Ghost stood in front of the abandoned warehouse where his sources had tracked your location.

His men flanked him, but he barely registered them. His grip tightened around his pistol as he stepped inside, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and betrayal.

And then he saw you.

You were slumped in a chair, wrists bound, dried blood streaking your skin. Your clothes were torn, your face bruised, but your eyes—those same eyes he’d memorized every detail of—still burned with defiance.

The man standing in front of you, the gun in his hand, the smirk on his face.

John Price.

Simon’s most trusted man. His right hand. His brother.

His vision blurred with rage as he raised his gun. "You fucking bastard." His voice was low, deadly.

Price chuckled, tilting his head. "Took you long enough, brother. Thought you might’ve figured it out sooner." He gestured lazily toward you. "She’s a real fighter, this one. Too bad she picked the wrong man."

Simon’s hand shook, not with fear, but with the sheer force of the betrayal clawing at his chest. "Why?"

Price’s smirk faltered, something darker flashing in his eyes. "Why? Are you really asking me that, Simon?" He took a step forward, gun still in hand. "You took everything. The empire. The loyalty. The respect. Our father—he might not have claimed me the way he did you, but I was his son too. And yet, you were always the golden one. Always the one people feared." His jaw clenched. "I wanted you to feel what it’s like to lose."

Simon exhaled slowly, his grip steadying. "You should've come for me. Not her."

Price’s eyes flicked to you, then back to Simon. "I wanted to see what you'd do. Wanted to see if the great Simon Riley would break."

"You were my brother," Simon said, stepping closer."But you made a mistake,you touched my wife."