The descent toward the Mediterranean was not a flight; it was a plummet into a black, salt-sprayed purgatory. The Gulfstream roared over the choppy, ink-black water, its engines a scream against the midnight silence of the sea. In the hold, the air was thick with the scent of high-grade munitions, damp neoprene, and the heavy, metallic tang of cold steel.
Julian was a silhouette against the flickering red emergency lights, his massive form strapped into a tactical harness, his face obscured by a matte-black ballistic mask. He wasn't the billionaire CEO anymore. He wasn't even the King of Blackwood. He was the Vulture President, and he was hunting on the water. Beside him, Jax and Dominic were checking their suppressors with a clinical, rhythmic precision, their eyes burning with the feral
