I want to argue. Want to point out that I've survived things that would break most people, that I've stared down mob bosses in courtrooms and never flinched. But he's not wrong. This isn't my world. Pretending otherwise could get us both killed.
"Fine. Train me. But don't expect me to blindly follow orders. I ask questions. I challenge assumptions. That's how I function."
His eyes flicker with what I choose to take as respect. "Question all you want. Just do it while moving. Standing still gets you killed."
He shows me to the bathroom, points out the towels, retreats to his own room with a gruff "oh-six-hundred, don't be late."
Alone in the small bathroom, I finally let myself fall apart.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. The woman looking back is a stranger. Pale, drawn, eyes too wide, mouth too tight. This isn't who I was six weeks ago. Six weeks ago, I was a rising star in the federal prosecutor's office. Corner office, reputation for never losing, five-year plan ending with a judgeship.
Now I have a suitcase, a death sentence, and a grumpy mountain man who thinks I'm a liability.
My mother doesn't even know I'm gone. Her dementia has progressed to the point where she sometimes thinks I'm still a child. Last time I visited, she asked why I wasn't in school. Held my hand and told me to study hard, and I smiled and pretended my heart wasn't breaking.
I can't call her. Can't tell her I'm okay. Can't hear her voice, even if she doesn't recognize mine.
The tears come without warning. I press my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs, aware of how thin these walls probably are. Deck Cross does not need to witness this.
Five minutes. I give myself five minutes to grieve everything I've lost—my career, my independence, my carefully constructed life. Then I splash cold water on my face, dry my eyes, and lock it all away.
Vivian Russo does not fall apart.
Vivian Russo survives.
I change into yoga pants and a long-sleeved thermal, then climb into the surprisingly comfortable bed. The sheets smell like cedar and that masculine scent permeating the whole cabin. This must be where Deck normally sleeps.
He gave me his room. His bed. Moved himself to a guest room somewhere, gave me the larger space with the better mattress.
That doesn't fit with his gruff exterior.
I lie in the darkness, listening. Wind in the trees. Something hooting in the distance. The cabin settling. And beneath it all, faint footsteps as Deck moves through the main room, probably one last security check before he sleeps.
If he sleeps. I doubt he does much of that.
I think about what he said. Losing his team. Building this place as a fortress against the world that betrayed him. I understand the impulse more than I want to admit. After my father died. After I watched my mother slowly lose her mind to grief, then dementia. That was when I built my own fortress. Made myself untouchable through work and achievement and professional success.
It wasn't until Lorenzo that I let anyone past the walls.
Lorenzo Castellano. My ex-boyfriend from law school. The one I almost married before I caught him funneling money to people I was supposed to be prosecuting. The one whose cousin is the man I watched commit murder.
Nobody knows about my history with Dominic's family. Nobody knows that when I looked out that window and saw him pull the trigger, I recognized him from a Christmas party six years ago. Shook his hand. Let him kiss my cheek.
It's not relevant to the case. My testimony is about what I saw, not who I know. But the guilt and shame of how close I came to marrying into that family sits in my chest like a stone.
If I'd married Lorenzo, I'd be one of them now. Protected by omertà instead of hunted by it.
Sometimes, when the fear gets really bad, I wonder if that would have been easier.
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall. Tomorrow, I start training with a man who looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved. A man whose pain calls to something broken in me. A man I absolutely cannot afford to be attracted to.
Tomorrow, I become a survivor instead of a victim.
The last thing I think before sleep claims me is that Deck Cross has no idea what he's gotten himself into. Because Vivian Russo doesn't stay a liability for long. Vivian Russo learns, adapts, and overcomes.
And maybe, just maybe, she teaches a certain grumpy mountain man that walls aren't the only way to survive.
CHAPTER THREE
