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Chapter 16
Lily Estate didn't know it was sitting on a powder keg.
Neon from the gated security booth bled over the manicured sidewalks, mixing with the pale wash of streetlights. Everything smelled faintly of chlorine and cut grass—the kind of quiet that rich people thought meant safety.
Tina crouched low in a flower garden between two luxury houses, the petals brushing her cheek as her phone's red recording light blinked in the dark. She zoomed in on the mansion across the street, catching every second of Quinn's little midnight visit.
Margaret Sanchez had opened the door all smiley—fake smiley—and let her in. Tina didn't need audio to know this was scandal in high definition.
She grinned, biting her lip. Oh, Draya is gonna eat this up. Miss Quinn Quinn, caught slippin'.
Her thumb hovered over the stop button. Enough footage. Proof in her pocket. Time to leave—
Movement.
Across the street, further down the road, something shifted in her peripheral. She froze, lowering the phone, eyes narrowing through the gaps between two parked SUVs.
Her stomach knotted.
Scar Face.
Not "a scarred face"—Scar Face. The one Jean-Luc supposedly kept on a short leash. And next to him, Allen—Silas's toothpick-chewing shadow.
They were working in silence, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands wet. Together they dragged a body across a pristine front lawn, the heels scraping faintly against the pavement. The way the arm dangled—dead weight—made Tina's gut flip.
She pressed herself lower into the garden, palms sinking into damp soil. Her breathing slowed. The faint night breeze shifted the leaves above her head as Scar Face glanced around, scanning for eyes in the dark.
Allen leaned against the van, wiping his blade clean on his jeans like he'd just finished peeling fruit. The bodies—plural—were being loaded one by one. No panic. No rush. Just another Tuesday for them.
Tina's pulse banged against her ears. If they see me—
A noise snapped her thoughts in half.
Metal on metal. Sharp. Cold. Click.
It came from inside Margaret's house.
And then—
The gunshot.
Loud enough to slice the quiet open, rattling through her chest.
Tina flinched, gripping her phone tight. She didn't stop recording. Couldn't. Her mind was sprinting in circles: That's where Quinn went in…
Across the street, Scar Face and Allen froze mid-motion, their heads turning toward the sound.
Tina stayed in the dirt, every muscle locked, praying she wouldn't be next.
Inside Margaret's House –
The gunshot cracked through the air like a whip.
Quinn moved before her brain caught up — twisting, rolling across the hardwood as the bullet punched into the doorframe where her head had been. Splinters rained across her hair, and when she came up in a crouch, her eyes locked on him.
Silas.
He didn't look like the husband Margaret had described. He looked like someone who had crawled out of the night itself — black gloves, hood up, eyes like polished steel. And he was smiling.
"You've got good reflexes," he said, voice low, amused.
Quinn didn't waste breath. She lunged.
Her kick shot low, sweeping at his ankle. He sidestepped like he'd been expecting it, but her follow-up — an elbow to the ribs — landed with a dull thud. Silas grunted, shoving her back with the butt of his gun. She slid across the floor, caught herself on the corner of the couch, and was already pushing off it like a springboard.
She closed the distance, a blur of fists. One jab grazed his jaw, the next aimed for his temple — but he caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted it, forcing her down. Pain flared up her arm, but she rolled with it, snapping her free leg up into his stomach.
He absorbed the hit without losing his grip. "You fight like you've been taught," he murmured, shoving her into the wall. "But I've lived it."
Her knee came up sharp, catching his thigh. He released her and she spun, trying to hook his neck into a chokehold from behind.
Silas simply shifted his weight, slammed his hip into her balance point, and flipped her over his shoulder. She hit the floor hard, breath bursting from her lungs.
Margaret had been frozen near the kitchen doorway, eyes wide — but now, with the two of them locked in combat, she saw her chance. She didn't even think. She bolted, bare feet slapping the tile as she sprinted toward the front door.
Silas moved to go after her — Quinn blocked him, grabbing his hoodie and yanking him back.
"Oh, you're pissing me off now," he said, grin fading.
They clashed again. Her fists were fast, precise; his were brutal, economical. She landed a blow to his cheek — he countered with a headbutt that made her see white. Her lip split; his breathing didn't change.
When she tried to grab the gun, he wrenched it away and drove her into the dining table so hard it cracked down the middle.
"Stay down," he warned.
"Not happening," she spat, blood on her teeth.
