You've seen Taz quiet. Controlled. Clinical. But now?
Now you're about to see what he really is.
Not the guy with the gloves and the goggles. But the one who smiles while breaking bones. The one who doesn't need to raise his voice to make you scream.
Travis thought he understood fear. He didn't. Owen thought he was safe. He's not.
Now the scalpel's in Taz's hand. And the gloves? Yeah, those are staying on.
Welcome to the part where it stops being theoretical.
Now you'll see who Taz really is.
The rain hit the windshield in violent bursts, but Rocco didn't ease up on the gas.
His jaw was locked, hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road like it was the enemy. The headlights cut through the storm, but it barely mattered. He knew where he was going. Nothing would stop him. In the back of the GMC, it was chaos wrapped in control.
Taz sat hunched over Reagan, one hand stabilizing the IV line, the other checking her vitals on the portable monitor clamped to the side of the gurney. Her breathing was shallow. Too shallow.
Skylar sat across from him, bracing herself with one hand on the roof, the other gripping the edge of the stretcher.
"She's crashing," Taz said under his breath. "BP's dropping. She's not compensating." Skylar's voice was tight. "How far out?"
Taz didn't look up. "Three minutes, maybe four. Tell Rocco to floor it." "He already is." Up front, Rocco didn't need anyone to tell him.
His foot was welded to the accelerator. The rain didn't scare him. The cops didn't scare him. The only thing that scared him was the thought of arriving too late. The moment the GMC screeched up to the private medical wing—his wing—two men were already holding the doors open. No questions. No hesitation.
This was a different kind of hospital. One built on silence, loyalty, and results. Rocco threw his door open and sprinted to the back, yanking the double doors wide. "Move."
Taz and Skylar rolled the gurney out into the storm, shielding Reagan as best they could. She was still unconscious, lips pale, blood staining the oxygen mask over her face. Inside the private hospital, they moved fast—faster than any ER could've. The walls were pristine, the lighting cold and sharp. No waiting room. No red tape. Just precision and power.
By the time they wheeled Reagan into the OR, two of Rocco's private surgeons were already scrubbed in. Taz didn't hesitate—he followed them in, pulling on gloves as he spoke.
"Listen up," he barked.
"She's got a fractured zygomatic arch. Swelling around the left orbit. Blood from the right ear—possible cranial bleed. Suspected pelvis fracture, likely sacroiliac involvement. Three, maybe four broken ribs. She's intubated on ketamine and fluids. I've performed a burr hole procedure on her, too, to alleviate the pressure building in her skull. I've kept her stable but barely. We need imaging now. Suction. Prep for another burr hole if pressure spikes." One of the surgeons nodded. "We've got her. Anything else?" Taz paused, then looked down at Reagan. His voice softened just slightly. "Don't fuck this up."
He stepped back, pulling off the gloves with practiced ease, and turned to walk out of the OR. Rocco stood just outside, his coat soaked through, jaw tight.
Taz didn't even get a full sentence out before Rocco spoke: "Find them."
His voice was low. Steady. Deadly. Taz met his eyes. And nodded. No more words were needed.
Waiting room.
The storm still howled outside, slamming sheets of rain against the private hospital wing's windows like a warning. Inside, the lights buzzed quietly above their heads, too bright and too clean. It felt sterile. Suspended. Like time itself was holding its breath.
Skylar sat curled up on a narrow couch in the corner, knees hugged to her chest, hoodie still damp from the downpour. Her laptop was shut beside her — for once — and her fingers toyed absently with the frayed hem of her sleeve. She hadn't said much since they brought Reagan in. Not after the blood. The seizures. The drill.
Rocco stood by the window, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a cigarette he hadn't lit. He didn't smoke inside hospitals. Even ones he technically owned.
He was still soaked, jaw tense, shoulders drawn tight like wire pulled to its limit. He hadn't sat down.
The silence stretched until it frayed at the edges. "I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment," Skylar said suddenly, voice low, eyes fixed on a crack in the floor tile. "Two junkie parents. No doors, just blankets. Mattress on the floor."
Rocco didn't move. But he listened. "My dad OD'd when I was nine. Face down in the bathtub. My mom got beaten to death two years later over a dealer's debt. I ran. I didn't go back." She paused. Her throat worked like she was swallowing something she hadn't meant to say aloud. "People think I'm angry 'cause I'm loud. But I'm loud because no one listened when I begged."
Rocco turned slowly. Walked across the room and sat across from her. Not too close. Just enough. His coat was dripping, leaving a faint trail of water on the floor. "You're not angry," he said after a beat. "You're surviving."
Skylar scoffed. "That's the polite version, huh?"
Rocco's gaze didn't flinch. "It's the accurate one."
Another pause "I killed my first man when I was sixteen," he said flatly. "He killed my mother,"
Skylar tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Is that where the name came from?" she asked. "The Reaper?"
Rocco didn't answer right away. His hand clenched around the unlit cigarette, knuckles pale. "I always thought it was just some gangster branding," she added, voice low. "But it wasn't, was it?"
He turned slowly, his eyes darker than before. Not angry. Not defensive. Just... haunted. "They came for her," he said. "She wasn't supposed to be home. They were trying to send a message to my father. Wrong address, wrong time. They beat her. Tortured her. Left her for him to find." Skylar swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the couch. "I found her first."
He stepped forward, each word heavier than the last.
"I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I picked up my father's gun and went after every name we knew was involved. Six men. Two nights. I didn't sleep. I didn't speak. I just... took them. One by one." Skylar's voice was barely a whisper. "You reaped them."
