Motherfucker.
There is absolutely no way in hell this happened on its own. Someone started this. Someone purposefully poured the gasoline and lit the match. When the fire crews eventually do show up, they’ll report that this fire was the result of faulty wiring, or a leaky gas line. They won’t want to involve themselves in business that doesn’t concern them. They’ll find it, though—the accelerant, the device, or the incendiary projectile that was used to cause this inferno—and they’ll then pretend like they know nothing about it.
I know, though. I know someone has taken it upon themselves to declare war, and I have a feeling I know perfectly well who that was.
My suspicions are confirmed when I notice the chunk of metal sticking out of the roller shutter. I don’t know how I missed it—the sharp wedge of steel jammed into the shutter, almost buried up to the hilt. A butcher’s cleaver. The wooden handle itself is on fire, blue flames biting and licking at it. There might as well be a note attached to it, saying ‘courtesy of the Barbieri family.’
Roberto Barbieri, also known as the Butcher of Brooklyn, obviously received my gift. I had doubts Milo would survive the three-day journey back to New York with barely any food or water to keep him going. Obviously he did, though. This is the backlash. Roberto Barbieri clearly didn’t like how I rearranged his boy Milo’s face, or fractured his ribs, and so he has sent a little message of his own in return. This is how feuds begin. One side pokes first, and the other responds. A lifetime of tit for tat ensues, culminating in a generation of blood and death that consumes both parties.
And I’m about to jump in with both fucking feet.
You don’t pitch battle against a guy like me and expect there to be no fall out. You don’t come into my city and fuck with my home, and expect to sleep soundly ever a-fucking-gain. I won’t tolerate it. I won’t allow it. This is only the beginning. If I let this slide, Barbieri will own Seattle. He won’t come here and rule it himself. He will send someone in his stead, and I’ll forever be looking over my shoulder.
So it comes to this. A war, after all. Seattle is my home. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I met Sloane. I’ve walked these streets my entire life, and I won’t give them up now. Blood will stain my hands again. Death will come circling above my head.
As I watch the hungry flames demolish what is left of the warehouse, steel hardens in my veins. Those motherfuckers will wish they’d never heard the name Zeth Mayfair. I swear, they’ll wish they’d never been born.
Chapter Twenty-One
SLOANE
Mason weeps over his sister. It’s the most awful, heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen. I stay with him until he’s so exhausted he can barely keep his head up, and then I drive him back to the house. He tries to put up a fight, says he ought to stay with Millie, ought to go back to his own place, but we both know he doesn’t really want to be alone right now. The house is empty when we arrive. I show him where the shower is, along with the spare room, and I tell him to make himself at home. He washes up and then collapses on the bed, falling into a deep, much needed sleep. Sleep is going to be his best friend for the next few weeks. If he’s asleep, it means he doesn’t have to face reality. He can switch everything off. He can still dream that Millie is alive and everything is okay.
The afternoon slips away. I don’t call Zeth. I saw how the events of the past twenty-four hours affected him—he needs some time to process. And so do I.
He stayed with me while I treated Millie. He refused to leave either me or her at every turn. When she died, he helped me to face the truth, and then he held her with such tenderness for hours. He brushed her hair and he rocked her, whispering to her…and I could see it. I could see the father in him.
Granted, it was a tragic situation and his actions were driven by sorrow for the young girl who lay dead in his arms, but it was there to see, plain as day—the soft, fragile, gentle, kind part of him that would make him a great father. I was scared before. Scared that the wild, dangerous parts of his life would mean he couldn’t connect with anything but the savage aspect of his nature. I know now, with an unwavering certainty, that that’s not the case at all.