He’s always been my peace, but right now, he’s my anchor in the storm. I don’t think I could have survived all this without him.
I settle into a rhythm, each punch bringing a little more clarity, a little more focus. The thoughts are still there, swirling just beneath the surface, but they’re quieter now, muted by the physical exertion. I don’t know how long I’ve been at it, but by the time I stop, my knuckles are throbbing, and my body is slick with sweat. My throat is so dry, I almost fall into a coughing fit.
I step back, breathing heavily, and catch sight of the man again. He’s watching me now, a look of approval in his eyes.
I don’t say anything, just nod back at him before turning away to find my water. I head to the far wall, leaning back against it, and take a deep swallow.
The thoughts from before slowly creep back in, and I’m too tired to fight them off this time.
What are they doing to the guys? Are they still alive? What’s taking Oliver so long?
The questions loop endlessly in my mind, each one more painful than the last. I thought everything I’ve discovered in the last few days would be the thing that ruins me, but as the minutes turn to hours, I realize what will truly break me is life without them.
I can’t do it.
I glance around the gym again, at the cold, clinical perfection of it all. This place is a fortress, designed to keep out the world, to keep us safe. But it feels like a prison, one that’s keeping me from the people I love, from the fight I need to be part of.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, my hand lingering over my brow as I stare at the punching bag in front of me. It sways slightly, the chain creaking under its weight, and I wonder what it would take to break it, to bring it crashing down. Probably more than I’ve got in me right now.
But I’m not broken. Not yet. And as long as I have breath in my body, I’ll keep fighting. For Hunter, for the guys. I’ll keep fighting until there’s nothing left of me, until I’m standing over Gus’ broken body, or I’m the one on the ground. There’s no other option.
Oliver has twenty-four hours. After that, I’m getting out of this place, whether the Milieu team is ready or not.
I finish off my water and head back to the punching bag, trying to shake off the tension still coiled tight in my chest. The older man continues his relentless assault on the bag beside me, each strike landing with a skill that I can’t help but admire.There’s something almost mesmerizing about the way he moves—controlled, calculated, every punch delivered with purpose.
The guys would jizz all over themselves if they saw him. I smirk at the thought.
I catch his eye, and he pauses, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“You’ve got good form, Skylar,” he says, his voice carrying a rich, thick, French accent that’s heavier than any I’ve heard here. It’s the kind of accent that makes every word sound a little more important, a little more meaningful.
I return the smile, a bit surprised. “Thank you. And you can call me Ella, you know.”
I’ve convinced everyone else here to do the same. Even the woman at the small coffee station on Oliver’s floor nearly had a heart attack when I’d corrected the name on my cup. But now, she writes Ella without having to be asked. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. In the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t. It’s just a name. But right now, I’m holding onto the threads of my sanity with all I’ve got. I can’t take more change.
He waves a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. You were born Skylar, and that’s what I’ll call you. It’s a beautiful name, don’t you think? A name given to you by your birth parents.”
There’s something about the way he says it that feels like a gentle reminder of who I was before all of this. With just a few short words and a sharp look, I feel properly chastised.
“I suppose it is,” I reply slowly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
And I hadn’t, but now that he’s pointed it out, I feel the sudden urge to cry. My parents—Miles and Charlotte, myrealparents, named me.
Jesus fuck. That hits harder than it should.
He steps back from the bag, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’m Jean-Luc, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”
“It’s really nice to meet you, Jean-Luc,” I say, and I mean it. There’s something comforting about him, something steady. “How long have you been with…” I break off, still feeling utterly odd saying the name of the French Mafia so casually.
“Le Milieu?” he fills in with a grin. I nod awkwardly. Jean-Luc chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Longer than I’d care to admit. I was born in France, actually. Came over here when I was just a boy, but the old country never really leaves you, you know?”
I don’t know, but I can assume so. There’s something about Europe that’s always called to me. Maybe because Miles and Char forced me to learn so much about it when I was little. Memories that I’d lost are slowly trickling in, especially with these people around me. They’re soft reminders of the life I once lived, the life I was destined for, but lost too soon.
“Were you always part of this…” My hands flit around. “Organization?”
He smiles, but there’s a shadow behind it, a flicker of something darker. “Not always. I was… how do you say… swept up in it. I didn’t have much of a choice, not back then. Your grandfather, Sacha—well, he wasn’t the kind of man you said no to.”
I pause, my fists lowering as I turn to face him fully. “My grandfather? You knew him?”
