Gabe

___________________

It's getting harder to lie to her.

Every moment she's wrapped in my arms, every time her eyes search mine with that flicker of hope I've never seen before, I hate myself a little more.

I'd given myself a week. One week of her letting her have her way, of thinking this could ever be something, and then I'd stop hurting her and end it. But now, that week's up, and I couldn't stop if I tried.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep, her breathing soft and steady. I've stayed over every night since Miami, convincing myself it's for her protection in case Denaro tries something else, but the truth is, I can't stand to be away from her.

Fuck, I must be out of my mind, but I can't seem to help myself. Growing up the way I did, I never allowed myself to want anything. Wanting was dangerous. It always led to disappointment. Envy. Things I knew wouldn't serve me, so I made sure to keep myself in check.

Until she came along.

I want her.

You don't deserve her.

The shadows from the curtains play across her bare shoulders, and for a moment, I allow myself to just look at her. The way she looks so peaceful, so untouched by the chaos in my head. But that peace is fragile. And any second now, Denaro could shatter it unless I stop him.

I glance at my watch. He's been avoiding me all week like the coward he is, but yesterday at the dress fitting, he'd finally agreed to meet. And this time, I'm not holding back. Knowing he's the one who's been torturing Piccola fills me with a fury I've never felt before. He's the reason she still feels unsafe in her own home—even though she tries to hide it—and I'm about to make him regret it.

Rising from the bed, careful not to wake her, I grab my rucksack before slipping out of the bedroom. Downstairs, I open it up and pull out my Glock 19. My fingers move with familiar precision, loading the magazine with bullets. Once it's full, I flick the safety and slide it into the grip. I slip a few extra rounds into my jacket pocket, just in case. Denaro's never been predictable, and I'm not taking any chances tonight.

I straighten, slipping the jacket over my shoulders, the extra bullets rattling faintly in my pocket. I cast one final glance to the stairs, wishing I didn't have to leave her, but Denaro needs to know I'm onto him. And that I'm going to fucking kill him.

I used to believe I could keep the darkness at bay. That I could keep her safe from Denaro. But now that I've seen the lengths he's willing to go to, I know the only way to protect her is by getting my hands dirty.

Once I'm in the truck, I check the location––an old warehouse somewhere out in Pasadena––one more time before turning on the engine, hoping the soft purr doesn't wake her.

A country song plays softly on the radio as I replay our conversation from yesterday. I could feel her eyes on me, waiting for me to give her something—a hint about what happens once my contract ends—but I couldn't do it. I've told enough lies already.

What happens after my contract ends is that, at a minimum, she'll be hundreds of thousands of dollars poorer, but after that? It's anyone's guess. If things go south with Denaro, or if the cops get involved, or if she finds out what happened, I'll either be dead, in prison, or she'll hate my guts—none of which spell out a happy ending.

Best case scenario, she doesn't notice the money's missing right away. Denaro lets me walk with my cut, my debt to him paid. I put back my share, then spend the rest of my life trying to replace what we took before she ever realizes it's gone.

Or I tell her the truth once it's all said and done, and she forgives me.

I almost laugh at the thought. That's not a happy ending. It's wishful thinking.

Eventually, I pull up to the warehouse and turn off the car. The place is quiet—too quiet—just the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The building looms ahead, old and run-down, with rusted metal siding and windows either cracked or completely shattered. Not Denaro's usual style.

Something is wrong.

I sit in the truck for a moment, scanning the perimeter, eyes sweeping over the shadows, noting every possible exit, every weak spot. The sky above is dark, a sliver of moonlight barely enough to light the cracked concrete lot. I don't move until I see them—two men stepping out of the shadows near the side of the building, walking slowly toward me.

Without a word, I open the door and step out, my boots crunching against the gravel. My hands stay loose by my sides, relaxed but ready.

The two men approach. One is tall, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a black leather jacket. The other is shorter, stockier, his face partially obscured by a dark baseball cap. They don't say a word, but the taller one gives a slight nod, motioning for me to follow.

I fall into step behind them as one of the men pulls open a large metal side door. I can hardly see a thing once inside. Stacks of crates line the walls, some covered in tarps, others left exposed.

We pass through a narrow corridor. My eyes stay sharp, taking in every detail—doors, security cameras, the faint hum of machinery in the distance. The men stop in front of a large steel door, one of them swiping a keycard through the reader. The door unlocks with a heavy clunk, swinging open.

The room is sparse—an old wooden table in the center, a few chairs scattered around. Denaro sits in one of them, fingers drumming lightly against the worn wood. He glances up as I enter, his eyes narrowing slightly. But there's more than disdain in them tonight.

There's fear.

Beside Denaro sits the man I assume is in charge. He's older, maybe in his early seventies, with slicked-back dark hair streaked with gray. A long scar cuts down the side of his face, slicing through his eyebrow and trailing down to his jaw.

