Katy P.O.V
Morning didn't arrive gently.
It crept in like a thief.
I left the penthouse before the sky even remembered how to turn blue. The city was still half-asleep, lights blinking lazily, streets empty in a way that felt unnatural like the world was holding its breath with me. I didn't bother changing properly. I didn't eat. I didn't wait for sunrise.
Waiting had already cost too many lives.
The taxi ride to the mortuary felt longer than it should have been. Every red light felt personal. Every second ticked louder in my head, echoing like a countdown I couldn't stop.
When the building finally appeared—low, grey, and silent, my chest tightened.
The building sat low and squat, its walls the color of old bones. No windows worth mentioning. No sound. Just stillness—thick, expectant.
This was where truth went to be stripped bare.
Inside, the air was cold. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that swallowed screams whole.
The doctors looked up when I approached, their expressions were guarded and professional. I didn't ask politely. I didn't have the strength.
"I'm her lawyer," I lied, sliding my ID across the counter. My fingers were steady, but my heart wasn't. "I need the autopsy report for locker 112"
They hesitated. Then one of them nodded and led me down a narrow corridor. Each step felt heavier than the last, the sound swallowed by walls that had heard far too many final footsteps. My heart began to pound, not fast, but heavy. Like a warning drum.
When they pulled the sheet back—
I stopped breathing.
The lady looked nothing like the one from the footage. The lady who laughed at her TV, popcorn balanced on her chest. This version of her was pale, fragile, emptied of warmth. Her skin held a dull, unnatural tone, as if something had taken its time stealing the life from her body. Her lips were faintly parted, frozen mid-word, mid-thought.
My nails dug into my palms.
I stared.
I forced myself to.
Looking away would have been a betrayal.
The doctor's voice cut through the silence, calm and clinical, as if he wasn't unraveling a nightmare.
"She doesn't look…recent" He said.
"She's been dead longer than the scene suggested" he continued. "Much longer"
Longer.
My jaw clenched.
"Defensive wounds" He continued. "Cause of death was brutal"
I felt my stomach twist.
"She was tortured" He added. "Heavily. More than worse. Signs of struggle. Which tells us she didn't...or couldn't fight"
The word lodged in my throat like glass.
"This was a murder" The doctor said. "It was calculated. Controlled. Whoever did this wanted her death..."
My vision blurred for a second.
"And that's not the worst part" He added.
The room seemed to tilt.
"That's not all" He went on, flipping a page. "The time of death doesn't match the scene"
I looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
His eyes held something professionals weren't supposed to carry.
Fear.
"The body temperature and cellular breakdown indicate she died few days earlier than estimated. The scene was arranged afterward. Someone came back"
Someone returned to rewrite the truth.
They didn't just kill her.
They visited her death.
My hands trembled now.
"There's more," the doctor said, his tone lowering. "We found trace compounds in her bloodstream...experimental. Not on the market. Not traceable through normal medical channels"
Illegal.
Powerful.
Invisible.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"This kind of compound" He added, "is usually only accessible to private labs...or people with powerful connections"
James Bron.
The name didn't need to be spoken. It crawled into my head on its own, heavy and undeniable.
"She didn't die quickly" The doctor said gently. "But she wasn't killed right at the spot. Whoever did this must have moved the body elsewhere"
I stepped back from the table, my breath shallow, my mind racing. This wasn't just murder. This was orchestration. A demonstration of monstrous killing.
A crime designed to look simple from the outside, so no one would think to dig deeper. So no one would notice the hands that moved pieces in the dark.
James Bron hadn't gone quiet.
He had evolved.
I left the mortuary with my fists clenched so tight my nails bit into skin. Outside, the sun was finally rising, spilling weak light across the street. It felt wrong, too hopeful for what I now knew.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the dark screen.
This wasn't about revenge anymore.
This was war.
"I will bring you down" I whispered, my voice shaking with fury. "No matter how deep you hide. No matter who bleeds trying"
As I slipped the phone back into my pocket, it vibrated once.
Unknown number.
One message.
STOP DIGGING.
OR YOU'RE NEXT.
I froze.
My heart skipped.
Then steadied.
Fear didn't bloom.
It sharpened.
Because threats only come when you're close enough to scare monsters.
And James Bron—
James Bron was watching.
Which meant I was finally standing where he could see me.
And this time,
I wasn't turning back.
And that meant I was close.
