The penthouse is too quiet.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston’s Financial District, my left shoulder throbbing with each beat of my heart.Three days since Nikolai put me on a plane.Three days since I left two dead children in a Russian warehouse and brought nothing home but a bullet wound and the confirmation that I’m broken in ways that don’t heal.
The whiskey in my hand is my third.Or fourth.I’ve lost count.
My phone buzzes on the granite counter behind me—another message I won’t answer.Dave’s been calling since I landed.Tommy too.They want to know if I’m okay, if I need anything, if I want company.
I don’t want company.I want to rewind three months and tell myself not to go to Russia.I want to rewind further—to Syria, to the moment before everything went to hell.I want to be the Marine I used to be, the one who didn’t freeze when it mattered most.
But that man died in a Syrian building collapse, and the ghost wearing his face hasn’t figured out how to stop failing people yet.
I drain the whiskey and pour another.
The wound is healing.Alexei did good work patching me up before I left.The bullet went clean through, missing bone and major arteries.In a few weeks, I’ll have full range of motion back.Physical therapy, some scar tissue, and I’ll be combat-ready again.
Too bad the wound that festered isn’t the one in my shoulder.
My phone buzzes again.This time I check it.
Joe DiLorenzo:Need to talk.It’s important.Family stuff.
I stare at the message for a long moment.Joe and I go back years—he’s Dave’s age, thirty-five, and we grew up in adjacent worlds.Irish and Italian, Boyles and DiLorenzos, two of the founding families of the Syndicate.We’ve bled together, fought together, buried people together.
If Joe says it’s important, I don’t doubt him.
I type back:Tomorrow.Need tonight.
His response is immediate:Understood.Take care of yourself, brother.
I set the phone down and return to the window.The city glitters below me, oblivious to the darkness always swirling inside me.People down there are living normal lives—going to dinner, watching movies, kissing their partners goodnight.They don’t know about trafficking rings or failed extractions or the way a child’s scream sounds when?—
I shut that thought down hard.
The intercom buzzes.
I freeze.It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I’m not expecting anyone.The building’s security is top-tier—no one gets up here without clearance.I cross to the panel and check the video feed.
My heart skips a beat.
Serena DiLorenzo stands in my hallway, her dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing a black coat that costs more than the rent for a three-bedroom apartment.She’s not looking at the camera.She’s looking at my door, her expression unreadable.
Joe’s little sister.
Except she’s not little anymore, and she’s never been just Joe’s sister to me.
I haven’t seen her since before Russia.Three months of trying to outrun my demons, and she’s the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about in the quiet moments between operations.The way she looked at me at Tommy’s wedding, like she could see straight through my armor.The conversation we had in a hallway where I almost?—
I press the intercom.“Serena.”
Her eyes lift to the camera.Despite the grainy feed, I see the intelligence in them, the assessment.She’s always been the smartest person in any room, and she’s never bothered pretending otherwise.
“Let me in, Shelby.”
It’s not a request.
I should tell her to leave.I should tell her I’m not fit for company, that I need to be alone, that she’s the last person who should be anywhere near me right now.
I ignore common sense and decide to listen to my heart.
