The garage erupted in chaos, violence exploding like a thunderstorm breaking over the Nevada desert.
Victor didn't hesitate. Didn't pause to negotiate or issue warnings or give the Serpents a chance to reconsider their life choices. One heartbeat, they had knives raised and chains ready to swing. The next, the thunder of gunfire split the air with the finality of divine judgment.
Scarface jerked backward like he'd been hit by lightning, half his face vanishing in a spray of red mist that painted the workbench behind him in abstract patterns of death. His body hit the concrete with a wet thud, the knife clattering from nerveless fingers to spin across the oil-stained floor. Another Serpent spun like a drunken dancer, his chain falling uselessly from dead hands as two perfectly placed holes bloomed across his chest, dark flowers spreading across his leather cut.
The rest of the Serpents froze like deer caught in headlights, their predatory confidence evaporating faster than water in the desert sun. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with blood and motor oil, creating a cocktail of violence that made Anna's stomach lurch. Smoke curled from the barrel of Victor's chrome-plated .45, his broad shoulders steady as granite, his expression cold as winter moonlight.
Behind him, Iron Wolves filled the doorway like an avalanche of leather and steel: guns leveled with professional precision, eyes locked on targets, forming a wall of coordinated violence that left no doubt about the outcome. These weren't street thugs or wannabe gangsters; these were men who'd turned killing into a craft, who understood that mercy was a luxury they couldn't afford in their line of work.
"Try me," Victor said, his voice even and conversational, as though he hadn't just painted the garage walls with human remains. The words carried the weight of absolute certainty, the kind of confidence that came from never having lost a fight that mattered.
The surviving Serpents glanced at each other, all their earlier bravado gone like smoke in the wind. The two bodies cooling on the concrete were warning enough: Victor Kane wasn't interested in negotiation or compromise. They backed toward the open bay door with the careful movements of men who understood they were one wrong step away from joining their friends on the floor.
Scarface's corpse twitched once, nervous system firing its last signals, then went still as roadkill. Blood pooled beneath his ruined skull, spreading in a dark circle that reflected the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.
Victor didn't flinch at the death spasm. Didn't show any emotion at all. He just kept his pistol trained on the retreat until the Serpents mounted their sport bikes and peeled away into the night, engines whining like beaten dogs fleeing with their tails between their legs. The sound faded quickly, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the Nevada desert.
Silence fell over the garage like a heavy blanket, broken only by the tick of cooling engines and Anna's ragged breathing. The sudden quiet was almost more shocking than the violence had been: one moment chaos and gunfire, the next nothing but death and the smell of cordite.
Anna's knees threatened to buckle beneath her, adrenaline crash hitting her system like a physical blow. She pressed her back harder against the workbench, using the solid metal to keep herself upright while her wide eyes remained locked on the bodies sprawled at her feet. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, thick and suffocating, mixing with the familiar scents of motor oil and chrome polish to create something alien and terrible.
This was her father's workshop, the place where he'd taught her to change spark plugs and adjust carburetors, where she'd learned that machines were honest in ways people never were. Now it was a slaughterhouse, consecrated by violence she couldn't have imagined an hour ago.
Victor holstered his weapon with practiced ease and stepped forward, his steel-toed boots crunching through shattered glass and pooling blood with the casual indifference of a man walking through puddles after a rainstorm. He moved with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable with violence, someone who'd long ago made peace with what he was capable of doing.
He crouched in front of Anna, bringing himself down to her eye level with movements that were neither threatening nor gentle: just controlled, calculated for maximum psychological impact. His cold blue eyes were steady, too steady, like the violence hadn't touched him at all. Like killing two men was just another Tuesday night activity.
"You're safe now," he said simply, the words carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
Anna shook her head violently, her voice breaking like glass under pressure. "Safe? They were about to..." Her throat closed around the words, choking off the sentence as her mind tried to process what had almost happened, what would have happened if Victor hadn't arrived with perfect timing.
Victor's hand settled on her shoulder with deliberate weight. Not gentle like a comfort, not rough like a threat: controlled, measured, designed to establish presence without causing additional trauma. "They won't touch you again. Not while you're mine to protect."
The words slammed into Anna like a physical blow. Mine to protect. Not "I'll protect you" or "you're under Iron Wolves protection." Mine. Possessive. Claiming ownership wrapped in the language of salvation.
