BRIAN

 

The digital dashboard clock on the Aventador read fourteen past four AM when I finally backed the vehicle into the underground garage. I cut the engine, the aggressive roar dying instantly and leaving only the sharp, metallic ticking of the overheated exhaust pipes cooling down in the damp concrete bay. 

 

The adrenaline from the harbor road was gone, replaced entirely by a freezing, toxic bitterness that was actively burning a hole through my ribs. Seven days of keeping my men back, of sitting in a sweating, pathetic compact car on a dirt shoulder, just to give her the space she begged for on her knees.

I had crushed my...