Still holding her hand in mine, I lifted it gently, my thumb tracing the delicate line of her wrist. Turning her hand slightly, I pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her pulse point—a silent gesture meant to reassure her, to anchor us both amid the storm of accusation and tension swirling around the table. The contact was intimate and grounding, a quiet affirmation of solidarity inthe face of Oliver’s scrutiny and the uncertainty hanging heavy in the air.
Oliver’s jaw clenched, his eyes searching my wife’s face for any hint of hesitation. The uncertainty flickered briefly, then evaporated under the weight of her conviction. For a moment, the room was silent except for the distant hum of traffic outside, everyone processing the gravity of her admission. I watched Oliver’s resolve waver, his anger losing ground to confusion and concern, and I realized, tonight, trust and loyalty were being tested in ways none of us could have predicted.
“Please be happy for me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, carrying a tremor of hope and longing. She hesitated, then added softly, “For us,” her gaze shifting to meet mine. As she looked up, her eyes glittered with an emotion that shimmered between hope and love, leaving me breathless and momentarily unmoored.
In that fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of her vulnerability—raw and unguarded—that I had not witnessed before. It clawed at something deep inside me, echoing memories of my mother’s eyes when fear or uncertainty clouded her judgment and left her searching for reassurance. That same fragile openness now flickered in Miranda’s expression, drawing out a tenderness I hadn’t expected as I carefully raised my hand and stroked her cheek.
Oliver chose at that time to break the spell, clearing his throat. “What about school?”
My wife’s shoulders stiffened for an instant, as if bracing herself for a question she’d been dreading. Her fingers tightened around mine, silently seeking comfort. “I haven’t decided yet,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know finishing is important. But right now, I need time to figure out what’s best for me—with everything changing so fast.”
Oliver leaned forward, his frustration clear as he growled, “Don’t let him stop you from becoming a doctor, Savy. You’ve worked too hard.” His concern for her future was palpable, and the intensity in his voice underscored just how deeply he cared about her ambitions.
I met Oliver’s gaze, my tone firm. “My wife can do whatever she wants. If she wants to finish school, I will support her.” My words were meant to reassure, to clarify that her choices were hers alone and that I would stand behind her regardless of what she decided.
Oliver’s skepticism, however, was not so easily soothed. “That’s going to be hard to do since her spot in the program is on hold. Speaking of which, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” he snapped, his eyes narrowing with accusation.
Unable to contain her shock, she gasped, “Oli! Be nice.” Her plea was both an attempt to defuse the tension and a gentle rebuke to her friend’s harshness.
“Well, he started it,” Oliver grumbled, refusing to back down. “Only asking the obvious here. Since you met him, your life has gone to shit. You’ve been arrested, lost your apartment, and lost your spot in medical school. Who’s to say he’s not responsible?”
I felt my patience fraying. “One more accusation and this dinner is over, Mr. Thorpe. I don’t care that you are friends with my wife. I will not sit here and allow you to accuse me of something I had no part in.” My words were clear, a line drawn in the sand, even if, in truth, the whole situation was a fabricated lie, but neither of them needed to know that. My reasons for upending her life were my own and mine alone.
Standing just outside the restaurant’s glowing doorway, I watched as she wrapped Oliver in a tight, lingering hug—the kind that spoke of shared history and recent pain. Her smile was gentle but strained, her eyes flickering toward me as she promised Oliver, “Lunch soon, I promise.”
There was a tremor in her voice, a vulnerability she tried to mask with bravado, but as she released Oliver, her shoulders slumped, leaving her looking small and exposed. I could feel her anxiety radiating in the tense way she pressed against my side, seeking comfort—a silent plea for safety in the darkening street.
My gaze swept the sidewalk, nerves prickling as the frosty night air bit at my skin. The city felt unnaturally still, the usual hum of distant traffic muffled by the pressing silence. An acrid whiff of exhaust fumes lingered, mixing with the faint aroma of fried food drifting from a nearby alley. Every passing car seemed to cast flickering shadows that danced across her face, making her flinch and draw closer, her breath quickening with each uncertain movement around us.
Leaning toward Milo, I kept my voice low, tension stiffening my words. “Where the hell is the car?” I asked, careful not to let her hear the aggravation in my tone.
Milo glanced at his phone, brow furrowing. “I don’t know, Mr. Vitale. Oscar isn’t responding.”
His answer only deepened the knot in my stomach.
I caught the flicker of panic in her eyes as she glanced nervously over her shoulder, lips parted as if about to speak but held silent by worry.
“Go find him. Now,” I ordered, my words clipped as Oliver finally ducked into a waiting cab, casting one last worried look at his best friend before disappearing into the city’s muted glow.
Milo nodded and took off running, fading into the dimly lit avenue. I felt her tense beside me, her breaths growing shallow as the cold crept through her coat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, standing my ground as my eyes darted across the shadowed sidewalk, searching for threats I could not name.
“Who was that man in the corner staring at us all night?”
“Who?”
“The man you kept glaring at. The one who left an hour ago.”
“He’s a nobody.”
“Liar,” she whispered just as the silence was suddenly shattered by the screech of tires—a shrill, metallic cry that sliced through the night. Instinct took over; my hand flew to my holster, heart hammering in my chest, as I yanked her behind me, my body a shield between her and the street. She stiffened, breath caught in her throat, eyes wide and frightened as a car sped forward and at the last minute, I watched as the windows slowly rolled down and guns appeared.
Not thinking, I turned, gathered her in my arms, and took her to the ground as gunfire erupted all around us. Her cries pierced my ears as bullets ricocheted off the brick façade of the restaurant. I could vaguely hear people screaming as chaos unfolded before my eyes.
The world exploded into a symphony of noise and terror. My body tensed, every muscle screaming with adrenaline as I instinctively shielded her from the hail of bullets. The impact of the rounds against the brick wall sent shrapnel flying, and I could feel her trembling against me, her small whimpers lost in the cacophony. Through the chaos, I saw the car, a dark blur ofmenace, screeching away into the night, leaving behind a trail of shattered glass and the acrid stench of gunpowder. My mind raced, cataloging every detail—the make of the car, the glint of the weapons, the fleeting glimpse of a face behind the shattered glass.
