The van never makes it three blocks. It slows first — just enough to feel wrong. Lucas is half-conscious in the back, wrists cuffed, pain clawing through his ribs every time the road dips. His stitches have bled through again. He tastes iron and antiseptic and fury.
“Hey,” he mutters, trying to sit up. “I need—”
The brakes slam. The world erupts. Shouts. Tires screaming. Metal tearing like paper. The door wrenches open and for one terrifying second Lucas thinks it’s Sebastian’s men — thinks this is where it ends — until he hears a voice that cuts through the chaos like a blade.
“Hands off him.”
Dante. There’s no hesitation after that. No speeches. Just motion. Two men go down before they even understand what’s happening. A third reaches for a weapon and never finishes the thought. The
