James
The car sped through the night, engine growling low as the driver took every turn like it owed him something. The inside smelled like gunpowder and sweat. Leather seats sticky with heat. She was crumpled against me, blood streaking down her temple, her lips parted slightly like she was caught somewhere between this world and the next. I kept my arm around her shoulders, fingers unconsciously pressing against the hollow of her neck to feel the pulse.
Still there. Weak, but steady.
Fleory sat beside us, legs spread, hands clasped between her knees, breathing like she'd run a marathon. Her eyes hadn't moved from the floor since we got in. She hadn't spoken, either. But I could feel the questions pulsing off her like heat. And the judgment.
"You're quiet," I said finally.
"Trying to decide if you've gone soft," she muttered, not looking up.
"Wouldn't be the worst thing," I said. "Better than becoming whatever the hell Siege is."
At that, her eyes finally lifted. Narrowed. "Siege ordered the hit?"
I glanced down at her in my arms. "She knew it the second she saw them."
Fleory's lips pressed into a tight line. She sat back, folding her arms like she was holding something in.
She didn't miss a beat. "You shouldn't have brought her."
I rolled my jaw, kept my voice level. "She would've died."
"She should've died." Fleory's voice was cold, biting. "That was her father's hit squad. Her mess. You don't drag a liability out of the fire just because she's bleeding."
She was? I looked down at the woman in my arms, blood crusted at her hairline, bruises blooming beneath her skin like something wilting.
"She's valuable," I said finally, the words sharp, as I assessed her bruises more closely. "She knows Siege's codes. His fallback patterns. She knows who he trusts, where he sends his shadows. She's been his shadow her whole life. Like it or not, we will need her," before adding "And she's my guest. She can die somewhere else but not in one of my properties."
Fleory scoffed. "That's not why you carried her out."
"She's a strategic asset," I repeated, firmer now. "If we're going to move on Siege, we need every edge. Every crack in his system. And she is that crack. He left her behind, Fleory. That makes her now dangerous, she would want revenge."
Fleory leaned forward a little, eyes locked on mine. "And if she wasn't? If she didn't know any of that? You still would've pulled her out."
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure. Because maybe she was right. But I didn't want to deal with that. I adjusted her in my arms, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened at how small she felt.
Her skin was pale, in a way that spoke of blood loss, of shock, of something vital slipping quietly out of her. Long black hair spilled over my arm like smoke, tangled from the chaos but still unnervingly perfect. It was the kind of black that swallowed light, like the night itself had claimed her. It clung to her like mourning, curling around the crease of my elbow like it belonged there. Her eyelashes were long, impossibly so, casting delicate shadows across her cheeks. Peaceful. But not the kind you earn. Still, her face held that same stubborn, haunting kind of beauty; the kind that made you look twice, and then regret it, because there was something so tired in it.
And as I sat there, holding her, feeling the faint thump of her pulse against my hand, I finally realized Fleory was still watching me. I forced myself to look away.
"She's going to hate that you carried her out," Fleory said eventually, dry as ash.
"Not my problem," I muttered, eyes fixed on the window.
The wind howled against the glass, sharp and violent, as the car sliced down the highway like it was running from something. Headlights smeared across the wet asphalt in broken streaks.
Fleory muttered it like she didn't want anyone to hear. "Are we finally flying home?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stared out the window as the trees blurred by, spindly silhouettes cracking against the headlights. Russia had drained us. Two weeks of ice-laced breath and concrete skies, of double-crosses and gunmetal dawns. No sun, just clouds that hovered like waiting fists. Even the snow here felt angry, sharp-edged and grimy. The sun had forgotten this place, and I hadn't realized how much I missed it until I thought of Italy—of marble courtyards soaked in gold, of the heat clinging to your shirt like a second skin. We weren't going back to Italy, though. Not yet.
Fleory pulled her coat tighter, leaned her head back against the seat. "I'm sick of this place," she said, voice low and rough. "Sick of waiting for the sky to bleed color again."
I nodded, almost to myself. "We fly at 12."
She didn't respond, but I could hear the exhale. A slow unraveling of tension she'd been coiled around for too long.
We flew to New York.
The jet cut across the clouds like a blade, silent and precise. Fleory slept, curled up like a fox in her oversized coat, while I stayed awake, one hand still resting over her pulse like it might vanish if I looked away. The windows blurred with sleet as we descended, city lights smearing the sky in amber and static.
JFK swallowed us in its usual chaos—flashing lights, men with tired eyes, a cold wind biting at the back of my neck the second we stepped off the plane.
Luca was already there, leaning against the black SUV like he owned the damn tarmac. He didn't smile, he never did, but the nod he gave me was its own kind of salute.
"Boss," he said, straightening.
Luca had that polished menace to him; sharp suit, sharper eyes, clean-shaven but always looking like he'd just walked out of a fight and won. He was an ex-Carabinieri, the kind of man who traded his badge for a better paycheck and fewer rules. Other than Fleory, he was the only one I trusted. He looked at the girl. Then back at me.
I didn't pause. "Car?"
"Waiting. You want the East House?"
"No. We go straight to my place."
Luca's eyes flicked to the girl again. Just for a second. But it was enough.
"She's the reason we lost more than four men?" he asked, voice low and even.
I stopped walking.
Fleory took a cautious step back, just far enough not to be in the splash zone. I turned my head slightly, enough to glance at Luca without taking my eyes fully off the path ahead.
"She's not your concern," I said, quiet and cutting. "You forgot your place?"
Luca didn't flinch, but there was a tension in his jaw now. "I remember my place. Just making sure you remember yours."
There it was. That thing that crept in when someone was the last man standing beside you for too long. Trust bloated into familiarity. Familiarity into arrogance. I stepped closer, still cradling the girl like she was nothing more than a coat draped over my arms. I leaned in just enough for my voice to hit bone.
"You're still here because I let you be," I said softly. "You're still breathing because I haven't decided you're more useful dead. Don't forget that."
Luca said nothing. His expression smoothed out like glass. Good. I turned around, resumed walking to the car and laid her across one of the backseats. Her hair spilled across the leather like smoke, catching the sun now, that deep, impossible black drinking in the light. Her breathing was shallow. Eyes flickered beneath her lids.
Luca leaned in just a little. "She's going to be a problem."
"Then she'll be my problem," I said.
He laughed under his breath. "Of course she will."
Then he slammed the door shut, walked around the front, and got in like nothing had been said at all.