The twins mirror each other perfectly, one tilting his head, the other cracking his knuckles. Their smiles are thin, sharp, anticipatory.
“One stray woman,” one says.
“One pissed-off giant,” the other adds.
“And a whole city of skulls to crack,” they finish together.
Capone storms across the parking lot like a man about to stroke out. “STAND. DOWN.”
But I’m already twisting the throttle. “No.”
If the devil himself had grabbed my cut, I still would’ve pulled away.
My engine screams as I shoot out of the gate. Behind me, Hawaii follows without hesitation. Island thunder ripping through L.A. streets.
We hit the first Hellhound crash spot ten minutes later. A squat, rotting house sagging under the weight of mold, piss, and old cigarette smoke. The porch slants to one side, and the lights inside flicker like they’re afraid to stay on. Something feral inside me comes alive as I approach the door. I don’t bother knocking. The wood gives beneath my boot with a crack so loud it echoes through the frame, sending a picture off the wall and shattering the glass below it.
The first man inside rises from the stained couch, broad-shouldered and inked from neck to wrist. The kind of Hellhound who would look dangerous on any night but this one. His confidence dissolves the moment our eyes meet. Whatever false bravado he thought he had slips off him like water, leaving him pale and trembling. His mouth opens as if to spit a lie or offer some excuse flimsy enough to break beneath my rage, but he never gets the chance to speak.
I’m on him before he breathes.
I don’t recognize myself as my hands grab his shirt and slam him back against the wall. Everything familiar in me feelsdistant, muted, drowned under a tide of savage desperation. It’s as if the part of me that knows restraint has stepped aside and left only the raw, unfiltered instinct to destroy anything that stands between Syvannah and me.
I drag him across the filthy tile and pin him against the dented refrigerator. His skull cracks against the metal, and he starts kicking at the floor in a frantic attempt to break free.
Behind me, Aloiki leans in the doorway, sipping his coffee like we walked into a farmers’ market instead of a hellhole. “Eh, Tiny,” he says, voice smooth and steady. “If you choke him out too fast, he's not gonna talk, Brah.”
I do a double take and shake my head. I have no clue how he has coffee at a time like this or why. But, it’s Aloiki and he does what he does.
The man wheezes, voice splintering. “I… I don’t know anything, please…” His lie is weak. His pulse kicks beneath the skin of his throat.
I press my forearm harder into his throat until his face reddens and his eyes start to roll. Then I ease up just enough for him to drag in a ragged gasp.
“Try again,” I say quietly. The tone alone breaks him.
He spills names. Places. A Hellhound safe house on Yucca. Another stash across from the laundromat. A video store on Fifth. His panic fills the room faster than air.
I let him drop. His body hits the ground like discarded meat.
Aloiki lifts a brow. “Ho, you on one tonight, ah?” he murmurs, but there’s something in his eyes I haven’t seen before. Concern wrapped in fear, wrapped in understanding.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
The second spot is a broken video store on Fifth, the kind of place time gave up on long before the city did. The windows are covered in sun-faded posters that peel away from the glass like they’re trying to escape the building. The smell of mildew, sweat,and the copper tang of blood seeped into the carpet hits us the second we step inside.
A lookout jumps to his feet with a gun in hand. The kind of twitchy idiot who thinks adrenaline is the same as skill.
He never gets the chance to aim. The Twins descend before reflex can save him, a blur of mirrored violence.
“Bad move,” one says, twisting the lookout’s wrist until bone snaps with a sharp, wet pop.
“Terrible move,” the other finishes, slamming the man backward into a shelf of ancient DVDs. Plastic cases rain down like brittle hail.
Across the room, another Hellhound tries to crawl toward the back door. I catch him by the ankle and drag him across the filthy carpet, ignoring the pleas that spill from his mouth like vomit.
“Wait… please, wait…” he cries.
“Waiting’s not really my thing tonight,” I say, planting my boot on his spine.