"Know enough." I use the same words from the hallway. "Know you make the best chicken piccata I've ever had. Know you're running from something you didn't choose. Know those men aren't going to stop because you asked nicely."
"This is insane."
"Probably." I sit back. "But it's better than you running blind with no plan and no backup."
She's shaking her head. "You could get hurt. Castellano doesn't care about collateral damage."
"Neither do I."
"Marcus—"
"You got anywhere else to go? Anyone else to call?"
She doesn't answer. That's answer enough.
"Stay here tonight," I say. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out next steps. If you still want to run, I'll help you do it smart. But tonight, you're safe."
"Why are you doing this?"
Because I'm lonely. Because I haven't had a real conversation with anyone other than my brother or Rampage in months. Because you looked at me in that parking lot like I was something other than broken.
"Because it's the right thing to do," I say instead.
She stares at my face. Looking for the lie. The angle. The thing I want in return. She won't find it. Because I don't know what I'm doing. I don’t know why I'm offering this. Just know that sending her back to her apartment alone feels wrong in a way I can't explain.
"Okay," she finally whispers. Uncertain. "Okay. Just for tonight."
Just for tonight.
We both know it's a lie.
But we pretend anyway.
Chapter 4 - Nora
Just for tonight.
I repeat it in my head like a mantra while I finish the chicken on my plate. Like if I say it enough times, it'll become true. Like I can compartmentalize this the way I've compartmentalized everything else in my life that's spun out of control.
One night. Then I'll figure out a real plan. Then I'll leave properly, smartly, the way Marcus said.
Then I'll stop putting him in danger.
I can feel him watching me from the corner of his eye while he eats. Not staring. Just aware. The way someone trained to notice everything would be.
"How did you get those scars?" The question slips out before I can stop it. I gesture toward his knuckles with my fork. "On your hands."
He looks down at them like he forgot they were there. Flexes his fingers slowly. The scars are old, layered. Some thin and surgical-precise, others rough and jagged.
"Fighting," he says simply.
"In the military?"
"Some." He sets his empty plate on the coffee table. "Most of them are from after."
"After?"
He's quiet for a long moment. I think he's not going to answer. Then—
