone where the dog had feasted, blood caked with remnants of peanut butter.

  Her chest rose and fell shallowly, barely clinging to life. "Don't fuck with my Miguel," I muttered under my breath, my voice cold and final, as I raised the pistol again.

  I fired five times in quick succession, each shot a thunderous roar in the confined space.

  The bullets tore into her body—chest, stomach, shoulder, thigh, and finally her head—each impact making her limp form convulse unnaturally, as if jolted by invisible strings.

  Blood sprayed with every hit, soaking into her clothes and seeping onto the already-stained floor, mingling with the mess left by Victoria.

  The acrid smell of gunpowder burned my nostrils as the final echo of the shots faded.

  The dog, finished with its gruesome meal, sat nearby, its muzzle slick with blood, panting heavily. My guard stepped forward, snapping the leash back onto its colr with a quick, practiced motion. The animal growled low as it was pulled away, its paws scraping against the concrete, leaving faint bloody prints in its wake.

  Soon, it was gone, the sound of its barks fading down the hall. All that remained were the two lifeless bodies—Victoria, a faceless husk slumped in her chair, and Julianna, riddled with bullet holes, sprawled across the floor in a growing pool of her own blood.

  The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint drip of crimson hitting the ground.

  "Limpia esto," (clean this up) I said ftly, already turning away as I headed for the elevator. My voice didn't shake. My hands didn't either.

  Whatever had just happened was already filing itself away somewhere deep, somewhere quiet.

  I could feel it on me though—the weight of it. My clothes clung uncomfortably, stiff and ruined. Behind me, I heard someone gag, the sound sharp and sudden in the concrete room. I didn't look back. That reaction wasn't my concern.

  This was their job. They knew what this pce was for.

  The elevator doors slid shut, and only then did my shoulders sag a fraction.

  As I walked back across the garage, everything felt unreal, like I was moving through water or fog. Each step echoed too loudly, too slowly. Murdering two rapists felt right, insanely right.

  Not joyful. Not wild. Just... finished. Like closing a book that had needed to end.

  When I reached the house, I stopped at the door. The lights inside glowed warmly through the gss—safe, untouched, him. I exhaled and began stripping off my clothes, piece by piece, letting them fall to the ground without ceremony. Jacket. Shirt. Pants. Boots. Every yer stayed outside, along with what I'd done.

  "Take care of these," I said quietly to the guards, finally meeting their eyes. "Thank you, dies."

  Then I stepped inside wearing nothing but my underwear, the house swallowing me in warmth and silence.

  I needed a bath. I needed to wash it all away.

  And then—I needed to go back to my precious Miguel.

  I moved through the house on autopilot, past the oversized Scarface paintings lining the walls like silent witnesses. The second floor couldn't come fast enough. My steps were quick, almost frantic.

  All I wanted was rest. After everything—after the noise, the smell, the weight of it—I wanted Miguel. His warmth. His quiet breathing. Something real.

  Le stood near the hallway as I passed. Her eyes flicked over me, widening for just a second at the state I was in, but she said nothing. Professional. Loyal.

  "Thank you, Le," I murmured as I reached my door.

  She nodded, just once.

  I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with care. Miguel was there—safe, asleep, untouched by the ugliness I'd just come from. The sight of him almost made my chest ache. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and hold him, to ground myself in his warmth.

  But not like this.

  I turned away, grabbed a towel, and headed straight for the bathroom. No hesitation. I stepped into the shower and turned the water on immediately, not bothering to wait for it to warm. The cold hit hard, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath—but I welcomed it. It kept me present.

  I scrubbed at my skin methodically, over and over, as the water streamed down. Dark streaks washed away, spiraling into the drain, disappearing piece by piece. I watched them go, letting the water carry everything with it—the smell, the tension, the echoes of what I'd done.

  The house was quiet.

  The world felt far away.

  And with every second under the water, I felt myself getting closer to being able to hold Miguel again.

  After a few more careful scrubs, I was finally clean. The scent of shampoo clung to my skin, soft and familiar, repcing everything else. I shut the water off and stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me.

  My hands felt lighter somehow, steadier, like the tension had finally loosened its grip.

  I grabbed a towel and dried myself slowly, methodically, grounding myself in the simple motion. When I stepped out of the shower and into the bathroom, the air felt cooler, calmer. The house was still, asleep.

  I didn't bother with clothes. None of that mattered.

  I slipped back into the bedroom and into bed, easing myself beside Miguel, careful not to wake him. The moment I wrapped my arms around him, something in me finally exhaled. His warmth, his steady breathing, the way he instinctively curled closer—it all pulled me back into myself.

  This. This was real.

  I pressed my face into his hair, holding him like he was the anchor keeping me tethered to the world.

  "I did it for you, Miguel," I whispered softly, more like a confession than a decration.

  "Because I love you."

  He shifted slightly in his sleep, settling deeper against me, and that was enough.

  My eyes closed, the st remnants of the night fading away as I let myself sink into sleep—wrapped around the person who was now my world.

  ———