The black sedan's engine purred low and steady as Althea, Eli, and Runa cut through the darker arteries of Los Angeles. Night smelled different here—sharper, more honest. Exhaust mingled with rain-soaked asphalt, cheap takeout drifting from late-night stalls, and the faint electric ozone that warned a storm was coming.
Eli's phone buzzed. Albert.
She answered on the second ring.
"What is it?"
Althea glanced over, sapphire eyes flickering with the silent language the sisters had perfected over years of working side by side.
"Both cars?" Eli's jaw tightened. "How long?"
A pause. Rain began misting the windshield.
"Make it quick." She hung up.
"Albert?" Althea asked, neon streaks sliding across her hair as they passed shuttered storefronts.
"Both security vehicles. Tires slashed. All four on each car." Eli's red hair darkened in the sedan's shadows. "Professional cuts. They knew exactly where to hit."
Albert never called unless it mattered. He'd kept the Vale family alive for over a decade—first under their father Roman, then under Eli when she took over security. Thorough. Paranoid. Excellent.
"Time estimate?" Althea asked, fingers drumming once on the steering wheel—a rarity.
"Twenty minutes. Fifteen if they push." Eli's mind calculated distances. "We're at least twelve minutes out. Maybe eight if—"
"No." Althea's tone snapped into command, the same unyielding note their father used when decisions weren't up for debate. "We don't run. Not from street trash."
"Someone following us?" Runa asked, glancing behind.
For a moment, as the car glided through the empty street, there was almost a sense of safety.
Almost.
Neon signage fractured across puddles like shards of broken glass. Runa shifted, fingertips brushing the leather seat, ice-blue eyes scanning every shadow, every alley mouth, every dark window. Her heart hammered. Instinct screamed.
And she'd learned to trust instinct ever since her father vanished and her life imploded.
"There," Eli murmured.
Althea's hands tightened around the wheel. "I see them."
Figures shifted at the mouth of an alley ahead—too many, moving with intent. The sedan slowed. Althea's mind began calculating threats and escape routes.
"How many?"
"Twelve visible," Eli said. "Mixed weapons. Sloppy formation. Street muscle pretending they're professionals."
"No syndicate backing," Althea agreed. Not the Kozlovs—not with that level of disorganization. Not the Chens or Morellis. "This is personal."
Personal could still be fatal.
A man stepped forward—the one from The Vault. The one Eli had humiliated before throwing him out into the rain.
He wasn't alone now.
More men spilled from the shadows, blocking both ends of the street. Weapons glinted under sickly yellow streetlights—pipes, hunting knives, bats. Two raised handguns, held sideways like they'd learned from movies.
Althea killed the engine. Silence crashed over them. Rain hammered the roof.
"Options," she said calmly.
"Ram the front group?" Eli suggested.
"Too risky. They'll panic-fire, and Runa—" Althea's gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Runa's pale face. "We don't risk her."
"Then we handle it." Eli's hand drifted to the gun under her jacket. She'd been training since she was twelve—Roman Vale refused to raise children who couldn't protect themselves. By sixteen, she could outshoot half of Albert's best.
Runa reached for the door. Eli stopped her with a firm hand.
"Stay in the car."
"But—"
"I'll handle this. You two stay," Althea commanded.
"Like hell," Eli muttered. She pulled her weapon, checking it with practiced efficiency.
Althea reached under her seat and drew her own gun. Both sisters moved with the smooth, unhurried confidence of women who had lived with violence since childhood.
The lead thug stepped forward, rain cutting rivulets down his sneer.
"Just because you're Vale doesn't mean you can push us around forever! You think you're untouchable!"
Eli stepped out, placing herself between the car and the threat—between the thugs and Runa. Rain soaked her instantly, cold and relentless, but she didn't react.
Inside, Runa's breaths came fast and shallow. Eli remembered the night at the estate—how the sight of blood had frozen her, hands shaking for hours.
Eli leaned back toward the car slightly, voice softening. "Runa. Look at me."
Those wide ice-blue eyes met hers.
"Close your eyes," Eli whispered. "Don't open them until I say. Just breathe and count. Can you do that?"
Runa swallowed hard. Nodded. Eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the seat until her knuckles whitened.
Eli straightened, her voice turning cold and lethal. "You want to know why being Vale matters? You're about to find out."
The thug with the tire iron opened his mouth. "Big words from a—"
He never finished.
The gunman beside him raised his weapon, hands shaking. Amateur—his intent telegraphed through every tense muscle.
Eli was faster.
Her arm lifted smoothly. Two shots cracked through the rain—clean, controlled. Both hit his shooting arm. He screamed and went down.
The second gunman raised his weapon—too slow.
Althea's shot hit the ground near his feet, spraying water and dust.
"Drop it," she commanded, her voice absolute, cold. "Next one goes through your knee."
He dropped it immediately.
Fear rippled through the group. They'd expected to overwhelm two women with numbers. They hadn't expected precision. Training. Bloodline.
"You see that?" Eli called out over the rain. "That's the difference between you and us. You picked up guns last week. We've been training since childhood."
Her aim shifted to the leader.
"Our father made sure every Vale could handle themselves. By fifteen, I could outshoot grown men who'd been in the business for decades."
His tire iron trembled.
"So here's what happens now," Althea continued. "Drop your weapons. Walk away. If you're smart, leave the city."
"And if we don't?" one man stammered.
Althea fired again—this time into a trash can ten feet away. Dead center. Flawless.
"Then we stop being merciful," Eli said.
Rain streamed down her face, eyes cold as ice.
"Walk away bruised… or get carried away bleeding. Your choice."
Silence. Then—
Clatter.
A tire iron. A bat. A knife. The remaining gun.Some run away.
But the leader didn't drop his weapon. Humiliation burned too deep. He roared and charged.
Eli's aim snapped up.
Althea touched her wrist—just a question.
Are you sure?
Eli adjusted—lower, deliberate.
The gunshot cracked. He screamed, collapsing, bullet through his thigh. The tire iron skittered across the pavement.
"That's for The Vault," Eli said softly. "I told you not to show your face again. You thought I forgot."
She stepped closer.
"I don't forget. Vales don't forget. And I won't kill you. You get to live and tell everyone what happens when you come after my family."
She turned away.
"Althea. We're done—"
Movement.
From rooftops. From windows. From the dark.
Figures emerged—coordinated, professional, armed.
Not street thugs.
An ambush.
"DOWN!" Althea screamed.
Gunfire ripped the night open.