Then—he stops.
Too suddenly.
I nearly collide with him. My breath catches, instinct screaming that something is off. My mouth opens to ask what he sees—
—but he beats me to the answer.
A figure steps out from behind the dumpster.
Slow.Deliberate.Confident.
Male.Tall.Lean.
And smirking as if he already knows how this ends.
My stomach plummets.
His eyes lock onto me — not Santino — me.
Predator recognizing prey.
“Long way from home, princess,” the man says.
His voice slithers down my spine. Cold. Familiar. A sound I’d prayed never to hear again.
I freeze.
I know that voice.That smirk.The black-ink tattoo curled along the side of his throat.
Rocco.
He was a scout for the faction that killed my father. He once tried to force me into a car, screaming. He covered my mouth and said it would hurt less if I didn't fight. I watched him bleed out on the pavement. Or so I thought.
He steps forward, slow and fucking smug, gaze sliding down my body like filth.
“Boss has been looking for you,” he drawls. “Said you’d come crawling back.”
My pulse spikes. My palms go cold. The alley tilts for a second, and the memory of the car door, the smell of gasoline, my father’s blood—
Santino’s body goes still.
Still like a trigger before it snaps.
The shift is so sharp I feel it radiate through the air—a cold, lethal change in the surrounding energy. His shoulders lock. Hishand drops an inch closer to his side, like he’s reaching for a weapon he doesn’t need.
Rocco finally glances at him.
But it’s a lazy glance.Dismissive.Like Santino is an inconvenience, not a threat.
A mistake.A fatal fucking mistake.
My throat closes.Fear and rage coil inside me, thick and suffocating.
I can’t move.I can’t breathe.
All I can do is watch Rocco’s smirk widen.
“Well, shit,” he says lightly. “Didn’t know you had a babysitter.”
