Two weeks later.
Upstairs — James's Office
The door shut behind James with a muted click that seemed louder than it should have been, echoing through the quiet office like a death knell of certainty. Lars, Kirk, and Jason remained behind, tense, rigid, each absorbing the invisible weight he carried with every step down the hall. Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the city far below, oblivious to the storm about to be unleashed. "It's the only move we've got," Lars said at last, voice measured, calm on the surface but hollow underneath, like a man who knew his words were insufficient. "Velvet Riot and the Demon Disciples will scramble the shipment. Minds of Destruction will move next. Collateral damage lands on families first, and that's where the pressure will bite." Kirk's jaw was locked, arms crossed over his chest like armor, while Jason's eyes never left the worn floorboards, counting the cracks with a focus born of repetition and preparation. No one argued. No one needed to. They understood fully that in the world James moved through, hesitation could mean death, and that their choices carried the lives of innocents in a way too heavy to ignore. The room held its breath as if even the walls knew something had shifted, like the calm before a hurricane that had already begun miles away.
Outside, the Fourfold Authority waited in tight formation, alert and tense, every instinct honed and synchronized, watching the doorway through which James had disappeared. Tom's hands flexed at his sides, his stance controlled but brimming with quiet readiness. Joey's sharp gaze measured every shadow, every twitch of movement, calculating threat and consequence in milliseconds. Dave remained still, imposing, posture perfect, radiating calm but ready to move with lethal precision. The wives, silent but present, held themselves with a quiet vigilance that needed no words. Their eyes flicked from door to door, scanning the space for the tiniest hint of danger, the faintest movement that might herald chaos. They were more than observers; they were the unyielding wall around James, and every member of the room felt it in the pit of their stomachs, in the tightening of their hands, in the shallow intake of breath that suggested the city itself waited for what was about to unfold.
Upstairs — Bedroom
Francesca leaned lightly against the doorway, a vision of calm and quiet power. Her body still carried the soft, dangerous beauty of recent motherhood, the hourglass curves fuller, firmer, untouched by pain despite the enormity of everything she had endured in the last two weeks. Her dark brown hair fell loosely over her shoulders, the kind of weightless movement that always drew James's attention, and her striking blue eyes held a clarity that could cut through the most stubborn armor. James's jaw tightened as he watched her, broad shoulders moving slightly as he inhaled slowly, forearms corded, veins standing faintly beneath pale skin, every muscle primed and coiled with barely restrained intensity. The plan settled in his mind, steel framing every thought, but the sight of her, serene and unafraid, was a tether to the life he had spent so long trying to protect.
"We need you to distract Velvet Riot and the Demon Disciples long enough to miss their shipment," James said finally, voice low, deliberate, carrying the unmistakable weight of someone who knew there were no good options left. He moved closer, gaze softening ever so slightly despite the tension that bristled in every fiber of his body. "It's the only window we have."
Francesca crossed the room deliberately, hands resting briefly at his waist, grounding him, reminding him of what he was fighting for. "I'll do it," she said, quiet, resolute, certainty threaded through every word.
James exhaled, leaning down, pressing his forehead against hers, fingers threading through her hair as if he could draw strength from her, or perhaps give her some of his own. "I hate that I'm asking this," he admitted, honesty cutting through the steel of his voice. "You don't have to."
"Yes," she said without hesitation, meeting his gaze fully. "I do."
She moved toward the drawer and retrieved a slim folder, sliding it across to him. Inside were a will and three letters—one addressed to James, one to Stacy, and one to Jeremy for when he was older. The gravity of her foresight pressed heavily into his chest, every word a tether of love and inevitability that made his throat tighten. The two-week-old crib creaked softly, Jeremiah Jayden lying wrapped in swaddling, blonde hair soft as clouds, sleeping peacefully despite the looming storm. James knelt beside him, brushing his thumb across the tiny tuft of hair that mirrored his own, whispering quietly, "You're safe. I promise you." Francesca's eyes glimmered as she watched him, memorizing the small gestures that always held more love than words could contain. After a moment, she stepped back, resolute, preparing to carry the weight of the distraction herself while James and the Authority would move alongside her, vigilant and ready.
