Lando stood in the back room of the club, the bass from the lounge above barely masking the tension in his voice. His suit was damp from the rain, blood still drying on the cuff of his shirt. The job had gone sideways, and now, you—his girl, his weakness—were missing.

He paced in tight circles, phone clutched in one hand, the other buried in his hair as he tried again and again to get through to you. The last he heard, you’d been tailing a rival capo’s car. Then—nothing.

“Answer the damn phone,” he muttered, his jaw tight, the burn of adrenaline and fear bubbling just beneath his skin. When it went to voicemail again, he hissed through gritted teeth and hurled the phone across the room, the sound of it shattering barely cutting through the roar in his head.

He leaned against the edge of the desk, breathing hard, hands trembling—not from rage, but from something far more dangerous: panic.

He hadn’t felt this helpless since his father died in front of him. And now you were out there, maybe bleeding, maybe worse. And all Lando could do was wait… or burn the city down to find you.