Laurel P.O.V
The gunshot didn't echo.
It ripped.
The sound tore through the container port like something alive, sharp, angry, final. I flinched so hard my back slammed into the cold steel of the container behind me. My breath shattered into pieces I couldn't gather fast enough.
Abigail was still firing.
Wildly and desperately.
Each shot felt calculated, measured like she had already accepted that someone would die tonight.
I pressed my palms over my mouth to keep myself quiet. My injured leg screamed in protest, a hot pulse of pain shooting up my thigh, but fear drowned it out. Fear always did.
Bullets hit metal.
Metal screamed back.
Men shouted—orders, curses, names I didn't recognize. The port had transformed into something unreal, a nightmare stitched together by shadows and muzzle flashes. I didn't know where to look. I didn't know who was winning.
I only knew one thing.
If I stayed here, I would die.
A hand finally grabbed my wrist.
I nearly screamed.
"Quiet" A voice hissed.
The man called the Caporegime.
His face appeared out of the sunlight like it had been waiting for me. Calm. Focused. Deadly in a way that didn't need to announce itself.
"Move. Now"
I didn't argue.
I couldn't.
He pulled me away from the container just as another shot rang out, so close I felt the vibration in my bones. We slipped between stacked crates, shadows swallowing us whole. Every step sent lightning through my injured leg. I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood.
Don't cry.
Don't slow him down.
Don't die.
The chaos faded behind us, not gone, just distant. Like a storm still raging, but no longer overhead.
We reached a narrow alley hidden between rusted containers and abandoned equipment. At the far end stood a small structure—half-collapsed, forgotten, invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.
The Caporegime shoved the door open and pulled me inside.
There was darkness.
The door shut behind us with a soft click that felt louder than gunfire.
I sagged immediately, my legs giving up the fight. He caught me before I hit the floor, his grip was firm. The room smelled of dust, oil, and old secrets.
A hiding place.
A waiting room for ghosts.
He eased me down onto a wooden chair and turned away.
"I'll be back" He said. "Stay here"
Panic punched through me.
"No...wait!"
I grabbed his hand before I could stop myself. My fingers dug into his sleeve like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
"I'm hurt" I said. My voice cracked despite my effort. "Please"
He turned slowly, irritation flashing across his face.
"You'll be fine"
"What if I get caught here?" I pressed. "I can't run. My leg...."
He cursed under his breath.
Frustration radiated off him as he moved toward a rusted drawer, yanking it open. He pulled out a small first aid box—old, dented, clearly not meant for comfort.
He crouched in front of me and began working on my leg.
His touch was rough but careful. Like he hated the situation, not the task.
I sucked in a sharp breath as pain flared.
"Who are you?" I asked quietly. "Really"
Silence filled the room.
"Why are they so scared of Alpha?" I tried again. "What kind of man is he?"
He stayed quiet.
"Why does everyone listen when he speaks?" I whispered. "Why does his name feel like a death sentence?"
Still the same silence from him.
My heart pounded harder.
"What about Abigail?" I asked softly. "Why does she..."
The gun came up so fast I barely saw it.
Cold metal aimed straight at my chest.
"You know a lot" He said flatly. "And I won't let the Underboss fall into your trap"
Fear slammed into me so hard it stole my breath.
"I'm not a trap" I said quickly, forcing a weak smile that felt foreign on my face. "I'm just…exhausted. And honestly? I'm sick of everyone thinking I'm a spy. I don't even understand half of what's happening. Mafia, Dons, Underbosses...I didn't ask for any of this"
His eyes searched mine, sharp and unforgiving.
"I don't want you to believe me" I added with frustration spilling out. "I just want to go home. I want my simple, ridiculous, luxurious life back. I want to wake up without thinking someone's going to kill me before breakfast"
The gun lowered.
Slowly.
He slipped it back into his pocket and returned to my leg, finishing the bandage with brisk movements. The tension didn't leave the room, but it loosened, just a little.
Gunshots echoed again in the distance.
Closer this time.
I flinched.
My heart sank.
Abigail was still out there.
I prayed she was still alive.
I prayed Richardo was nowhere near this.
And for the first time since all of this began, I made a silent promise to myself—
If I ever got out of this alive,
I would disappear from Richardo's world forever.
Even if it killed me to do it.
Because surviving the mafia wasn't about escape.
It was about what parts of you didn't make it out.
And I could already feel pieces of myself slipping away.