When I pulled away, neither of us said anything. We just breathed, together, and for that one second, it was like the rest of the world had gone quiet.
I turned to my father, who watched me with a sadness I’d never seen before. Maybe he’d known this would be the cost all along. Maybe he was just realizing it now.
“Let them go,” I said.
He nodded, and the Bellini soldiers lowered their weapons. The Scythes relaxed, barely, but stayed ready for the double-cross.
Martini looked up at me, his face a ruin of sweat and fear. He mouthed something—I think it was “thank you,” but it could have been “fuck you” just as easy.
I took one last look at Seneca, memorized every line of his face, every scar, and every shadow. Then I walked to my father, my hands still up, and let him take me by the arm.
Nobody fired a shot. Nobody died.
My father walked me out of the bakery with one hand on my shoulder, the grip gentle but absolute. The Scythes watched us go, their faces a mix of relief and suspicion, but none of them said a word. I felt Seneca’s eyes on my back, every step down the ruined sidewalk pulling a little more of me away from him and the version of myself I’d almost believed in.
The black SUV waited at the curb, engine idling, windows so dark they swallowed the streetlights. Father held the door, and for a second, his hand hovered at my elbow, like he remembered I’d once needed help getting into a car seat. His face was a wall, every emotion sealed away behind decades of practice.
I slid into the leather interior, the door closing with the soft thud of a confession. My father walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and only then did I turn back.
Seneca stood in the bakery doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable. The streetlamps cast him in gold and shadow, a statue carved out of every bad decision I’d ever made. I pressed my hand to the glass, knowing he couldn’t see it, but needing to leave a mark anyway.
The SUV pulled away, tires hissing through rainwater and blood runoff. I watched the bakery shrink in the distance, watched Seneca hold his ground until the world blurred him out of existence.
Inside the car, the air was cold like my father. I leaned my head back, eyes stinging, but I didn’t cry. Bellinis didn’t show weakness, not even when it mattered.
My hand curled into a fist against the window as the bakery disappeared around a corner, the last piece of my old life gone with it.
I glanced at my father, who watched the road with both hands on the wheel. In the rearview, I saw my own face reflected back—eyes rimmed in red, jaw set hard as concrete, the spitting image of my grandfather. For a second, I thought I saw a flicker of pride in my father’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
We drove into the dark, and I wondered how long it would take before the ghosts found me again.
Chapter fifteen
Seneca
We’d barely swept the glass from the linoleum when the bakery door blew open, the little bell above it chiming as if this was just another midnight bread run. Muffler, the only prospect on the payroll dumb enough to take a shortcut through active crossfire, stumbled in first, dragging Jenna Smart by the elbow.
Every head in the bakery turned. Damron and Nitro stood by the register, arms folded, faces like masks carved out of meat. The other Scythes clustered in a ragged horseshoe around the fresh blood on the floor, all silent, all watching. For a second, nobody said a word. The overhead fluorescents stuttered, catching the dust, throwing halos over the scene like it was a crime reenactment, which I guess it kind of was.
Jenna was a wreck, and I took a long, slow look because it was the only pleasure left to me. Her hair, always perfect, was stringy with sweat and stuck to her cheek in a way that made her look suddenly young, almost scared. The pantsuit, Armani, if I remembered right, was wrinkled and flecked with something that might have been pastry or vomit. The left heel of her red-bottomed shoe had snapped clean, and she limped with every step, trying to mask it with angry dignity.
“Found her in the alley,” Muffler said, trying not to show his pride. “She was making calls. Figured you’d want to see her.”
Jenna jerked her arm free, massaging the spot with knuckles white as bone. “You Neanderthals have any idea what you’re doing?” She looked around, eyes blazing, and for a second, I thought she’d claw her way through every patch in the room. But then she saw me, and something broke behind her irises. A tiny flinch, like she’d seen a snake instead of a man.
Damron cut in, voice flat. “We’re done with the families, but we got unfinished business with traitors.” He looked at me, then at Jenna. “You want her, Seneca? She’s yours.”
I crossed the room in three steps. Jenna didn’t move, but her mouth worked through a thousand retorts she didn’t bother to say. I grabbed her arm, at the same spot Muffler had, a fresh red bruise forming under my thumb, and steered her out into the lot.
The night was colder than I remembered. My bike waited at the curb. Yeah, she could turn on me in a heartbeat, but what did it matter? I thought Catherine and I would become a lifelong thing, and then she walked away. That’s what happens when you put trust in something, especially a relationship. It showed me once again that just fucking without the emotions was the safest bet. Why let things get all messy? If we hadn’t been outgunned, maybe things would have gone differently. If she hadn’t walked away so easily, maybe I could have done something to stop the shitshow.
“You can’t just manhandle me,” Jenna snapped, but it didn’t have the old bite. She sounded winded, like the altitude of things had finally gotten to her.
I didn’t answer. I just shoved the spare helmet at her and waited. She glared, then jammed it down, the chin strap hanging loose.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“Safe house,” I said. “Club rules. We need to make sure Los Alamos is clear of Martinis.”