Behind him, the Iron Wolves began the grim work of body disposal, dragging Serpent corpses toward the bay door with the efficiency of men who'd done this before. They muttered curses under their breath: not at the violence, but at the inconvenience, the cleanup, the paperwork that would need to be avoided. The stench of blood and gunpowder thickened in the confined space, and Anna fought the urge to vomit.
Victor studied her face with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen, cataloging reactions and responses with clinical precision. His expression remained unreadable, a mask of competence and control that revealed nothing of what he might be thinking.
"Listen to me carefully," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. "This isn't a request or a suggestion. You're under my protection now. No questions asked. No second chances. No room for negotiation."
Anna's lips trembled as she tried to form words through the shock and adrenaline. "Why? Why would you do this for me?"
"Because your brother isn't here to do it himself," Victor said with brutal honesty, each word delivered like a small knife wound. "He left you behind when he went to prison. Abandoned you to deal with the consequences of his actions. I don't abandon family. I don't leave people behind who matter to the organization."
Jason's name stuck in Anna's chest like a splinter made of guilt and grief. Anger flared hot and bright: at Jason for getting arrested, at her father for dying, at the whole fucking world for leaving her alone to navigate dangers she'd never asked to face. But the anger was quickly drowned by a deeper, darker emotion: the terrible relief of not being alone anymore, even if the alternative came with strings attached.
Victor rose to his full height, towering over her in a way that was both protective and intimidating. At six-foot-three, he filled the space with presence that went beyond physical size: this was a man who commanded rooms through sheer force of will and the reputation for violence that preceded him like a shadow.
"From now on, if anyone comes near you with bad intentions, they answer to me personally," he continued, his words carrying the weight of a blood oath. "That includes Serpents. That includes rival clubs. That includes Iron Wolves brothers who forget their manners around family. You don't breathe without me knowing it's safe. You understand me?"
Anna stared up at him, torn between relief and a growing sense of dread that she couldn't quite name. He had saved her: that was undeniable, inarguable fact. Without his intervention, she'd be nothing but another forgotten victim rotting in the desert, another casualty in a war she'd never chosen to join. But there was something in his voice, in the absolute certainty and ownership wrapped up in his protection, that made her stomach twist with unease.
"I... I understand," she whispered, the words barely audible above the sound of bodies being dragged across concrete.
Victor nodded once, satisfied with her submission. He turned to address his men with the crisp efficiency of a military commander issuing orders. "Clean this mess up completely. Bleach the floors, dispose of the bodies where they won't be found. No one outside this room hears about what happened here tonight. Anyone asks, the Serpents never stepped foot in Iron Wolves territory."
"Yes, boss," one of the men muttered, already reaching for cleaning supplies kept in the garage for exactly these kinds of situations.
The Iron Wolves moved with practiced efficiency, transforming from killers back into cleanup crew with the ease of men who'd made this transition countless times before. The sound of scraping boots and shifting metal echoed through the garage, providing a grim soundtrack to Anna's racing thoughts as she tried to process the magnitude of what had just changed in her life.
Victor faced her one final time, his expression softening just enough to seem almost paternal. "You're stronger than you think, Anna. Stronger than your brother ever gave you credit for. That's why I'm giving you this chance: this opportunity to be part of something bigger than yourself. Don't waste it."
Then he was gone, striding out into the desert night with the confidence of a man who'd never doubted his own power, never questioned his right to reshape other people's lives according to his vision of how the world should work.
Anna sat frozen on the concrete floor, trembling hands pressed against her knees while she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The bloodstains were already being scrubbed away by efficient hands, but she could still see them in her mind: dark reminders of how close she'd come to disappearing entirely, how thin the line was between victim and survivor in the world she'd been born into.
She thought she'd been saved. Thought Victor Kane was some kind of avenging angel sent to deliver her from evil. But as the Iron Wolves dragged the last Serpent corpse toward disposal, as the garage slowly returned to its normal state of organized chaos, a colder realization began to settle in her bones like winter fog.
Victor Kane hadn't rescued her from danger. He had claimed her as property, wrapped ownership in the language of protection and sealed the deal with blood that wasn't his own. The Serpents had wanted to hurt her, use her, maybe kill her when they were done. Victor wanted something potentially worse: he wanted to own her completely, body and soul, in service to whatever plans he was building for the future.
Anna hugged her knees to her chest and tried not to think about the fact that she'd just traded one kind of cage for another, one set of predators for a different breed entirely.
And the worst part was that she was grateful for the trade.