CHAPTER 190: HER JUSTICE, MY VENGEANCE [IV]

The sun was high when we stepped out of the warehouse.

The light was too clean, too bright for what we’d left behind, and for a second it made the blood on my hands feel wrong—like I’d dragged something rotten into a place it didn’t belong.

Cam didn’t say a word as we crossed the gravel. Neither did I. The air hummed with the leftover noise of screams, the kind that still rang in your skull after they stopped.

I’d told myself I’d just watch. Sit back and let Gray do what Gray does best.

But that man... he made something in me snap.

The first hit had been instinct. A low swing, the hammer’s head catching bone in the man’s lap with a dull, meat-thick thud. He’d arched in the chair, choking on his own scream, and still I’d swung again. And again. Not fast, not wild—just steady. Each impact sinking deeper, until I couldn’t tell if it was his voice breaking or mine.

Somewhere in it all, my mind had replayed that room—her torn dress, the ropes cutting her wrists, the way she’d looked at me through the haze of what they’d forced into her.

The hammer slipped. Not because I wanted it to, but because my hands were slick and my grip had gone numb. It clanged against the floor, loud in the sudden quiet.

I turned and walked out. Cam followed without question.

Now, sliding into the car, I felt the heat of the day pressing through the windows, but inside me it was still cold.

Cameron passed me a packet of wipes, and I tore it open, and I took them, my hands shaking with the comedown. I pulled one out, the clinical, lemony smell a sharp offense against the metallic tang of blood that clung to me.

My knuckles were split, the skin raw and red where I’d gripped the hammer’s handle. I wiped them clean, smearing the blood into a pinkish film before scrubbing it away. The wipe came away stained a filthy brown-red. I used another. And another. Then I wiped my cheek.

"You good?" Cameron asked, eyes on me in the rearview.

I didn’t look up. I tossed the used wipes onto the floor mat, flexed my fingers, and nodded once.

"Drive," I said quietly. "To where Clara’s kept."

The weight in my tone didn’t leave room for questions.

The engine turned over, and the car moved.

The silence in the Bentley was a living thing, thick and heavy. The city slid past the tinted windows, a blur of concrete and glass that felt a million miles away.

My hands were clean now, but the phantom sensation of the hammer’s handle, slick and vibrating with impact, was seared into my palms. I could still feel the give of bone, the wet tear of muscle.

Cameron drove, his profile a stoic silhouette against the afternoon light. He didn’t need to ask where we were going. There was only one other loose end. One that couldn’t be solved with a hammer.

We pulled up to a glass-and-steel residential tower that scraped the sky. It was one of mine, a sterile monument to wealth and anonymity. My men stood sentinel in the lobby, their nods sharp and discreet as we passed. The elevator ride was silent, the soft chime of each floor marking our ascent into a different kind of hell.

The penthouse was vast, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of a world that felt like it belonged to someone else. And in the center of it all, perched on a white leather sofa like a broken doll, was Clara. Her eyes darted nervously as Jo, the woman security assigned to watch over her, stood near the door.

The penthouse was silent but for the low hum of the AC. Clara’s knees were drawn together, hands folded too neatly in her lap, as if posture could disguise guilt. There were no ropes on her, no visible bruises, but she was as much a prisoner as the men in the warehouse.

Jo stood a few steps away, arms folded, the sharp line of her jaw fixed on Clara like she was just waiting for permission.

I didn’t bother sitting.

"Why," I said, each syllable deliberate, "did you tell those men to do what they did?"

Her eyes flicked up, all wide and blinking. "I—I don’t know what you mean."

I stepped closer, the polished floor swallowing the sound of my boots. "Do you remember what you told me in that room when I asked where Isabella was?"I tilted my head, watching the realization creep into her face. "’You might already be too late.’ That’s what you said."

She swallowed, hard. "I—yes, but—"

"Finish it." My voice stayed even. "Tell me what you meant."

Her lips trembled. "I asked them to take a video," she said finally, the words barely more than a breath. "A video of her... acting desperate. For release. Begging them. So I could frame her. Make it look like she was cheating." She tried to keep her gaze on me, but it faltered. "That’s all I meant by ’too late.’"

A laugh scraped its way out of my throat. It wasn’t a sound of humor; it was dry and dead, the sound of grinding stone.

"A video," I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "You think this was about a video?"

I took another step, closing the distance until I was looming over her. She shrank back into the cushions, her eyes wide with a fear that was finally starting to grasp the reality of the situation. Jo remained impassive by the door, a statue of deadly patience.

"Let me tell you what your ’video’ involved, Clara," I said, my voice dropping to a low, chilling murmur. "It involved GHB. Enough to knock out a horse. It involved ropes tied so tight they broke the skin. It involved two men who smelled of stale sweat and cheap liquor, in a room that was sound proofed. Men who weren’t hired to just film. Men who get paid for a very different, very specific service."

Her face went pale, a sickly, blotchy white. "No... I told them not to... not to touch her. Just to scare her. To get the video..."

"Get her... Sa’d? You mean," I corrected, my voice a flat line of disgust, "get her ra**d by them. Is that what you mean, Clara?"

Her eyes went wide. "No! Never! I wouldn’t—" She shook her head violently. "It wasn’t—"

I turned to Jo. She didn’t need more than that.