Fadel

The living room was quieter now. The hitmen were locked up, their fate left hanging until we had more answers. But something heavier lingered in the air. Something beyond the fight, beyond the blood on the floor.

I sat at the table, my gun dismantled in front of me, the weight of the situation settling in. Style had finally hopped off the counter, his arm freshly bandaged by Bison, though he acted like it never happened. Kant was next to me, quiet but present, watching the laptop screen as Style scrolled through images.

Style hummed, scrolling through search results. "A lot of syndicates use animal emblems. Snakes, tigers, scorpions... Could be cartel, could be arms dealers, could be something new altogether."

I exhaled sharply. "No. This isn't new."

Kant looked at me then. "What do you mean?"

I hesitated for a second, but I had already made up my mind. I needed to say it.

I straightened up and met their eyes. "MOTHER has those same bills."

The room went still.

Bison's brow furrowed. Style stopped scrolling. Kant, ever observant, didn't react outwardly, but I could feel his attention sharpen on me.

Bison was the first to speak. "MOTHER? You mean our  MOTHER?" His voice was edged with disbelief, but not denial. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn't say something like this unless, I was sure.

I gave a slow nod. "I've seen them before. Not often. Just a few times, when she paid for things in cash. High-value transactions, private deals. I never thought much of it until now."

Style leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table. "So, what? You think she's connected to whoever sent these guys after us?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. But it doesn't sit right with me."

Kant finally spoke, his voice steady. "If she's using the same bills, it means she's either working with them, or at least running in the same circles."

I glanced at him. "Yeah. And if that's the case, she might already know who's behind this."

Style let out a slow whistle. "Damn. That complicates things."

Bison grunted. "Or simplifies them." He met my gaze. "If she knows, we ask her. And if she's hiding something... we find out why."

I clenched my jaw. I didn't like the idea of suspecting Mother. She had been the one steady force in our lives, the person we trusted to keep us together when everything else was chaos. But I also knew that trust didn't mean blind faith.

"We go to her," I said finally. "Ask her straight. No accusations. Just the truth."

No one argued.

But the unspoken weight in the room was clear.

If Mother was involved—if she was tied to this snake emblem in any way—then things were about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

Kant's POV

The decision was made quickly.

Bison and Fadel would go confront Mother. She had answers, and if she wasn't willing to give them, they'd make her. Style and I would stay back, watching over the hitmen, making sure they didn't try anything before we figured out what to do with them.

It was a clean plan. Simple. Efficient.

Too bad it never got the chance to play out.

Fadel had just finished gearing up, checking his gun one last time, when it happened.

A sudden, heavy thud outside. A shift in the air, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Then—

Glass shattered.

The windows exploded inward as a hail of bullets tore through the living room.

"DOWN!" Fadel's voice was sharp, but I was already moving, throwing myself to the floor as rounds slammed into the walls, the table, the couch—anything in their path. The hitmen, still tied up in the back, shouted in panic, but they weren't the target.

We were.

Bison and Style had both ducked for cover, guns drawn. Fadel was already returning fire, his movements fast and precise as he emptied a clip toward the source of the attack. Through the chaos, I caught glimpses of figures outside—multiple, at least five, maybe more. Another hit squad.

They weren't here to scare us.

They were here to finish us.

I reached for my gun, pressing my back against the kitchen counter as I tried to gauge the situation. Style was doing the same, his expression unreadable as he reloaded.

And then—

"Bison!"

Style's shout was sharp, panicked, and when I turned, I saw why.

Bison staggered back, a dark stain spreading across his side. His grip faltered for half a second before he caught himself, using the wall to steady his stance. He looked down at the wound, then up at us.

"Fuck," he muttered, before his knees buckled.

He hit the floor hard.

"SHIT!" Style was already moving before I could. He slid beside Bison, hands pressing down on the wound, but the blood—God, there was so much of it.

I fired off a few more shots to keep the attackers at bay, but my focus kept flicking back to Bison. His breathing was labored, his face pale, but he was still conscious. For now.

"Stay with me, baby," Style muttered, his voice rough, almost desperate. His hands were shaking, pressing down harder. "You hear me? Stay with me."

Bison let out a pained grunt, his lips twitching into something that might have been a smirk if he wasn't losing so much blood. "Didn't—plan on leaving," he rasped.

I barely had time to process the way Style's face twisted—rage, fear, something raw—before another round of bullets forced me to duck lower.

This wasn't good.

We were pinned down, Bison was hit bad, and Fadel and I couldn't cover both him and hold off the attackers for long.

And then—

Style snapped.

One second, he was kneeling beside Bison, hands-stained red. The next, he was on his feet, gun drawn, storming toward the front like a man possessed.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch.

He just started shooting.

And for the first time, I saw what it looked like when Style lost his shit.