The pistol fit his hand like it belonged there. He ran a gloved thumb over the trigger, feeling the smooth metal, the quiet promise it carried. The room around him was dim—just a crack of sunset leaking through a broken wall, dust drifting through the light like smoke. A man knelt in front of him, wrists bound, head bowed. The gag muffled what little dignity he had left. Ronan’s gun pressed against the man’s forehead, steady as his breath. This target of his had put up a strong fight. One strong enough that Ronan would potentially be late for his plans right after this job. The guy had made a deal with his father and didn’t keep it. Simple as that. Ronan didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and ended it.