Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

25. Quinn

25

QUINN

I stare at Nico as his words hit me like a damn freight train. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. The chaos around us fades away, and all I can see is the intensity in his eyes. He came for me. All three of them did. In spite of everything I’ve said and done.

A lump forms in my throat, and I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. What can I say? How can I possibly…

The moment shatters as a bullet ricochets off the container inches from my head. I flinch, snapping back to reality. Atlas lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, returning fire with renewed intensity.

My heart races, adrenaline flooding my system. I grip the stolen gun tighter, my knuckles turning white. I’m not dying here. Not in this dirty fucking warehouse. Not at the hands of these Young Killer bastards.

I grit my teeth, pushing down the whirlwind of emotions Nico’s words stirred up. There’s no time for that now. I need to focus, need to survive.

Taking a deep breath, I steady my hands. The weight of the gun is reassuring—as long as I’m holding this weapon, I still stand a chance.

But honestly? Even without the gun, I’d fight bare-handed if I had to. I managed to hold my own against them until Nico and his seconds got here. I would’ve found a way to hold on for longer if I’d needed to.

I turn to him and gesture to the top of the shipping container. “Give me a boost.”

His eyes widen. “Are you crazy? You’ll be exposed up there!”

“Trust me,” I insist, keeping my voice steady in spite of the chaos all around us. “I need a better vantage point.”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. It’s too dangerous and?—”

“We don’t have time to argue,” I cut him off. “Do it now, or we’re all dead.”

He clenches his jaw, clearly conflicted, but nods. “Fine. But be careful, dammit.”

Nico interlocks his fingers, creating a foothold. I place my foot in his hands, gripping his shoulder for balance. With a grunt, he hoists me up.

I scramble onto the container, immediately flattening myself against the cool metal surface. My heart pounds in my ears as I army-crawl to the edge, keeping my profile as low as possible.

From up here, I have a clear view of the warehouse floor. The Young Killers are scattered, using whatever cover they can find. They’re focused on Nico and the others, unaware of my new position.

Perfect. Time seems to slow down as I line up my first shot. Exhale. Squeeze the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot is deafening. My target drops.

Before the others can react, I’ve already moved on to my next target. Two more shots, two more bodies hit the ground.

Confusion ripples through the remaining YK members. They can’t pinpoint where the shots are coming from, and that hesitation is all we need.

“Now!” I shout, my voice echoing through the warehouse. “Go!”

“Cover me!” I yell, scrambling to my feet.

Without waiting for a response, I sprint across the top of the container and leap off the edge. The ground rushes up to meet me. I hit hard, tucking into a roll to absorb the impact. Pain flares through my shoulder, but I push it aside, springing back to my feet.

Nico grabs my arm, steadying me. “This way,” he shouts over the gunfire, pulling me toward the far corner of the warehouse.

We run, weaving between crates and machinery. Atlas and Killian flank us, providing covering fire as we go. My lungs burn, and my legs feel like lead, but I force myself to keep moving.

“There!” Killian points to a metal door barely visible behind a stack of pallets.

We’re so close. Just a few more yards and?—

A burst of gunfire erupts from our left. We dive for cover as bullets tear through the air where we were just standing.

“Shit!” Atlas snarls, peering around the edge of a forklift. “They’ve cut us off.”

I risk a glance. At least six Young Killers have positioned themselves between us and the exit. We’re pinned down, outnumbered, and quickly running out of options.

Just as it seems like we might actually be fucked, the warehouse explodes into chaos.

The main doors burst open with a thunderous crash. Figures in familiar colors storm in, guns blazing. The cavalry has arrived.

“About damn time,” Nico mutters, a grin spreading across his face.

The Princes of Carnage tear through the warehouse like a force of nature. The Young Killers, caught off guard and outgunned, start to fall back.

We seize the opportunity, surging forward. I empty my clip into two YK members trying to flank our reinforcements. Nico takes out another with a well-placed headshot.

I push forward with the others, riding the wave of adrenaline and relief. The warehouse is a mess of gunfire, shouts, and chaos, but we’re winning. The Young Killers are on the run, and we’re picking them off one by one.

Through the smoke and confusion, I spot Atlas breaking away from our group. He’s moving with purpose, his eyes locked on something—or someone—across the room. I follow his gaze and my breath catches in my throat.

It’s Harlan. The YK leader. The bastard who started all this.

Atlas closes in on him like a predator stalking its prey. Harlan tries to make a break for it, but Atlas is faster. He corners him against a stack of crates, gun aimed squarely at his chest.

“End of the line,” Atlas growls.

Harlan’s eyes dart around, searching for an escape route. Finding none, he lets out a nervous laugh. “You won’t kill me,” he says, his voice shaky but defiant. “You know what that would mean. A full-scale war between our gangs. You don’t have the balls.”

Atlas’s lips curl into a cold smile. “Doesn’t take balls to kill a son of a bitch like you,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “And even if it did…”

For a split second, confusion flashes across Harlan’s face. Then Atlas steps back, his eyes meeting mine. “I think hers are bigger than yours anyway.”

