I step out of the taxi, stilettos clicking against the cracked concrete, my leather folder tucked beneath one arm. Today has been full of lies dressed in legal terms, and my heels hurt like hell. I light a cigarette—not because I need it, but because it buys me a moment. I’m following the same routine my dad did when he was a detective, before he got Carter in and left without a reason.
A voice interrupts the silence.
“Rebecca Ferez?”
I sigh, draw the smoke in and drag my answer. I’m bored already.
“God, what now? Did someone finally die and leave me the bill?”
A man steps out from the shadows. Leather jacket, hunched shoulders, breath that probably smells like rot and regret.
“Your father’s debt. Thirty grand. I’m here to collect.”
I turn my head slowly, flick ash onto the pavement and eye him up like he’s a bad painting hanging in the wrong gallery.
“You know what’s wild?” I say sweetly.
“You’re out here threatening me... over a man who once bet me in a game of blackjack. I was twelve.”
He frowns, shifting his weight.
“It’s not personal.”
“Oh, sweetie.” I step closer, leaning in as if I’m about to confess a secret.
“If you’re trying to scare a woman who’s been cross-examined by murderers and politicians all day… you’re gonna need a better speech.”
I flick my cigarette toward the gutter.
“Tell them I’ll get their money when I get my childhood back. Fair trade, right?”
I point behind him. “Oh look, a brain cell!”
Inside, it’s half-empty. The bass is slow and sultry, like the city itself. Tired. I find Carter at the bar looking stressed with dark eyes, half a smile, and his usual drink already poured.
“Look who it is,” he says, lifting his glass.
I slide onto the stool next to him. “Don’t go soft on me now. I’m here for one drink, and then I’m taking my tired ass home.”
Carter chuckles, handing me a fresh glass of raspberry cider.
“Long day?”
I sip. “Long life, Carter. But thanks for asking.”
Carter eyes me.
“You look like you’ve had a nightmare.”
I smirk. “Just debt collectors.”
I unwrap a sandwich with cold chicken salad and too much mayo, the first thing I will eat today. I take a slow bite and chew, speaking with a mouthful.
“My dad’s deeper than I thought. It’s not seven grand anymore… It’s hundreds of thousands. These guys want it in a week. I’ve run away from two of them today.”
Carter’s jaw tightens. He leans forward, resting his arms on the bar.
“In a week? Jesus… Rebecca, that’s suicide.”
I shrug, wiping mayo from my lip with the back of my hand.
“Risk assessment’s my speciality. I’ll find a way.”
Carter shakes his head. “Give me time to figure something out. I’ll pull some strings—”
I cut him off. “Time’s the one thing I don’t have.”
Carter watches me, arms folded, gaze steady.
“Stay at my place tonight.”
I huff, rolling my eyes just enough to make my point but not enough to give him real satisfaction.
“Tempting. But I draw the line at living off stale coffee and listening to you and Mags arguing.”
“You don’t have to be tough all the time, you know?”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Watch me.”
He smirks, shaking his head.
“You can drop the act with me.”
I pause mid-chew, eyes on the counter.
“Act? Please. This is survival, Carter. Sarcasm’s cheaper than therapy and, frankly, more effective.”
He chuckles.
“One day, you’re gonna admit I have a point.”
I wipe my fingers on my skirt, shaking my head.
“In one week, I’ll either pay, or I won’t be here to complain.”
I stand, adjusting my coat and Carter slides my tab to me.
“Call me if anything changes. Or if you need backup.”
Tossing a bill onto the bar, I smirk.
“Backups are overrated. But thanks for the emotional support, Detective.”
I turn, heading for the door.
“Need me to walk you home?”
I grin and throw my head back. “Please. I’d rather get mugged than owe you a favour.”
Carter laughs as I glance over my shoulder. “Night, Carter.”
“Text me when you’re in.”
“Aw, look at you pretending to care.”
He grins as I slip out the door.
Two shots.
The first man jerks backward, skull snapping against the brick wall with a wet crack. No scream. Just the thud of meat collapsing. The second tries—his mouth opens wide, like it might save him, but I fire through the center of it. Blood bursts against the alley wall like paint.
Quick. Surgical. Necessary.
I don’t look down. The dead don’t interest me. The message does.
Sliding the gun beneath my coat, I step forward, boots slick with warm crimson.
Carter steps out of the club. Predictable. He has a daily routine. Same locations, similar mistakes. He can pretend otherwise, but I know better.
The neon paints him in slashes of color. He was already pale, but now, he’s ghostly.
He sees them. The bodies. The weight of what had been left behind. No words, or movement—just a single second where his breath pauses, as if he believed this may appear different.
I exhale slowly. Rex shifts, stress coursing through him. Dante observes, unreadable.
Carter doesn’t move.
I tilt my head to assess. He has seen this before. Knows what happens when warnings are ignored, debts are underpaid, and the wrong people become brave. Still, there’s something there—a twitch of his fingers, the tightening of his jaw. Frustration? Disgust? Regret?
“Should’ve stayed inside, Detective. Less to clean up in there.”