"Mr. Loretto," he says calmly. "Please, take a seat. Don't worry, this is an amicable chat. You won't need that glock in your jacket."

I move to the nearest chair, sinking into it, my elbows resting on my knees as I lean forward slightly. He's old enough to be my grandfather, frail-looking, but I'm not stupid enough to underestimate him.

"My name is Carrera," he continues, cocking his head just enough to study me. "I assume you know why you're here."

I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms. "Enlighten me."

Amusement crosses Carrera's face, but it's gone as quickly as it came. He glances at Denaro, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding looking at me. Carrera turns back to me. "Then allow me to simplify things. Denaro works for me. Which means, by default, you work for me. Unfortunately, I've been informed of a few... hiccups in our operation. Denaro tells me we're still waiting for the code to the safe."

My eyes track the beads of sweat gathering on Denaro's brow. "Correct."

Carrera leans forward. His voice lowers just enough to force my attention on him. "Do you know what makes a good scam, Loretto? Everybody playing their part. You see, when one card falls, the entire stack collapses. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but your lack of progress is making me uneasy."

"I've been too busy chasing a stalker that doesn't exist to get the code."

Carrera studies me for a beat longer, reading the lack of reaction on my face. "Denaro tells me it was necessary for the primary to believe she had a stalker. It sped up the process of her trusting you." 

"And the part where you failed to tell me about it? Who did that help?"

At this point, it's clear Carrera wasn't aware I didn't know. He glances at Denaro, his mouth barely turning at the corner. "Explain." 

 Denaro straightens immediately. "I thought it was best not to tell him so as to make the threat seem more realistic."

Carrera's expression doesn't change, but his eye twitches slightly, just enough to tell me he's annoyed. His focus shifts back to me. "Regardless, we need to focus on what's important–finishing the job." 

I don't say anything. 

Certaintly not what I'd like to. 

Carrera leans forward. "When you see this thing through, your debt with us is settled. You can take your cut, and you can walk away clean. You have one week, Loretto. A week to get the code for us. If you don't, well... I'd hate for Ms. Ryder to have to suffer more than just monetary loss."

Every muscle in my body tightens, my breathing heavier as I stare across the table at Carrera. I want to rip his throat out, but right now, I need them to buy that I care more about my cut than about her. "I'll get the code." I stand up slowly, fingers aching to reach for my gun. "As long as you tell Denaro to stop interfering."

Carrera gives a slow nod. "You have my word."

I stand there a moment longer, fists clenched at my sides, before turning and walking out of the room. When I reach my truck, I stop and rest my hands on the hood, my breathing ragged as I struggle to get myself under control. I came here tonight thinking I'd rough up Denaro, maybe throw some threats his way, but instead, I've found the real puppeteer. There are some people you just don't cross, and Carrera is one of them.

Fuck.

"Loretto."

I spin around so fast, Denaro doesn't see me coming. In one quick motion, I grab him by the collar, slam him hard against the hood of my car, and pull the Glock from my jacket, pressing the barrel against his temple.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Because I did you a favor," he hisses, not even trying to struggle. "She never would've trusted you without a reason. Her fear of the stalker? That's what made her trust you."

"You stalked her for months." I flick off the safety, pressing the gun harder against his head. Denaro doesn't flinch. "Made her terrified of someone who never existed, and you wasted my fucking time."

"But he does exist," Denaro spits, "and he goes by the name of Carrera. You think I brought you here for fun? I needed you to start taking this fucking seriously. We're weeks from the gala, and you haven't handed over the code. Do you know what they will do to you if this thing falls through? And I'll be right behind you, paying the price for hiring a fuck-up."

I don't move the gun from his temple.

"You're not stupid, Loretto," he says, easing himself out from under my grip, moving slowly, keeping his hands up. "The only way to get her out of this safely is to follow through and stop acting hot-headed. Better she lose her money than her life."

He starts walking. 

I let him.

Denaro isn't my concern right now.

Neither is Carrera.

She is.

I jump into my truck, speeding to get back to her as quickly as possible, not wanting to leave her alone a second longer than necessary. Denaro was easy—unpredictable, psychotic—but at least he was the devil I knew. Carrera's different. I don't know him, don't know how he operates or what he's capable of, and that means I don't know how to protect her from him.

She's still asleep when I return, her silhouette softly rising and falling in the dark. I quietly peel off my trousers and shirt, slipping back into the space I'd left beside her, like I'd never been gone. I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close, feeling her soft, warm body settle into mine. I'm driving myself insane, wishing I could turn back time and undo that deal with Denaro. Wishing I could've met her under different circumstances. Wishing I wasn't the reason she's about to lose everything.

"Where did you go?" Her voice is low, groggy. Suspicious.

"I couldn't sleep. I did a perimeter check."

She turns in my arms, her eyes searching mine for a beat too long. I stay still, keeping my expression calm, waiting. Finally, she settles and rests her head against my chest as I pull the blanket over us. Her hands press lightly against me, and after a moment, she closes her eyes again.