---
Outside – Tina's POV
Tina crouched low in the garden bed, camera phone still pointed toward the house. Her heart pounded in her throat. The feed on her screen was shaking from her own trembling hands.
Then — click.
Cold metal pressed against her temple.
"Drop it."
Her eyes slid sideways. Spiro — pale, twitchy, a cruel smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. His finger was already tightening on the trigger.
But before he could fire —
BANG! BANG!
Not at her. From inside. Then the front door slammed open.
Margaret burst into the night, sweat-slick from her jog earlier, hair loose and sticking to her face. She was barefoot, wild-eyed, running flat out toward the estate's emergency alarm post at the corner of the block.
Spiro swore. "Shit—"
He spun the gun away from Tina and opened fire, bullets tearing into the pavement just behind Margaret's heels.
Scar Face and Allen dropped the body they'd been hauling and charged after her. Scar Face's boots pounded like thunder; Allen was grinning like this was sport.
Tina didn't wait for Spiro to remember her. She pushed up from the dirt and ran — fast, silent, threading between hedges toward the back wall. Her legs burned, breath ragged, but she didn't look back.
---
Inside – Final Clash
Quinn's breathing was ragged now, blood trickling from her lip, hair matted to her face. Silas didn't look winded. He caught her arm mid-punch, twisted, and pinned her against the wall, gun barrel pressed to her temple.
"Last chance," he said.
She stared at him, defiant, chest heaving. "Pull it."
His smile returned — cold, thin. He shifted the aim lower.
And pulled the trigger.
The first shot tore through the air so close Quinn swore she felt it whistle past her cheek. Instinct shoved her sideways, rolling over the corner of the dining table as splinters shot up like angry bees.
Silas stepped into the doorway, pistol raised, face calm — the kind of calm that only belonged to people who had killed too many times to count.
"Alright…" his voice was low, almost playful. "…let's play."
He squeezed the trigger again.
The room exploded in noise. Bullets spat chunks out of the walls, cracked the table, and shattered glass somewhere behind her. Quinn moved like her life depended on it — because it did — darting from chair to chair, every muscle screaming. One round grazed her arm, a burning slice of pain that nearly dropped her.
"Don't slow down now," Silas taunted, his boots stalking her like a wolf.
A click — empty.
The faint smile tugging at his mouth didn't fade. He dropped the pistol like it was nothing, eyes locking with hers.
"My turn," Quinn hissed, blood dripping down her sleeve.
They slammed into each other, no hesitation. Silas hit like a truck — his first punch cracked into her ribs, making her gasp. She countered with a sharp elbow to his jaw, but he barely flinched, sweeping her legs out from under her. She hit the floor hard, rolled away just as his boot came down where her head had been.
Every move from him was lethal — no wasted strikes, no mercy. A knee to her stomach. A hook to the temple. He fought like he was trying to end her in the first thirty seconds.
But Quinn wasn't here to trade blows — she was here to survive. She slipped past his reach, catching his wrist, twisting hard, driving her knee into his side. He snarled and slammed her back into the wall, a picture frame clattering to the ground.
They tore through the living room, overturning furniture, smashing glass. Quinn used her flexibility to duck under his arm, land a palm strike to his throat — but Silas recovered faster than she could react, grabbing her and shoving her toward the staircase.
She tried to turn the momentum, but his strength was overwhelming. He hauled her up a step, then another — then hurled her down.
She hit the bottom with a sick thud, the breath knocked out of her.
Quinn staggered to her feet, retreating into the kitchen. Her eyes caught something in the corner — and froze.
Bodies.
Not just security — Margaret's family. Crumpled, blood pooling, glassy eyes staring at nothing. A child's stuffed toy lay in a sticky red smear.
Something inside Quinn's chest twisted — but she couldn't afford to break now.
Heavy boots approached.
Silas stepped into the kitchen, moving slow, savoring the moment. "You're not bad," he said, almost like a compliment. "But you're not enough."
Her gaze flicked to the stove — the kettle Margaret had left earlier was hissing, steam spewing from its spout.
Silas took another step.
Quinn snatched the kettle and flung it at him. The boiling water splashed across his face and neck. He roared, stumbling back, one hand clawing at his skin.
In that single, beautiful second, Quinn planted her feet, coiled her body, and unleashed a kick with every ounce of strength she had left — straight into his groin.
The sound he made wasn't human.
Silas folded, knees buckling, and crashed to the tile, unconscious.
Quinn stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping, every nerve still on fire.
She wanted to hit him again. And again. And again.
But the night wasn't over — and she still had to get out alive.