Glancing at Grasshopper, he shook the bottle. “Another?”

Hopper shook his head, wiping his mouth. “Not for me, dude.”

Turning to face me, Mo said, “No doubt the next few weeks will be full of war. Best to rest where you know you have reinforcements.”

My blood thickened. “Not war …” I grinned coldly. “Genocide.”

Grasshopper reclined in the single leather chair he’d commandeered. Tipping his glass in my direction, he cocked his head. “Exactly. Genocide.”

An utter bloodbath.

There would be no more waiting around. No more putting chess pieces into play and striking off a never-ending to-do list. That had been systematic and time-consuming. This would be swift and archaic.

And at the end of it, my revenge will be sated. Wallstreet’s goal completed. And Cleo cemented in my future.

If she forgave me, of course.

My stomach contorted into a knot.

Wallstreet’s plans meant I inherited larger and complicated tasks the more successful I became. In the scheme of things, my father was a fucking fly needing to be swatted with my shoe. He’s inconsequential.

Nothing would tax me more than what Wallstreet and I’d been working toward all these years. I couldn’t afford to be ill.

“By the way. We found him.” Mo fisted his glass.

“Who?” I rubbed my temples, hoping to dispel some pain.

Mo took a swig of his drink. “Adam ‘Alligator’ Braxton—the cocksucking snitch who infiltrated us and started this fucking mess. He was staying at Dagger Rose.”

The asshole had bolted before we’d had time to apprehend him. But running and hiding wouldn’t save him.

Nothing would save him.

He’s already dead.

Mo ground his teeth, dragging a finger across his throat in the sign of execution. “He’ll pay when we catch up to them.”

The door cracked open and Doctor Laine entered. Her eyes skimmed over the wall where a blown-up map of the world hung. I’d stood for hours at a time staring at islands and cities, wondering where Cleo might be if she hadn’t died that night.

Her gaze drifted to the small cluster of seats all placed on a deep turquoise rug that looked like an oasis in a sea of white tiles.

“How is she?” I asked, leaning forward to place my glass on the kidney-shaped coffee table. The distance wasn’t much. My arm span was more than enough to place the glass safely on the table. But somehow … I missed. The lip of the wood caught the liquor, tipping the entire thing upside down and drenching the carpet.

“Fuck!”

“Hey, it’s okay, dude. I’ll grab a rag.” Grasshopper leapt to his feet. The damn man had guzzled copious amounts of whiskey over the past two hours but still looked completely sober. Me, on the other hand? I hadn’t touched a drop and I was the one fucking spilling things.

Damn this headache!

The doctor cleared her throat, her eyes taking everything in. “She’s fine. She’ll have a headache for a few days, but her vitals are good and eye dilation perfectly normal.” Moving toward me, she added, “She also took a shower. Without the blood covering her, I was able to assess and make sure there were indeed no lacerations or wounds.” She smiled gently. “She’ll make a complete recovery, and I’ve sent her to bed.”

I slouched in my seat, no longer caring about the spill. “Thank God.”

Grasshopper came back with a rag, throwing it on the carpet and stomping on it with his dirty boots. Dried mud rained every time he trampled the absorbent cloth.

I was too exhausted to care.

The doctor peered at me. “Your impairment is worse than I thought. Your friend said you checked yourself out of the hospital a few hours ago—but I wasn’t advised how bad you are.”

My forehead furrowed. “What do you mean? Just ’cause I spilled a bit of whiskey?”

“No, because you’re slurring.”

The world stopped still. “What?”

“Shit, man. You are,” Mo muttered. “Thought you were just tipsy, but you haven’t touched a drop.”

Fear wrapped itself around my throat.

I’m not slurring. Am I?

I shook my head, trying to realign my disobeying tongue. “Just tired.” Swallowing, I peered at the doctor. “Time for one shmore—I mean one more consultation, Doc?”

Shit, I am slurring.

What the fuck did that mean?

She smiled. “Of course.” However, her calm bedside manner couldn’t hide the sudden worry in her gaze. “Come into my office and climb up on your dining table.”

I tried to crack a smile—I really did. But everything was such an effort. Shit, even standing felt as if I fought the couch for centuries before I managed to climb unsteadily to my feet.

Shuffling forward in shoes filled with concrete, I passed Mo and gripped his shoulder. Holding on to him, I played it off as a goodbye when in reality he was my damn crutch to stop me face-planting to the floor.

“Make sure this kind shlady is paid, won’t you, Mo? After this, I plan on shleeping and I’ve completely forgotten the combination to my safe.” I laughed as if it was the funniest thing I’d said. “I’m broke until I remember.”

It’s not fucking funny.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

It’s fucking terrifying.

Nothing could sober me up. I’d well and truly lost it.

Lost everything.