He nodded. "And I didn't stop until everyone was dead." She exhaled like she'd been holding her breath through the whole story. "That's not branding," she said. "That's grief. Weaponized."
Rocco gave a humorless smirk. "Call it what you want. But that name? I earned it." And this time, Skylar didn't argue.
The door opened quietly, but the room shifted like a pressure drop. Angelo Mancini stepped inside, dressed in black, every detail immaculate. The air around him seemed to still. Rocco stood instantly, like muscle memory. Skylar followed suit, more out of instinct than respect.
Angelo looked to the hallway first toward the red-lit OR door. Then to Rocco. "How is she?" Rocco's voice was clipped. "Alive. For now."
"And you, regazza?" Angelo nodded to Skylar. "I'm fine," Skylar said before Rocco could answer. "Really."
Angelo gave a single nod. No pleasantries. No wasted breath. Then his eyes settled fully on Rocco. "Did you know who did it?"
Rocco didn't flinch. "We do. Taz is already moving."
A slow nod. "Good." Then, after a pause, Angelo's voice dropped into something colder. Final. "When he finds them, I'll put a green light on them both."
Rocco blinked.
"They touched her," Angelo said. "They touched you. Which means they touched this family. So I'm putting out the word—when Taz locates them, they're fair game to the entire family."
Skylar's eyes widened slightly. "All of you?" Angelo turned to her. For the first time, there was something close to softness in his expression.
"He's made it clear he can't walk away from her. And she's proven she won't walk away from him either." He glanced at Rocco, then back at Skylar.
"That makes her family. And hurting my family gets you killed.. or worse, it gets you Taz. "
No fanfare. No debate. Just… law. Angelo stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Rocco's shoulder. "You protect what's yours, figlio mio. And we protect you."
Then he walked out, just as quietly as he'd come. Skylar sat down again, slowly. "Holy shit," she muttered. "He just… declared war." Rocco didn't sit. "He declared loyalty," he said quietly. "Same thing, if you mess with the wrong people."
On the hunt
Taz drove his own GMC, the black beast roaring quietly at the head of a five-car convoy. No sirens. No lights. Just cold intent and rubber tearing through wet asphalt. They pulled up outside the rundown motel like shadows materializing from the storm.
Inside Room 6, panic was already blooming. "Fuck. Shit… shit shit shit!"
Owen's voice cracked as he darted to the window, yanking the curtain back with trembling fingers.
"Shut up, Owen," Travis snapped, calm and venomous.
"They're gonna kill us," Owen hissed. "They're actually gonna kill us. You don't get it, they don't bluff—what if they send Taz? He's a biomedical scientist or some shit. The guy dissects people, Travis! He's like the worst of the worst—"
Three sharp knocks. Owen flinched so hard he nearly hit the floor. Travis didn't move. Didn't blink. The door creaked open. Slowly. Deliberately. Taz stepped inside. Calm. Unbothered. His long coat dripping rainwater, gloves already on.
He looked like death dressed in black denim. "Hey boys," he said, like he'd just dropped by for tea.
Travis smirked. "Oh, the circus is in town. Ha ha. Get the fuck out."
Taz took one step forward. Tilted his head slightly. "No," he whispered.
Owen's back hit the dresser. "Wh—what do you want?" Taz's gaze slid to Travis. "Travis Williamson. The violent and abusive narcissist." Then to Owen. "And his wittle baby brother." Travis straightened, jaw clenched. "We're not afraid o—"
Taz rolled his eyes. Didn't even look at him. "Get them," he said to his men. Voice flat. Final. "I'm done talking."
And just like that, the room exploded into motion.
The pit
Travis came to with a gasp that got caught halfway down his throat.
He couldn't move.
Arms. Legs. Neck. All strapped, pinned, immobilized. Thick, padded restraints crossed over his chest and thighs, pinning him flat against a cold metal table. Something clicked when he tried to turn his head—like a brace locking in place.
He was naked.
Fully. Completely.
The air around him was clinical, sharp with the sterile scent of antiseptic and latex. There was a light above him—blinding, surgical. And somewhere behind that light… movement.
Across the room, chained to the wall like an abandoned lab rat, Owen groaned.
He was slumped in a corner, wrists shackled to metal cuffs bolted into the concrete. His arms were limp, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him. An IV snaked from one arm—pale nutrient fluid. The other? A steady drip of fentanyl.
His pupils were blown wide.
"Travis…?" Owen's voice was sluggish. "I… I can't…"
Travis tried to lift his head. Couldn't. His body trembled against the restraints.
A voice echoed from somewhere nearby. Calm. Warm. Familiar.
"Oh, good. You're both awake."
Taz.
He stepped into view with a clipboard in one hand and gloves already on. His coat was off. His sleeves rolled up. And that smile? That damn smile was too calm for the setting.
"I was starting to worry you'd sleep through the fun."
He tapped the clipboard.
"Vitals are stable. Sedatives are wearing off. And—" he glanced at Travis, "—panic is setting in nicely."
Travis strained against the table. "What the fuck is this?!"
Taz tilted his head.
"This?"
He gestured around them.
"This is what happens when consequences catch up."
Then he took out a notebook and started writing
"Subject One: fully restrained. Conscious. Exposed. Subject Two: Shackled to wall. Fentanyl will soon take effect, if not. Up the dosage"
He looked down at Travis and grinned.
"Let's begin."