Frank’s life wasn’t simple. Never had been. But Pete Castiglione’s life?

Up at dawn. Pack his lunch. Hit the construction site early. Swing a sledgehammer until his hands were raw and the sun gave up. Walk home to the shoebox he called an apartment—a dirty sink that barely worked, a bed with springs older than him, and a nightstand with an old lamp, alarm clock and the old family photo. Scrub the blood from his blisters. Splash his face with cold water, staring into the cracked mirror at the beard he hadn’t shaved in months and the hair curling over his ears. Canned tuna on the floor for dinner. Lie in bed, Moby Dіck open in his hands because Curtis wouldn’t let it go. Fall asleep. Wake up in soaked in sweat, Maria’s screams echoing in his head. Repeat.

He was used to it.

The bikers, the cartels, the Kitchen Irish… all gone. Burnt to ash along with his signature vest. No more him. No more war. Just Pete. Another guy breaking his back for minimum wage, forgotten before he was even noticed.

Nobody knew he was still breathing. Not the feds, not Red, not even Karen. Curtis was the only one who knew, the only one he trusted to set it all up. The only one who still called him by his real name when no one else could.

So here he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor, tuna can in one hand, the only spoon he owned in the other. Another night trying not to think about the life that had been ripped out of his hands. Another night pretending Pete Castiglione was someone real.

There was no sound-proofing in the apartment complex. He was used to it. The city noise, the tenants arguing, the leaky pipes and the occasional toilet flushing.

He was about to go to bed when suddenly, footsteps stopped right outside his door. “Oh, f*cking hell,” he cursed under his breath.

He set the can down and pressed his back to the wall beside the door, every muscle tensed, his hand already reaching for the hammer he kept in the corner. His voice came low, the edge unmistakable.

“You lost?”