Nobela ni Maraden

I always thought the line between right and wrong was clear. Turns out, it’s not a line at all. It’s a fog. A thick, shifting fog where good intentions can still get people killed. And right now, I was walking straight into it. I sat in the passenger seat of Raffaele’s black SUV as he drove us through the industrial district—abandoned warehouses, graffiti-covered train cars, broken glass glittering on sidewalks like spilled secrets. “This informant of yours,” I said, breaking the silence. “Is he reliable?” Raffaele didn’t take his eyes off the road. “He’s alive. In my world, that’s as reliable as it gets.” “Reassuring.” He smirked, and I hated that I wanted to smile too. The GPS led us to an old boxing gym. The windows were boarded up, but the lights inside glowed faintly. It looked forgotten. Except the three men at the entrance holding their jackets a

I didn’t sleep. Not because Raffaele Moretti was sitting in my living room, legs stretched out like he owned the place—or maybe like he was trying not to look too ready to kill someone. And not because I had just learned that Marcus Vento, my brother’s old partner, was framing Raffaele to distract from his own sins. No, I didn’t sleep because the whole world felt like it had tilted. The law—the thing I built my life on—suddenly felt like a crooked ladder. And the only hand reaching out to pull me up belonged to a man who probably broke more laws before breakfast than I had in my whole career. I watched him from the doorway. He hadn’t said much since the phone call. But his presence was loud. Calm, dangerous, watchful. Like a loaded gun on a velvet cushion. “You really think they’ll arrest you?” I asked, arms crossed, heart thudding. He didn’t even flinch. “They’ll try.

I broke every speed limit on the way to her apartment. The thought of someone threatening Myra—my detective—had adrenaline pumping through my veins like jet fuel. I wasn’t sure if it was rage, fear, or something darker threading its way through my chest, but whatever it was, it had me gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from losing control. When I reached her building, I didn’t bother waiting for her to buzz me in. I’d memorized her code the second time I visited—just in case. Now I was using it. She opened the door before I even knocked. “Nice timing,” she said, arms crossed, but I could tell by the way she hovered near the entrance that she was spooked. I stepped inside, scanning the space. Neat, minimal, functional—like her. But the tension in the air was anything but minimal. It was thick, coiled, hot. “Tell me what happened,” I said,

I’d barely made it home when I tore open the folded paper Moretti had given me. Five names. Two dates. A location I hadn’t heard since my brother’s funeral—The Kingsmill Dockyard. Abandoned. Sealed off years ago. Now it was just a graveyard of rusted ships and broken deals. I recognized three names on the list. All tied to petty crimes. Nothing big. But one name made my blood run cold. Marcus Vento. A dirty cop. Still active. Still shielded by the force. And worse—he used to be Kaden’s partner when he first went undercover. I sat on my couch, the paper in one hand, my service weapon on the table beside me, and a storm raging in my chest. I’d been chasing shadows for years, and now suddenly the shadows were chasing me. My phone buzzed. Unknown number. You’re digging in places you shouldn’t. Let the dead stay dead. I stared at the screen, pu

Raffaele I watched her leave, heels clicking against my marble floors, her ponytail swinging like a warning not to follow. Detective Myra Black. Sharp tongue. Quick mind. Eyes full of fire—and suspicion. Damn, she was trouble. And I liked trouble more than I should. The door closed behind her, and silence settled in. I leaned against the bar, poured myself a drink—something stronger this time—and stared at the glass like it had answers. I didn’t kill her brother. But I didn’t save him, either. And that guilt? It settled in the pit of my stomach like rust on a blade. “She’s not going to stop,” a voice said behind me. Luca, my right-hand man, stepped into the room, arms crossed. He’d been eavesdropping, of course. That’s what he did best. That and keeping my enemies off my back. “No, she won’t,” I muttered. “She’s getting close. I

I’d like to say I walked into Raffaele Moretti’s mansion with confidence, chin up, badge out, and justice on my heels. But no. Instead, I was soaked in sweat, nerves wrapped around my ribs like a corset, and I nearly tripped over one of his ridiculously polished marble steps. The damn place was a fortress—gates taller than my apartment building, cameras everywhere, and guards who looked like they could bench-press a car. I wasn’t even sure why I agreed to this meeting. Well, I knew why. Because he was a suspect. Because I needed to question him. Because he knew things about my brother Kaden’s death, even if he hadn’t said it out loud yet. And maybe—just maybe—because when he touched my hand last week, something inside me short-circuited. Now I was here. “Detective Black,” Raffaele greeted, his voice smooth like aged whiskey. He wore a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking out. His smile? Smug. Dangerous. Stupidly attractive. “I’m not here for small t