Outside — Approaching the Abandoned House
James followed Francesca down the street, flanked by the Fourfold Authority, muscles coiled, senses alert, every breath measured and deliberate. The wives trailed slightly behind, eyes sharp, awareness like a second skin, their presence both comforting and unrelenting. Each step carried the weight of strategy, of preparation, of knowing that the next moments would be defined by chaos and terror. The city seemed to pulse around them, shadows stretching, buildings silent witnesses to the storm about to unfold. Every instinct in James's body, from the arch of his broad shoulders to the tension in his fists, screamed readiness.
Inside — The Abandoned House
Francesca moved with a quiet but deadly purpose, senses stretched taut. The smell hit her first: old rot, dust, and a metallic tang that hinted at blood long dried and recent wounds alike. She found Stacy first—bound, beaten, malnourished, with a shattered right collarbone, broken ribs, and a fractured nose. Her striking blue eyes, so like Francesca's own, reflected fear, pain, and the faintest glimmer of hope. Francesca crossed the room in one swift step, cupping her sister's bruised face in hands that trembled only slightly. "I've got you," she whispered, pressing her forehead briefly to Stacy's in a gesture meant to anchor them both, to remind them that someone remained, even if the world had gone dark.
Velvet Riot and the Demon Disciples struck next. Francesca's movements became shield and defiance in one, absorbing blow after blow meant for Stacy. Screams, snapping bones, and the sickening echo of gunshots filled the air, a brutal chorus underscoring the chaos. By the time it was over, Francesca lay lifeless, shot twice, the cruel finality of it etched into the room as her sister, Stacy, trembled, her body wracked with pain and barely conscious.
Upstairs — James Finds Stacy
James stormed up the stairs, a predator unleashed, every nerve screaming, every thought honed into a blade. He found Stacy, trembling, broken, malnourished, barely able to lift her head. His hands were steady, precise, lifting her into his arms with a combination of strength and care that was all instinct. "I've got you," he whispered, pressing her to his chest, feeling every fracture, every tremor of pain.
The Fourfold Authority froze at the doorway, confusion and disbelief painting their faces. Lars blinked. "James...?"
"She's Stacy," James said, calm but cold, eyes blazing with intensity. "Francesca's twin sister. She's survived hell, but they tried to erase her. She's safe now—with Jason, Nicole, and all of you. No one will touch her."
Nicole moved beside him immediately, hands gentle, checking injuries with the precision of a nurse but the warmth of a friend, murmuring soothing words to Stacy that made her stiffened muscles relax just a fraction. "You're safe now. We've got you," she whispered, brushing hair from Stacy's face, tucking it behind her ears, coaxing her to believe it for the first time in years.
James's grip on Stacy tightened slightly, the edge of fury now tempered with calm authority. "No one gets past them," he said softly, his gaze sweeping the assembled Authority and wives outside the room. "These people, my wall—they won't let anyone harm you again. I promise you that."
Upstairs — James Finds Francesca
James's instincts carried him back upstairs. Every movement, every breath, every step was taut with anticipation and dread. And then he found her—lifeless, bloodied, tape across her mouth, the evidence of brutal assault and the gunshots that had ended her life. His chest tightened, throat raw, and he fell to his knees beside her, sobs tearing from him, raw, unfiltered, unbearable. The Fourfold Authority froze, every hand clenching, every jaw tight, as if the room itself had stopped breathing. Lars whispered, unable to form words, while Tom's hands flexed, fists tightening. Joey's eyes calculated, trying in vain to prepare for a reality that could not be fixed.
Guesthouse — James's Vengeance
Later, at the guesthouse, James unleashed the storm within him. Every strike, punch, slam, and bone-crushing move was precise, calibrated, filled with grief and rage. Axl and his men fell beneath the force of a man driven by loss and fury, a force that ignored caution, feared nothing, and answered only to vengeance. When the explosion came, consuming the building, James screamed Francesca Blackburn's name, the finality of her death and the betrayal of the world around him searing through his very being. Burns tore across his left side, broken bones a chorus of pain, yet he remained unbroken in purpose. Stacy was safe. Francesca was gone. And James Blackburn, with every fiber of his body, declared war on the city that had taken everything from him.