The safehouse had become a tomb. The air was thick with the ghost of Mara’s last breath, a cold, bitter reality that had shattered the fragile truce of the previous night. Her death wasn’t just a tragedy; it was a public declaration. Lorik wasn’t playing by the rules of the underworld anymore. He was sending a message to the entire city: anyone who stood against him, whether on the streets or in a police precinct, was a target.
Capol felt the weight of it all—the responsibility, the guilt, the cold understanding that his personal war had just claimed an innocent life. The rage that had driven him for weeks had been replaced by a quiet, dangerous resolve. He sat at the center of the kitchen table, a blueprint of Lorik’s Eastgate warehouse sprawled out before him. The old crew was back, but
