Stacy POV:

The next morning, I was abruptly woken up by the obnoxious sound of my phone ringing. I groggily reached for it, squinting at the screen to see who was calling. It was one of my soldiers. With a sigh, I answered the call, trying to keep my voice low as I disentangled myself from Noah's sleeping form. I didn't want to wake him up.

"What?" I answered in my 'Donna' voice, authoritative and no-nonsense.

"Donna, the Irish attacked one of our shipments again," came the urgent voice on the other end. "We managed to capture five of their soldiers."

A flicker of irritation crossed my face, but I quickly masked it. "Good. I'll meet you at our main warehouse in an hour," I said, my voice steady and cold. With that, I hung up, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle back onto my shoulders. It was Saturday, and the past two days had been a rare respite, filled with warmth and laughter with the triplets. Going from living together for the past three years to not seeing each other for a week had been hard on all of us. But duty called, and I had to return to my other life.

It was only 5 AM, so I got dressed quietly, careful not to wake Noah or his siblings. I slipped on a pair of black jeans and a leather jacket, pulling my hair into a tight ponytail. Before leaving, I went down to the kitchen and quickly scribbled a note for the triplets and their parents, explaining that I had an early errand to run and would be back later.

With a deep breath, I stepped out into the cool morning air and hopped onto my motorbike. The engine roared to life, and I sped down the empty streets, the wind whipping past me as I made my way to our main base. The early hour meant the roads were deserted, and I reached the warehouse in record time.

As I parked my bike and walked in, my men nodded respectfully, acknowledging my presence. I didn't waste any time, heading straight down to the basement where our captives were being held. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that comes before a storm. My heart beat steadily, the familiar rhythm of control and power.

It was time to remind these Irish fuckers who they were dealing with.

Descending into the basement, a cold, sterile environment met me, the dim light casting elongated shadows that danced across the concrete walls. The air was thick with the scent of dampness and fear, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of blood. My boots echoed ominously on the hard floor as I approached the five Irish soldiers, bound and gagged in their chairs, their eyes wide with a mix of defiance and terror.

The room was bare except for a sturdy table covered with a chilling array of tools. Knives, scalpels, pliers, a blowtorch—each carefully selected for the artistry of pain. My men stood in a line along the walls, silent and watchful. Alex, one of my most trusted soldiers, stepped forward.

"They're all yours, Donna," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the anticipation in his eyes.

"Leave us," I commanded. My voice was cold, authoritative. Without a word, my men filed out, the door closing with a heavy thud behind them, sealing me in with my captives.

I walked over to the table, my fingers brushing lightly over the tools, feeling the cold metal against my skin. I selected a scalpel, the blade gleaming under the dim light. It felt comfortable in my hand, a familiar weight. I turned to the first man, a young soldier, barely more than a boy. His face was already bruised, a fresh cut marring his cheek. I moved closer, watching as he struggled against his bonds, eyes darting around in panic.

I crouched in front of him, bringing the scalpel to his cheek, just above the cut. "Let's start with something simple," I murmured, my voice low and steady. "Why did Kennedy send you?"

He glared at me, his jaw clenched tightly. I sighed, almost disappointed, and pressed the blade into his skin. The scalpel glided smoothly, opening a neat line that quickly welled with blood. He winced, a muffled groan escaping through the gag. I watched as the blood trickled down his cheek, mingling with the sweat.

"That's just the beginning," I said, wiping the blade clean. "Now, let's try again. Why did Kennedy send you?"

Silence. I frowned, irritated by his stubbornness. I picked up a pair of pliers, examining them thoughtfully before turning back to him. With deliberate slowness, I grasped his hand, forcing his fingers apart. He struggled, but I held him firm, clamping the pliers around his pinky. With a quick, brutal twist, I snapped the bone. A muffled scream tore through the gag, his eyes bulging with pain.

"Still nothing?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. His silence was answer enough. I continued, moving to each finger, methodically breaking them one by one. The sound of snapping bones filled the room, a gruesome symphony accompanied by his agonized cries. His face contorted in pain, tears mixing with the blood on his cheek.