I move forward, my heart pounding in my ears. Atlas holds out his gun, but I shake my head. I’ve still got one bullet left in my own.

The YK leader’s eyes widen as I approach. “You can’t—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“You know,” I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me, “if you want someone dead, you shouldn’t waste time.” I level my gun at his head. “You should just kill them.”

I pull the trigger. The gunshot echoes through the warehouse, and Harlan’s body crumples to the ground.

I lower my gun, my hand trembling slightly as the adrenaline starts to wear off and the exhaustion sets back in. The warehouse is eerily quiet now, the chaos of the firefight replaced by an uneasy stillness. I look around, taking in the aftermath of our brutal showdown.

Bodies litter the floor, most wearing the colors of the Young Killers. The sight should probably disturb me more than it does, but I’ve seen worse. I’ve caused worse.

My eyes land on a figure slumped against a nearby crate, still breathing. One of our guys has a gun trained on him, waiting for orders.

Nico walks over, the rage in his expression easy to see. I recognize the guy on the ground—he’s one of the assholes who jumped me earlier, before the shooting started.

“You,” Nico snarls, looming over him. “You’re the piece of shit who put his hands on my wife.”

The guy looks up, fear flickering in his eyes before he manages to hide it. “Your wife?” he scoffs, his voice strained. “That’s fucking hilarious. You know what they say about her, right? How she spreads her legs for all of you? Didn’t think you’d mind sharing her with a few of us.”

I feel my blood run cold at his words. Nico’s entire body goes rigid, his knuckles turning white as he grips his gun tighter.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Nico’s voice is dangerously low, a promise of violence barely held in check.

The guy sneers, apparently deciding if he’s going to die, he might as well go out swinging. “You heard me. Your little wifey’s got quite the reputation. Maybe you should keep her on a tighter leash if you don’t want other men touching her.”

I watch as Nico’s jaw clenches. He steps closer to the wounded Young Killer, looming over him like a predator about to strike. When he speaks, his voice drops to a dangerous whisper that sends chills down my spine.

“Listen carefully, asshole. You’re gonna deliver a message to your remaining buddies. Tell them your leader is dead for fucking with us. The Princes and Enigma? We’re a united front now. And if any of you even think about coming after my wife or my people again, I’ll tear you apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left. Got it?”

The guy nods frantically, fear replacing all of his earlier swagger.

Nico steps back, gesturing toward the exit. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

Outnumbered and unarmed, the terrified bastard scrambles to his feet. He starts running toward the warehouse door, limping slightly from his earlier injuries.

Just as he’s about to reach the exit, Nico raises his gun. The crack of gunshots echoes through the warehouse. The guy stumbles, crying out in pain as bullets tear through his leg and arm.

He collapses to the ground, whimpering and gasping. Blood pools beneath him as he tries to crawl away, leaving a dark red trail.

“Remember,” Nico calls out, his voice cold and steady. “Every second of pain you’re feeling right now? That’s just a taste of what’s coming if you or your friends ever cross us again.”

The guy doesn’t respond, just continues his agonizing crawl toward the exit.

My eyes flick to Nico, a question forming on my lips. He catches my gaze and nods, understanding without me having to say a word.

“He’ll make it back to his people,” Nico says, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. “The message will be more effective this way. Pain has a way of making things a little more memorable.”

It’s vicious. Ruthless. But I can’t help but respect the calculated cruelty of the move. It’s a good reminder of why he’s the leader of the Princes.

Atlas grunts in approval, while Killian’s eyes gleam with a dark satisfaction. We all know this isn’t just about sending a message. It’s about vengeance. For me. For us.

“We should move,” Atlas says, breaking the tense silence. “Cops will be here soon.”

Killian nods, then pauses. His gaze sweeps over the bodies littering the warehouse floor. “One last thing,” he mutters, pulling out a wicked-looking knife.

I watch with horror and grim sense of satisfaction twisting in my gut as Killian methodically moves from body to body. With each stop, he brings his knife down in a savage arc. Hands fall to the ground with dull thuds.

“A reminder,” he growls, “of what happens when you touch what isn’t yours.”

We leave the bodies in the loading dock, a gruesome warning to anyone who might think of crossing us again. As we prepare to leave, I realize I’m still in the tattered remains of my earlier outfit.

“Here,” Atlas says gruffly, tossing me a bundle of cloth. It’s one of the dead men’s shirts, several sizes too big but better than nothing. I slip it on and roll up the sleeves.

As we’re about to leave, Nico turns to me, his brow furrowed. “Where’s your car? We need to get you out of here.”

I swallow hard, the memory of earlier events flooding back. “It’s… abandoned. By the side of the road somewhere. My people… they’re probably still inside. I can’t imagine these fuckers bothered to move the bodies.”

Nico’s eyes widen. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

I take a deep breath and nod. “I need to go there. Before we head back.”

Nico shakes his head immediately. “No way. It’s too dangerous. We need to get you home, get you safe.”

“I can’t just leave them there,” I argue, my voice rising. “They’re my responsibility. My people.”

“And you’re my responsibility,” Nico counters, his tone hard. “ Our responsibility. We’ve already pushed our luck tonight. Every minute we’re out here is another chance for something to go wrong.”

