I step forward, my shoes silent against the floor. When I reach her, I crouch down and hold out my hand.
She looks up at me, hesitant, almost guilty, but doesn’t resist when I take the frame from her fingers.
The image hits me the way it always does—a punch straight to the ribs. I stare at it once, just once, then slide it back onto the shelf where it belongs. Somewhere safe. Somewhere untouchable.
When I turn back to her, she’s still watching me, her eyes soft in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
“Were they your parents?” she asks quietly.
I nod once. The word sticks in my throat, so I let the gesture be enough.
She shifts, tucking her knees closer, and I lower myself to the floor across from her, the frame already back on the shelf, but the weight of it still heavy in my chest.
“So,” I murmur, tilting my head at her, “why were you snooping through my things?”
“I was bored,” she says instantly, without hesitation.
The laugh rumbles out of me before I can stop it. She doesn’t even try to sweeten it with a lie, doesn’t pretend she stumbled across the picture by accident. I love that about her—the way she’ll walk into the fire instead of skirting around it.
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head, but my mouth is curved despite myself.
Her expression softens. “They looked…normal. Happy. It doesn’t seem like you were born into this. The mafia, I mean.”
Her words slip into the room like smoke, clinging to everything. For a long moment, I can’t answer.
“My mother died when I was just a kid,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Too young to remember much of her. Sometimes I wonder if I even really knew her at all, or if it’s just scraps of stories my father told me.”
Noelle’s gaze doesn’t waver, so I keep going.
“My father…he was a Marine. A hard man. He didn’t treat me like a child, not once. There were rules, always rules. Wake up early. Train harder. Never show weakness. I think he thought he was preparing me for the world. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was just making me into…this.” I gesture vaguely at myself, at the sharp edges and the discipline carved too deep into my bones.
Her lips part, but I don’t let her speak yet.
“He died when I was sixteen. Heart attack.” The words still taste bitter, even after all these years. “I thought I’d befree, but instead I was just…lost. And that’s when I met Lukin’s father. He saw something in me. Discipline. Precision. A boy already broken into the shape they needed. He took me under his wing, put me through training, and when I was old enough, he made me head of the Chicago wing.”
I fall silent, the air thick with the ghosts I’ve just summoned. For a moment, it feels like I’ve said too much.
Noelle leans forward just slightly, her eyes searching mine. I shake my head. “That’s all there is to it. Nothing romantic about it, nothing I care to remember.” My voice drops lower. “I don’t like talking about it. Feels like…a life I already buried.”
Noelle nods, her expression unreadable but calm. She doesn’t press, doesn’t pry where she knows I’ve drawn a line. That’s something I respect about her—she takes the truth I give and doesn’t demand the pieces I keep hidden.
Silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. We sit there on the closet floor, side by side, surrounded by the faint scent of cedar and the quiet hum of the house. For several long minutes, neither of us speaks.
Until our world shatters.
Glass explodes above us, the sharp crack of a rifle splitting the quiet. Instinct takes over before thought can form—I throw myself over Noelle, pressing her down to the floor as shards rain around us. Her gasp is muffled against my chest.
Another bullet hisses through the air, embedding itself in the wall behind us. My pulse slams in my ears, rage burning hotter than fear. Someone is in my house. Someone is aiming for her.
I keep my body curved over hers, every muscle taut, waiting for the next shot.
Chapter 11 – Noelle
The crack of the rifle splits the air, sharp and vicious. Glass rains around us in glittering shards, and before I can think, Niko’s body is on top of mine, shielding me. My ears ring, my lungs burn, but my hands don’t hesitate. I roll with him, my fingers already reaching for the small of my back. Cold steel presses against my palm.
We move in unison, crouched low, backs to the wall, guns drawn.
When Niko’s gaze cuts to mine, his eyes flicker with shock. Not at the bullet—at the weapon in my hands.