Carter’s gaze flickers to me, jaw tight, but I don’t wait for his response.
Rex rolls his shoulders. Dante continues to watch and I move forward.
Tonight just got interesting.
His hands are shaking, barely noticeable unless you know what to look for. I always know.
He opens his mouth.
I raise a hand.
“You’re not listening. I don’t repeat myself.”
His throat bobs when he swallows. I can smell panic rising from him like sweat. He still thinks he has room to maneuver.
He doesn’t.
I take a slow step closer, adjusting my cuffs. “You’re gonna set your friend up.”
He doesn’t respond.
Another step. Closer.
“You’re gonna give her to me.” I grin. “Not just hand her over. Ruin her. Send her to Vito. Put a bullet in everything she trusts. And when it’s done, you’ll tell me you were proud of it.”
He flinches.
“Kenzo—” he starts.
I cut him off with a look.
“You don’t say my name here.”
The air chokes between us. Thick with blood, smoke and consequence.
“You know what’s on the line. Your wife’s morning run? That predictable ten-minute window before she passes the coffee shop?”
His face drains.
“Your son’s tutor. The one you never background checked?” I smirk.
“I have men in places you don’t think exist.” I lean in now, close enough he can feel the violence coiled under my skin. “I’ll erase them from the earth and leave you to rot in the silence they used to fill.”
He stares at me with his lips parted, breath shallow. The war is already lost in his eyes.
“Say it,” I whisper.
He hesitates.
Then, quietly: “I’ll do it.”
I smile.
“Good.”
I step past him, leaving the bodies cooling in my wake. Carter stays frozen in the alley, trapped between two corpses and the ruins of his own conscience.
I never look back.
THE NEXT DAY
The courthouse steps are packed.
On one side: lawyers in sharp grey suits, barking into phones and clutching files like shields.
On the other: criminals.
The usual types.
Faces hollowed out, yellow eyes, and hands that tremble at nothing. Shirts hang to their wiry bodies like wet rags, and the air smells of sweat and something sourer, heavier—as if fear has spent too much time in the sun.
I stay near the top of the stairs, where the wind keeps the worst of it at bay.
“You need a break before you grind yourself into bone dust and legal briefs.”
I don’t look at him. Instead, I press my palms into my eyes, trying to flatten the headache crawling behind them.
“Can’t afford a break. Not when my dad’s neck’s in a vice and the clock’s ticking like a damn bomb.”
His smile slips, barely. I catch the flick of his eyes toward the street, the twitch in his jaw. Small, fast, and telling.
“You ever think,” he asks carefully, “some people don’t want saving?”
I drop my hands and fix him with a dry glare.
“I don’t care if he wants saving. He’s mine to save. End of story.”
There’s a pause.
“You still need real cash?”
I raise a brow. “Unless you’ve got a winning lotto ticket in your back pocket, yeah.”
He stops spinning the keys and catches them mid-loop.
“I know a guy. Private games. Invite-only. High-stakes poker. Real money, fast.”
I scoff, taking a half-step back.
“Oh good. Because nothing screams ‘financial stability’ like betting what little I have on men who think poker’s a personality trait.”
“It’s clean. Discreet. You walk in, you win, you walk out. Just cards and nerves.”
I open my mouth to fire back something biting, but his hand snaps out catching my wrist, firmly.
“Don’t look,” he demands.
I freeze.
The courthouse doors creak open behind me.
Carter’s grip tightens.
I hear footsteps, specifically leather soles and turn slightly. Just enough to see why Carter told me not to look.
Not lawyers or junkies. Worse.
The crowd senses it before they see it. Conversation dies mid-word. Even the most jaded suits stumble backward without realizing.
These men don’t blend in.
They don’t need to.
Six of them, built like they’ve been carved from the same brutal mold: broad shoulders, tailored shapphire blue suits and real gold hex-pattern ties at their throats like silent badges. Ink crawls up their necks, disappearing beneath starched white collars.
Their movements are smooth and quiet with no wasted energy.
Predators.
Pack hunters.
The courthouse steps tilt beneath my feet as they approach, then I spot him.
At their center, moving with the casual arrogance of a man who’s never had to wait for anything in his life.
Black hair combed back from a face too cruel to be beautiful or ignored. Sun-touched skin, a jagged scar brushing his jawline.
And those eyes.
Steel-grey.
Deadly, but alive
Carter whispers without looking:
“If you wanna live, don’t talk to him.”
I roll my eyes.
“Relax. I only flirt with death when I’m bored.”
But my fingers curl tighter around my folder. My jaw is set, my smile fixed.
Because survival is a performance and I never drop the act.
Carter’s eyes are wide with fear, begging me to blend in. I sigh and try to look away. Really, I do. Head down, eyes anywhere else to blend into the scenery like a potted plant in a courthouse lobby.
Doesn’t matter.
His eyes snap to mine. I swear I hear the air rip.
For a second, the crowd, chaos and the city—all collapse from reality. Then there’s me and him.
Carter’s fingers twitch where they grip my wrist. “Becks,” he murmurs. “Whatever happens next… don’t run.”