When I reached the last finger, I paused, watching his chest heave with ragged breaths. "Last chance," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. With a sigh, I snapped the final finger, tossing the pliers back onto the table with a clatter.

I moved to the next man, an older soldier with grizzled features. He stared at me, a flicker of defiance in his bloodshot eyes. I picked up a serrated knife, running my thumb along the jagged edge. "You know how this works," I said calmly. "Tell me what I want to know, and this can end."

His lips curled into a sneer, even as his hands trembled. I met his gaze, unflinching, and brought the knife to his thigh. With a swift motion, I sliced through the fabric and into the flesh beneath. Blood spurted out, the sharp scent filling the room. He grunted in pain, biting down on the gag to stifle his screams. I carved deeper, the serrated edge tearing through muscle and sinew, exposing raw, bleeding tissue.

He screamed then, a guttural, primal sound. It echoed off the walls, mingling with the harsh, labored breathing of the other captives. I watched him squirm, the pain evident in every line of his body. But he didn't break. Not yet.

I continued my grim work, moving from one man to the next. I used the blowtorch, searing flesh and filling the room with the acrid stench of burning meat. The flames danced over their skin, leaving charred, blackened patches in their wake. Their screams rose in a crescendo, a symphony of agony that reverberated through the concrete walls. Blood pooled beneath their chairs, mixing with sweat and tears, creating a macabre tapestry on the cold, gray floor.

The third man, a burly soldier with a scar running down his cheek, was next. I used a pair of wire cutters, clamping them around his fingers and squeezing until the bones shattered. He whimpered, his bravado crumbling with each sickening crunch. I pried open his mouth, ignoring the blood that trickled down his chin, and inserted the cutters around his front teeth. With a swift, brutal motion, I snapped them off, one by one, dropping the bloody shards onto the floor.

By the time I reached the fourth man, my patience was wearing thin. He was sobbing, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood from his broken nose. I grabbed a heavy mallet, swinging it with a dull thud against his knee. The bone shattered, his leg bending at an unnatural angle. His screams were high-pitched, almost hysterical. I crouched beside him, tilting his head up to meet my gaze.

"Tell me," I demanded, my voice icy. "Why did Kennedy you?"

He gasped for breath, his eyes rolling back in his head. Finally, he broke. "He wants you," he sobbed, his voice cracking. "He sent us... to steal from you, he wants to make you weak so he can take you down... Please, i swear thats all i know..."

I smiled, a cold, satisfied smile. "Good," I said softly, standing up. "But we're not done yet."

The final man was the hardest. A grizzled veteran, his face a mask of pain and defiance. I circled him, studying him like a predator. "You think you're tough," I mused, picking up a pair of rusted pliers. "Let's see how tough you really are."

With a swift motion, I wrenched his mouth open, ignoring his muffled protests. I clamped the pliers around his tongue, feeling the muscle strain under the pressure. He struggled, his eyes wild with terror. With a vicious twist, I ripped the tongue from his mouth, blood spraying across my face and hands. He gurgled, a choked, guttural sound, blood pouring from the gaping wound. I dropped the severed tongue to the floor, watching as it twitched, a pool of blood forming around it.

He convulsed, choking on his own blood, his eyes rolling back. I leaned in close, my voice a low whisper. "Now," I said, my tone deadly. "You can tell me everything, or you can die here, slowly, painfully. Your choice."

He broke, just like the others. In gasping, broken words, he spilled everything—plans, locations, names. I listened, my face a mask of calm. When he finished, I straightened up, wiping my hands on a clean cloth. The room was a slaughterhouse, the floor slick with blood and other fluids. The air was thick with the stench of pain and death.

I turned on my heel and walked out, my heart pounding in my chest. My men waited outside, their faces grim. I nodded at them, signaling that it was over. They knew what to do—clean up, dispose of the bodies, erase any trace of what had happened here.

As I stepped into the cool morning air, the rising sun cast long shadows across the ground. The world outside was calm, peaceful, a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the adrenaline. I had done what needed to be done, protected my family and my business. The Irish had made a mistake, and they had paid dearly for it.

