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His whole body shakes. His eyes are wide. He's completely broken now.

"He—he doesn't like loose ends," he stammers. "Anyone who might know—anything—he cleans it up?—"

"Shut up," the other man yells.

I don't need to look at Brick; he's at the man's side in an instant, hitting him upside the head. "Quiet."

"Salazar," I finish for Chico before he can process anything that just happened.

He nods frantically. "Yes—yes—he still thinks—she might know something—about the accounts—the deal?—"

I roll my shoulders, trying to bleed off the tension. So that's it. Not personal. Just business. Sloppy. Paranoid. I straighten slowly. That confirms it. Pete stuck his nose where it didn't belong. And Salazar doesn't tolerate curiosity. My gaze drifts back to Audra. She's watching. Every second of it. No flinching. No turning away. Just… taking it in. Processing. Becoming.

Something dark twists in my chest.

Pride.

Concern.

Desire.

All tangled together. I turn back to the man. Coldly, I inform him, "If I find out you're lying, I won't cauterize the next one."

He nods so hard I'm surprised his neck doesn't snap.

"Good," I murmur.

Then I step back.

"Clean him up. Keep him alive," I order.

I glance at the second man. "Let's see if his friend has any more to say."

Vegas looksdifferent at this hour. Not the glittering, larger-than-life version they sell you. Not the one from postcards or movies. The other one. The real one. The one filled with drunken tourists stumbling along the sidewalks, arms slung around each other, heels in hand, ties loosened, voices too loud for the hour. Some are laughing. Some are arguing. Most are just trying to find their way back to rooms they barely remember booking.

Gabe is on the phone beside me, keeping his voice low, controlled. Telling someone he's going to be late. Men like him don't explain. They inform. Outside, the party is ending. Or maybe just shifting. The city's guests are heading to bed. The city itself is waking up.

Plastic yard-long cups litter the sidewalks. Neon-colored leftovers—half-melted daiquiris, watered-down margaritas.Cheap beer still sloshing inside something someone paid twenty dollars for an hour ago. Now it's just trash. In between it all, people.

A man sprawled across a bench, unmoving. Too drunk to stand. Or maybe he has nowhere to go. A woman with smeared mascara and tangled hair walks past, barefoot, one hand clutching her dress like it might fall apart if she lets go. Walk of shame, maybe. Or just… survival. Hard to tell the difference out here. Taxis glide by, one after another, but it's quieter now. The chaos has thinned. What's left feels… exposed. Like an old whore without her makeup. I press my forehead lightly against the cool glass. I feel numb. Just… numb. My stomach twists again. Everything feels wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too normal.

I can still feel it. The resistance of bone under metal. The sound. Shit, that awful sound. I swallow hard, pressing my lips together as if that will help to hold it in, as if that will stop it from crawling back up my throat. My fingers tighten instinctively, and that's when I realize Gabe is holding my hand. And I'm letting him. I don't pull away. I should. I know I should. But right now… I don't have the strength. Or maybe I just don't want to be alone in my own head.

Because the second I am, I see it again. Pete. Tied to that chair. Blood everywhere. His fingers—fingers?—

My stomach lurches. I squeeze my eyes shut. That wasn't me. It couldn't have been. I don't do things like that. I don't hurt people. I don't?—

A shaky breath leaves me. But I did. Didn't I? And that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that for a second… I didn't hesitate. There was no pause. No horror. Nomestepping in to stop it. Just action. Just violence.

Like it had always been there. Waiting.

That thought hits me like a slap. My eyes snap open. No. No, that's not true. That was grief. Shock. Rage. Anyone would havedone the same. Wouldn't they? I don't know anymore. I just don't know. All I know is that when I looked at that man, I didn't see him. I saw Pete. Broken. Mutilated. Begging. And something inside me just… took over.

My free hand curls into my lap. I stare at it. Half-expecting to still see blood there. Half-expecting it towantto do it again. God… what if that's who I am now? What if I can't go back?

"I think I'm going to be sick," I murmur.

Gabe's thumb moves slightly over my hand. Slow. Grounding.