𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

46

A loud ringing fills the quiet bedroom. My eyes snap open and I roll over and squint at the clock, it's nearly 3 AM. Damien snatches up his phone and immediately goes into full alert mode when he sees the caller ID. "Weaver," he answers.

I can't make out Mr. Weaver's side of the conversation, but I see the way Damien's whole body goes stiff. "Got it."

A few more seconds of intense listening, then Damien's nodding decisively, "Send me the address," and he's already out of bed and yanking on clothes before he even hangs up.

"Wake up, baby," he tells me. "Weaver's got Ethan's location."

I roll out of bed, struggling a bit, and start pulling on my clothes, trying to wake myself up. As I'm lacing up my boots, I hear Damien on the phone again, his voice low. "I need everyone ready to roll out in twenty."

I finish getting ready and head to the armory. My rifle is waiting for me, I run my hands over the cool metal. It feels good to hold it again, like reconnecting with an old friend. I strap the rifle to my back and slip my favorite pistol into the holster on my thigh.

Damien is waiting in the garage, barking orders to his guys. He steers me towards one of Luis's armored trucks. With a jerk of his chin, he sends one of his guys to take the backseat while I slide into the passenger seat. We roll out with a screech of tires, the fleet of SUVs falling behind us as we tear through the sleeping city, my fingers drumming an erratic beat against my rifle.

We pull up to an unassuming suburban house, neatly trimmed hedges, a welcome mat, even an American flag fluttering by the porch. Looking at it, you'd never guess the kind of scum living inside.

Damien speaks into his phone. "I want a tight perimeter but hang back unless I give the signal. Russo's mine." His order is met with a chorus of stern "yes sir"s.

With that taken care of, Damien turns to me. He cradles my face in his big, rough hands. "Stay in the car, for now."

"Okay," I murmur. But Damien..."

My eyes dart to the house, the dark windows staring back at us like blank, soulless eyes. My gaze flicks back to Damien. "Be careful."

He nods and with a parting wink, he's slipping out into the night, quickly swallowed up by the darkness as he walks towards Ethan's front door. I hold my rifle tight, a prayer on my lips and murder on my mind.

︻デ═一

It's been a while since Damien's been inside, and with each passing minute, the knot of worry in my stomach grows tighter.

I mean, it hasn't been that long. But when your husband is off confronting a backstabbing traitor, even forty-five minutes feels like forever. I stare out of the window at the front door, it's open just a crack, barely noticeable in the dark.

I grip my rifle even tighter, chewing on my lip as I debate what to do. Part of me wants to charge in there right now. But another part of me hesitates. I know Damien, I know how methodical he is with these things. He has a plan, a specific way he wants this to go down. If I barge in there too early, guns blazing, I could ruin everything.

But fuck, terrible images flash through my head, the idea that Damien could be hurt or worse while I'm just sitting here on my ass.

Decided.

I check my rifle one last time and reach for the door handle.

"Where do you think you're going?" Damien's security grunts from the backseat.

I shoot him a glare. "I'm going to check on my husband," I snap. "So, sit back and shut the hell up."

But the man just shakes his head, unphased. "Boss's orders, ma'am. I'm supposed to make sure you stay put until he gives the all clear."