Noah POV:

I stirred awake to the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. I instinctively reached out for Stacy, but my hand found only cold, empty sheets. A wave of confusion washed over me as I sat up, scanning the room. Her clothes were gone, and the faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air. A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. Stacy was never one to slip away without a word, especially after the couple of days we'd spent together, reconnecting.

I quickly grabbed my phone, hoping for a message or missed call, but there was nothing. I felt a jolt of worry; with Stacy's line of work, anything could happen. My mind raced through possibilities, and none of them were comforting. I cursed under my breath and dialed her number, only to hear it go straight to voicemail. The sinking feeling in my gut deepened.

Throwing on some clothes, I rushed out of the room, determined to find some answers. The house was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that makes your heart pound louder. As I reached the kitchen, I spotted a small piece of paper on the countertop. My heart skipped a beat. A note.

I snatched it up, reading the hastily scribbled words:

"Got some Irish fuckers. Going to the main base. Be back later. Stacy."

I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by a mix of frustration and concern. Stacy was okay, at least for now, but her note was characteristically cryptic. She'd gone to deal with some Irish guys—probably another messy job for the organization. My mind wandered to what that could entail, and I shuddered at the thought.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed Ollie and Lily entering the kitchen. They were my siblings, my partners in crime, and in this strange life we all shared. We knew Stacy inside out, her secrets, her dangerous double life. She was our best friend and confidante, and we knew she tried to trust us with everything—except, it seemed, this morning's escapade.

"Hey, what's going on?" Ollie asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He noticed the note in my hand. "Did Stacy leave?"

"Yeah," I replied, holding up the note for him to see. "She said she had to deal with some Irish fuckers at the main base. Didn't say much else."

Lily frowned, peering over Ollie's shoulder to read the note. "Typical Stacy," she muttered, a hint of irritation in her voice. "Always rushing off to handle things on her own."

I nodded, understanding her frustration. "Yeah, but that's how she is. She always thinks she has to protect us, even though we're all in this together."

Ollie sighed, leaning against the counter. "She shouldn't have to bear the weight alone. We could've gone with her."

Lily nodded in agreement. "We all know what's at stake. We're her friends, her family. She doesn't have to keep us out of the loop."

I couldn't help but agree. Stacy had a habit of shouldering everything herself, even when she didn't have to. It was part of her charm, her fierce independence, but it also drove a wedge between us at times. We were a team, bound by shared experiences and a mutual understanding of the dangers of our world. We all had each other's backs, no matter what.

As the reality of Stacy's absence settled in, I felt a pang of worry again. I knew she was capable, more so than most, but the world she navigated was treacherous. The Irish had been a thorn in our side for a while, and dealing with them was never straightforward. The thought of her facing them alone sent a shiver down my spine.

I looked at my siblings, seeing the same concern mirrored in their eyes. We all felt the weight of Stacy's absence, the uncertainty of what she might be facing. "She'll be okay," I said, more to reassure myself than them. "Stacy's tough. She can handle it."

Ollie nodded, though his expression remained troubled. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean we can't worry. She's our family too, you know?"

Lily crossed her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I just wish she'd let us help more. We're all in this together, after all."

I put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "I know. But for now, all we can do is wait. She'll be back soon."

The three of us lingered in the kitchen, the note lying on the counter like a silent reminder of Stacy's dangerous life. We decided to make breakfast together, a small attempt to bring some normalcy into our day. The scent of pancakes and bacon soon filled the room, but it couldn't entirely chase away the lingering worry.

As we sat down to eat, the unease in my stomach persisted. We had all known Stacy for years, understood the risks she took, and trusted her judgment. But that didn't make the waiting any easier. We were her family, her support system, and we all knew we would do anything to protect her, just as she would for us.

With each passing minute, we hoped for her safe return, eager for the moment when she'd walk through the door with that confident smirk and another story to tell. Until then, we'd hold onto the faith that she would come back to us, unharmed and victorious.

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A/n:

Another chapter!

We can ignore the fact that I have zero creativity and that this is absolute dog shit

Anyway love you all! Don't forget to vote and comment!

WC: 2705