5

Christopher Gravemoor

“Good morning, Dada!” Amara said, clapping her hands as she ran into the living room.

I crouched and caught her in my arms, lifting her up like I always did. She giggled as I pressed a long kiss to her cheek, and then hugged me tight around the neck, like she didn’t want to let go.

“I saw the unicorn diary on my table,” she whispered near my ear, as if it were a secret. “Thank you.”

I smiled. “You like it?”

She pulled back, her eyes wide. “Like it? I love it! It has glitter, and the pages smell like strawberries!”

“Smell like strawberries?” I raised a brow.

She nodded seriously. “I checked. Twice.”

I laughed and set her down gently. She grabbed her little backpack and turned toward the door where the nanny was waiting.

“I’m going to show it to my friends! They’re gonna be sooo jealous.”

I bent down and adjusted the straps on her backpack. “You’re going to be late.”

“I know!” she said, then gave me one last quick hug. “Bye, Dada!”

She ran off, waving as she disappeared down the hallway with the nanny trailing behind.

And just like that, the house felt quiet again.

I walked upstairs to the room Isabella was staying in. My footsteps were steady, deliberate. A knock. Then another.

I waited a few seconds before the door finally opened. She looked startled—like she hadn’t expected to see me—which didn’t make much sense, considering she was in my house.

“Good morning…” she said softly. “Uhm… I’m sorry, I was—”

“Why are you apologizing?” I cut in gently. “How’s the wound?”

She glanced down, avoiding eye contact. “Oh… not too bad. It's healing.”

“Hmm.” I looked past her into the room for a second, then back at her. “You haven’t eaten. It’s almost 8.”

“Yeah… I will. I was just… trying to get myself together.”

“Get yourself together for breakfast?” I asked, one brow raised.

She gave a weak smile. “I think… for everything.”

I nodded, noticing how unsure she still looked. “You’re dressed. Are you going out?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Yes, I am,” I replied, keeping it short. Then I stepped back and gestured down the hallway. “Come downstairs. Let’s have breakfast while we talk.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Downstairs, the dining table felt too big for two people. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was loaded. Fresh. Raw.

“I’m sorry,” Isabella said softly, her fingers curling around the mug in front of her. “He was a good man. Better than most.”

I didn’t look up. “Yeah… too good. Died thinking he could fix a woman who didn’t want fixing.”

There was a pause. She sighed.

“I know. My mother was never the woman he believed she was.”

I finally looked at her. “You’re not like her.”

Her eyes flicked to mine for a moment, uncertain. “I try not to be.”

She looked tired, in that quiet way grief wears on people. Hair pulled back in a loose bun, drowning in one of those old sweaters. And somehow, still—still—she looked too good. Too familiar.

“How was Tokyo?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

She gave a small smile. “Loud. Fast. No one has time to breathe.”

“You liked that?”

“Sometimes. It made it easier not to think.”

A beat passed.

“You meet anyone?” I asked, not sure why I cared as much as I did.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Anyone?”

“Boyfriend,” I clarified, casually stabbing at my eggs. “You seeing anyone?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “That’s random.”

“Forget it.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “No. I’m not. Haven’t found anyone worth the trouble.”

I nodded slowly, chewing the inside of my cheek.

“Good,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

She smiled again—but this time, it reached her eyes. “Is that relief I’m hearing?”

I didn’t answer. Just took another sip of my coffee—even though it had already gone cold.

A buzz lit up my phone screen.

I glanced at the message, then cleared my throat, pushing back the chair. I slipped the phone into my pocket and stood up.

“Looks like I’ve got somewhere to be,” I said, walking over to her.

She looked up at me, surprised. I gently tilted her chin with two fingers, held her gaze for a second too long.

“Nice having you back, sis.”

And with that, I walked out.

The air outside was colder than expected. My driver was already waiting. He opened the back door without a word, and I got in.

I gave him an address—one not saved in my phone, not written anywhere. Just numbers I remembered.

A warehouse on the edge of the city. Out past the industrial zones. Too far for police to bother. Far enough to keep it off the radar from my house’s surveillance net.

The drive was long, silent.

That was intentional. I didn’t want anything close. The further it was, the easier it was to make someone disappear.

We pulled up to a grey, windowless building surrounded by nothing but gravel and broken streetlights. The kind of place no one looked at twice.

I stepped out. The wind kicked up some dust.

This was the kind of place people screamed in—and no one ever heard.

I stepped inside, the smell of rust, dust, and blood already in the air.

Collins was by the wall, tightening the ropes on some poor bastard groaning in the corner. But that wasn’t who I came for.

The man I was here for sat on the leather couch like he owned the damn place. Legs spread wide, a half-lit cigar between his fingers. Two guards flanked him — one on each side, stone-faced, armed.

As soon as I entered, his eyes dragged over me. “And who the hell is this?”

“Name’s Christopher,” I said coolly, flicking a glance at Collins.

He scoffed, nodding toward Collins. “You twins or something?”

“Nah,” Collins answered, cracking his knuckles. “We’re cousins.”

The man puffed out smoke, leaning back like we were here to negotiate. “Alright, Ge,” he muttered. “What’s your deal? You know where you at, right? This place, this operation — all mine.”

I let the silence stretch.

He smirked. “You lost or something?”

I stepped closer, slow and calm. “You’ve been bleeding us dry. Your little street rats keep intercepting our shipments. You thought we wouldn’t notice?”

His smirk dropped slightly. “That’s a big accusation.”

“No. That’s a confession waiting to happen.”

He shifted, his guards moving just a little.

Wrong move.

Before he could blink, Collins drew first — one clean shot to the first guard’s throat. I followed up with the second, straight through the eye. They dropped like dominoes.

The man jumped up, cigar falling to the floor. “What the—”

I raised my gun, aimed straight between his eyes.

“You should’ve stayed in your lane.”

His breath hitched. “Wait—”

Bang.

Blood splattered the wall behind him as his body hit the couch, lifeless.

Collins walked over, calm as ever. “He thought he was untouchable.”

I exhaled smoke, watching the blood pool beneath his shoes.

“Nobody’s untouchable. Especially not thieves who bite the hand feeding them.”