I feel my temper flaring. If the circumstances were different, I would probably appreciate the gesture. Even then, I’d tell him to fuck off.

“I’ve told you before that I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself. What would you do if you still had guys lying out there dead on the side of the road?”

“That’s not the point,” he growls, frustration evident in his voice. “We just took out a chunk of the Young Killers. They’re going to be out for blood. We need to lay low.”

“And what about my gang?” I snap back. “They need to know what happened. I need to deal with this.”

We glare at each other, neither willing to back down. The tension is palpable, and I can see Atlas and Killian exchanging uncomfortable glances.

Finally, Atlas clears his throat. “Look, I think Quinn’s right. We can’t leave her people out there. It’s not how we operate.”

Nico’s jaw clenches, but I can see the fight leaving his eyes. “Fine,” he says after a long moment. “But we’ll help. And we do this quick and careful. In and out. No unnecessary risks.”

“In and out,” I agree as I head for Nico’s vehicle while Killian and Atlas grab their bikes.

When we arrive, the scene is just as grim as I’d feared. My stomach churns at the sight of my fallen men, still sprawled where they were shot.

“Let’s make this quick,” I say, my voice steady in spite of the turmoil I’m feeling inside.

We work efficiently, loading the bodies into the back of Nico’s SUV. I try to detach myself from the task, but it’s impossible not to recognize the faces of people I’ve known for years. People I was responsible for.

Back at the shop, I walk in with Nico, Killian, and Atlas following close behind. My remaining gang members look up with expressions that range from relief to apprehension.

“Listen up,” I announce, my voice carrying across the room. “We’ve lost some good people. Damn good people. But we’re not beaten. We’re going to regroup, strengthen our defenses, and make damn sure this never happens again.”

I spend the next hour delegating tasks, arranging for proper burials, and reassuring my people. All the while, I can feel the weight of failure pressing down on me. Two sets of deaths in just a few months. I should have protected them better.

The Princes hang back, giving me space to handle my duties but staying close enough to intervene if needed. I appreciate their presence more than I care to admit.

Finally, when everything that can be done tonight is set in motion, I feel the exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave.

“Time to go,” Nico says softly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I nod, too tired to argue. My car is out of commission, so I find myself climbing onto the back of Killian’s bike. In the past, I would have bitched about having to ride with him, always preferring my own set of wheels. But tonight, as I wrap my arms around Killian’s waist and feel the powerful machine roar to life beneath us, I’m grateful for the contact.

When we finally pull up to the house, I practically collapse off the bike. Killian steadies me with a strong hand on my arm. “Easy there. Let’s get you inside.”

I stumble into the bedroom, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. Killian kneels in front of me, his eyes scanning my body for injuries.

“Okay, let’s see the damage,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle as he eases the oversized shirt off my shoulders and tosses it aside. My bra—or what’s left of it—is next.

I wince as he probes a particularly nasty bruise on my ribs. “It’s not that bad,” I insist, but even I can hear the lie in my voice.

“Looks pretty bad,” Killian says. “Hold still.”

Hoping to take my mind off the pain in my side, I look over at Nico, who has been watching from the doorway. “We need to talk about our next move,” I say, trying to sit up straighter. “The Young Killers are vulnerable right now. We should strike while they’re disorganized, before they can regroup under a new leader.”

Nico’s jaw clenches. “Not now. You need to rest.”

“This is important,” I argue. “If we wait, we’ll lose our advantage. It’s just business, Nico. We need to capitalize on this opportunity.”

“Business?” his voice rises, a mix of frustration and something else, something deeper that I can’t quite place. “Is that what you think this is about? What happened tonight wasn’t just business. Fuck, mia cara. You know that. You have to know that, right?”

All I can do is stare at him blankly. Because no, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell to think anymore.

Nico steps closer, his eyes fixed on my tattoos. He reaches out, his fingers lightly tracing the design he gave me. “It’s about this.” his fingers following the lines slowly, almost reverently. “And this,” he continues.

Finally, his hand settles on an empty spot next to the others. I know it’s where Killian’s mark would go if he ever gave me one. “And this.”

I look up at him, unable to hide the confusion and anticipation that are both building inside me. “What are you talking about?”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine. “We need to tell you the truth. About why we stopped spying on you for The Saint.”

My breath catches in my throat, my tongue darting out to lick my lips as I murmur, “Why did you do it?”

“We were all falling for you. Hard. We couldn’t keep doing it, not when our feelings for you were growing stronger every day.”

Nico’s gaze locks with mine, and I can’t look away. There’s an openness and honesty in them that I’ve never seen before, as if he’s done away with every mask or facade he’s ever worn, allowing me to see straight into to his soul.

He drops to his knees beside the bed, his eyes shining with emotion.

“I’m so fucking sorry for all of it,” he rasps, his voice cracking. “For the lies, for the betrayal, for hurting you. I’ll regret it until the day I fucking die.”

I stare at him, my heart racing as I process his words. The sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability in his voice—it’s all so unexpectedly real and raw.

Before I can think better of it, I lean forward and press my lips to his.