The gaping hole was so deep I could see bone, shredded flesh sloughing off like pus with torn tendons.
As I trembled from the agony, Adrian’s men burst through the door.
The roses he had planted for me were trampled into the dirt under their boots.
He scooped Clara into his arms—payback for those eighteen stabs three years ago.
“The second time, Coco.”
“No matter how much I indulge you, I will never allow Clara to fall in front of me again!”
Adrian rushed out with the woman.
His men formed a wary circle around me, not sparing a glance for the bloody crater in my right hand.
Jaw clenched, I collapsed bonelessly onto the sofa.
I stared at my right hand, the fingers refusing to curl no matter how I tried—despair swallowing me whole.
No one knew better than Adrian how much I’d paid to hold my place in the underworld, licking blood from the knife’s edge.
I’d held a gun since seven, won the shooting championship in Newport City’s underground, and survived countless close calls with this hand.
My bullets were the noose around our enemies’ necks, the ladder beneath my feet.
Now it was ruined.
Nearly twenty years—gratitude or hatred, it no longer mattered.
Adrian, there is no “later” for us.