Chapter 37

Where’s the respect?Glaring at the man, at his thin build, ropey muscles, and gleaming black hair, the mental picture ofhis head mounted on my wall causes my lips to twitch. He’d look good there. Less damage. I’m sure Hayes would approve.

“What exactly did you think would happen?” His bloodshot eyes narrow. “That you’d be able to steal from me? Take my holdings? Destroy my investments?”

He’s silent, which is completely unlike Junior. He loves to run his mouth. And me? I’m his favorite target.

Shrugging, I check the magazine. “Pity. I guess there’s no use for you.”

“Wait.” His teeth grind.

Looking around, I gesture with my gun. “Unlike you, I actually have a business to run, not fucking my days away with my limp dick in some rotten cunt.What?”

“I’d answer,” Killian murmurs, black eyes watching Junior’s pulse, readying to attack. “She doesn’t like to wait.” He slams him into the wall, head banging against the cold cement walls.

“How’d you get in?”

“Door was open,” he hisses, hand holding his temple.

Right. Because someone would leave my storehouse—my product, myfuckingmoney—open to attack? Not with Junior sniffing around, looking for a way to upset the power balance.

Leveling the gun at his head, I give him a bored look.

“I highly doubt that.”

“No?” He scoffs. “Then shoot me. But that’s all you’re getting.”

I cock the gun, and Killian chuckles, coming to my side.

“So ready to die?” His lips twist. “Sex trafficking getting to be too much for you?”

“I knew he never had the stomach for this life,” I add, another way to dig at Junior’s manhood. “Should’ve left the family to a true leader. How’s your sister?”

Shifting, he shoots me a hard look. I hate it when he does—he reminds me of his brother, Hayes. They don’t resemble theother—Hayes took after his mother, and Junior looks like Bruno Senior—but every so often, their genetics match up.

“How’d you know it’d be unlocked?” the Reaper asks, crossing his arms. He’s entertaining his bullshit, but I’m fighting the urge to shoot him square between the eyes.

“A little fucking birdie told me,” he mutters. “A birdie with a grudge.”

Killian seems to consider him, but my vision flashes red. I don’t see Junior before me—I see Hayes, as a child, on his knees, while this prick got to live the life of luxury.

I see all the women he keeps locked inside his house, forcing their legs open for willing customers. I’m a heartless bitch—but I have standards. Taking out Junior’s territory is more than a power struggle—I’m going to free all those women from that house of horrors.

The gun touches his forehead before I realize what I’m doing. Anger propels me—no. Fucking rage. I don’t stop. I can’t. Iwon’t. His blood could paint these walls a pretty sheen, and I think the world deserves to see that beauty.

Killian’s rough palm grasps mine, twisting the bones together. Biting my lip, I barely stop from screaming, glaring over my shoulder at him.

“Don’t,” he commands softly. He’s not looking at Junior, but at me. “Not here. Not now.”

“Are youseriousright now?” I huff, trying to slip my hand from his. It doesn’t work, and he grinds my fingers together, the tips turning a horrible shade of purple. “You’re defending him?”

Defending our enemy. Who keeps women locked in their rooms, never to see the sun again.

He—of all the people in this world—understands what that does to me.

And I understandhishistory —the imprisonments, being forced, unable to stop it. I know how it burns him up, haunts hisdreams at night when he couldn’t save his mother. I’ve seen it—felt it, when he’d awaken grunting in his sleep for a deceased woman and the man who made her property.

“I’m not defending him,” he says, lowering the gun. My muscles protest, but the Reaper is stronger than me. “I’m protecting you.”

Snorting, I wrestle with him, but I can’t move. “That’s rich.”