Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Clips cut fast. A famous face, handcuffed and defeated. Another one, older and powerful, being rushed into a car. A Supreme Court justice, jaw clenched. A Hollywood legend, hiding his face. And the big one, the former U.S. president, surrounded by agents, his expression pale and furious.
I don’t gasp. I already knew every monster’s name.
The U.S. government has been trying to indict these powerful men for decades. And a criminal syndicate brought them down in twelve months.
That is vigilante justice.
Then the reporter says the one name I’ve been waiting for.
The man who bought my mother from Adrian Crowe.
My vision blurs, and my chest caves in.
Jag found him months ago. He and Wolf went after him with single-minded focus and deadly patience, peeling apart his multibillion-dollar software empire piece by piece. Contracts voided. Boards turned. Allies gone. Billions of dollars rerouted to offshore accounts controlled by the cartel.
Now the truth is pouring out on live television, and there he is, dragged forward, wrists bound, eyes wild.
Exposed.
Finished.
The tears come, hot and relentless. I fold in on myself, and Jag is there instantly, arms around me, holding me as my legs give out and relief crashes in.
Wolf moves just as fast, passing Kaya to Leo before kneeling before me, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my mouth. His own eyes shine, tears streaking down his face.
On the screen, the reporter mentions the ongoing speculation that Adrian Crowe was assassinated by an unknown terrorist group. The perpetrator remains at large.
Wolf looks at me. Then at Jag.
For one breathless second, we all stare at one another.
Then we break, laughing and crying at once, the sound torn out of us, ugly and free and impossible to stop.
The baby fusses somewhere behind us. The TV shuts off. The world finally shifts its weight.
I cling to them both, shaking, lighter than I’ve ever been.
It’s over.
It’s really fucking over.
I sit on the edge of Frankie’s bed and watch Kaya sleep.
She sprawls on her back, tiny fist curled, and mouth slack in perfect peace. I’m in love beyond words.
Today’s my last day on the island before heading back to Colombia. I’ll be back next month, but a month feels huge when she’s this small. She’ll grow and change and do something new I won’t see.
The thought tightens my chest in a way I don’t love.
Frankie stands at the window with her glass, bourbon catching the light and dark Amarena cherries bouncing along the bottom. She stares out at the ocean the way she often does, her mind somewhere else.
The image lines up too neatly with the details she wrote in her journal. The night she waited for Monty. The night Denver took her.
“Would you change anything?” I ask quietly.
“No. Nothing.” She turns from the window, green eyes cloudless. Then a smile. “Everything brought us here. Full circle. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Beautiful? Hmm. I never imagined a life where I worked for a cartel. Not once.
But that’s not how I see this.
I was born in hell, raised there, hurt there, trapped inside it for twenty-three years with a devil who starved, raped, and broke me in places so dark I stopped hoping for daylight.
This path with the cartel? It isn’t corruption.
It’s redemption. Deliverance. Repossession of a stolen life. And justice for so many others.
I’m a vigilante. That part is obvious now. I move through the underworld, slaying monsters like the one who stole my childhood.
There will always be more Denver Strakhs. More Rhett Howells. More Adrian Crowes. The names change. The damage doesn’t.
I don’t pick the cities or the countries stamped on my passport. I don’t kick in doors or spill blood in alleyways. Jag made damn sure of that.
But I’m traveling the world with him, sitting in surveillance vans and hotel rooms full of screens and murmuring voices, watching patterns tighten, lies unravel, and traps slam shut.
Dove travels with us, too. Always at our sides. Happy and safe.
But I’m not a saint.
When we’re in Colombia, I let my inner wolf out. A wolf built in the Arctic Circle.
Cold taught me patience. Hunger taught me precision. Survival taught me how to play with blood. I know weapons. I know how fear sounds when it runs out of places to hide. That makes me useful in rooms where monsters finally have to answer for what they’ve done.
When the cartel needs information pulled from a human trafficker, I step in. I let my knives do the work and my animal nature sink into their bones.
In those moments, I don’t see the prisoners.
I see the doctor.
I see Denver.
I see every night I suffered in pain.
And when I walk out of the torture room, Jag and Dove are always there. My hands are steady. My heart is clear, and the world is safer than it was before.
I love this life. The purpose. The rebellion. The savage annihilation of sexual predators and the systems that protect them. The way every day asks something of me and gives something back. It’s an adventure shaped by survival and stubborn joy. It’s more than I ever let myself want.