“I’m here to get you girls home,” I respond, tucking my gun back in my boot. She looks at me warily, as do some of the other girls. None of them are going to trust me. I get it. I’m scarred from head to toe, have two different colored eyes—both on the dramatic spectrum—and I’m not a small guy. Not to mention, I just murdered a bunch of men in front of their faces. “Backup is coming in,” Jay informs, right before I hear the back door open and several people rush in. “Young man, it’s a bloodbath in here. These poor girls! Shame on you, Z.” I wince at the sound of Ruby's voice. Can’t make me flinch from firing off a bullet two inches from my head but Ruby... God help me. “Tt couldn’t be avoided, Ruby. I—" “Not another word from you. If your mother were here, she’d have your ass.” I grunt but don’t respond, letting her hem and haw over the survivors while still muttering reprimands under her breath. Ruby was a good friend of my mom’s and likes to remind me—and the rest of the crew—that she used to wipe my ass when I was a baby. If I could’ve killed the traffickers in private, I would’ve, and I hate that I added to their trauma. But when you have a warehouse full of armed men, there’s no calling them back to your office one at a time like they’re being fired from their job. They need to be taken down swiftly where they stand. Otherwise, there’s room for error, potentially resulting in one of the survivors getting hurt or killed. Necessary means to get the girls out. The other two that came in with Ruby, Michael and Steve, take care of the bodies. Michael is dragging a struggling Fernando out, tossing me the keys to the girls' chains as he passes by. Ruby already found another set on one of the dead bodies and is currently unchaining the others. I approach the mother hen of the group and unchain her collar, my hand nearly shaking from the fury of having to unhook a fucking collar from a little girl’s neck. Welts and a large bruise encircle her throat, but I don’t let her see the rage simmering beneath the surface. She stares at me silently, suspicion and tentative hope warring in her pretty light brown eyes. Her eyes remind me of my little mouse, and something protective flares inside my chest. “What’s your name, kid?” I ask, keeping my eyes trained to hers. She’s probably waiting for my leery gaze to travel the expanse of her body, but she won’t ever get that shit from me. “Sicily,” she answers. I quirk a brow.