For the way she looked at me just now—searching, desperate to believe, terrified to try. For the way my whole body leaned toward her without permission, like she's gravity and I'm just debris caught in her pull. For the way I would've said yes to anything she asked. Would've promised her the moon. Would've torn apart anyone who tried to take her from me.
Why is it always like this with her?
Why is she the one person who can unmake me with a glance? Who slips past every defense like they're made of water?
I've tried to forget her.
God, I've tried.
I've buried myself in work, in violence, in the kind of darkness that's supposed to kill everything soft. I've gone months without thinking about her. Convinced myself I was free.
Lies. All of it.
She ruined me without even trying. And the worst part?
I'd let her do it again.
I catch the thought before it can fully form and shove it down deep where it can't do any damage.
This isn't love. It's residue. Muscle memory. The ghost of something that ended years ago.
Except it doesn't feel like a ghost.
It feels like a wound that never closed. A hunger that never faded. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing you're going to jump—and not caring because the fall is worth it if she's waiting at the bottom.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TRISTAN
She's been in there too long for it to be a routine checkup.
I scan the room out of habit, cataloguing exits the way I've done a thousand times before. Front door. Back hallway that probably leads to a fire escape. Windows sealed. No cameras in the waiting room, but there is one mounted above the entrance outside.
Seventeen ways I could get her out of here right now.
But none of them would work, because we don't have Hale.
I know I need to stick to the plan, but it feels like a leash wrapped around my throat.
I pull out the burner phone, praying Aaron has come through early.
There's one message:
Artemis confirmed. East River. 11/15. Formal sale. M&K hosting. Invite only.Window opens 72 post-touchdown. Route is on you. No reply.
I read it twice before deleting the message. I turn off the phone, pull out the battery, and snap it in half. After a quick scan to makesure no one's watching, I wrap the pieces in a paper towel and toss them in the trash bin under the check-in desk.
Artemis is Cat's codename for high-value extractions. Ever since she took down her father, Mortelle—the most dangerous Italian mafia king in New York City—she's taken what used to be something brutal and unforgiving and reshaped it into power. She built the intelligence web from nothing, with Aaron, her husband, running the operational side.
Together, they've pulled thousands of women and children out of places no one else could reach.
They kept the Mortelle name. Kept the front intact, because the trust was already there—and access comes easier when the worst people in the world think you're one of them. It lets them move quietly and strike without warning.
Exactly what I need to get Keira and Hale out.
I never doubted they'd come through, and I'm glad I made the call when I did.
