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Safe houses and sharper things

Author: Holland Ross
last update Huling Na-update: 2025-09-21 19:15:14

The safe house was smaller than I remembered—a brick box of a place with one crooked window that breathed out the city's rain when the wind leaned wrong. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old cigarette smoke, a cheap attempt at normalcy stitched over the ragged edge of our lives. Someone had swept; someone had tried to make a bed. It felt obscene and holy at the same time.

Matteo dropped to the couch as if the floor might open beneath him. His hands still shook; his breath came in shallow, quick pulls. Luca prowled the perimeter like an animal that could not decide whether to sleep or strike. Nico moved through the room with the economy of someone who had learned to reserve every gesture—checking locks, peering through blinds, folding himself into the smallest possible shape while remaining watchful.

I stood in the doorway and let the scene arrange itself around me. The wet on my coat evaporated into the stale heat. For a moment I wanted to peel the skin off my shou
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  • My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?   Sharpened thoughts

    The house breathed different when we returned. Walls that had once been background felt watchful, their plaster carrying the tension we brought in with us. Matteo paced the narrow hall, a wolf in shoes too tight, while Luca stripped weapons out on the kitchen table, metal clinking like punctuation in a language made only of war.The smell of oil and steel was thick enough to choke. It was home in the way scars are: ugly, permanent, familiar.Nico peeled off his jacket, his eyes never leaving me even when he was moving. “We don’t have much time. If Marco’s right, Umbra will start early. They like the dark because they think it makes them gods.”Matteo barked a laugh, harsh and bitter. “Or maybe they like the dark because rats don’t survive in daylight.”No one corrected him.I lowered myself into a chair and pressed my palms flat against the wood, grounding myself. “We need to decide. Do we take Marco’s word and pull everyone back from the pier? Or do we hold both places and split our

  • My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?   In the Quiet

    Dawn came in gray shreds the color of old bandages. The city had the kind of quiet that made sound feel obscene—too intimate for so many secrets. I climbed the fire escape because being higher up made the world simpler: angles instead of complications, air instead of human things pressing in.Nico was already there when I pushed the hatch open. He stood with his back to me, shoulders hunched against the cold wind, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket. He looked like he belonged to the architecture of the roof—hard, necessary, built to bear weight.“You didn't come to sleep either,” he said without turning.“No.” I dropped down beside him and wrapped my arms around my knees. The metal under my palms was still warm from a life that had happened here before we came, and the warmth felt obscene—small comfort where there shouldn't be any. “Too many things to think.”He let that be. For a long time we watched traffic pull itself along the far street like tired beasts. The city had a

  • My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?   Safe houses and sharper things

    The safe house was smaller than I remembered—a brick box of a place with one crooked window that breathed out the city's rain when the wind leaned wrong. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old cigarette smoke, a cheap attempt at normalcy stitched over the ragged edge of our lives. Someone had swept; someone had tried to make a bed. It felt obscene and holy at the same time.Matteo dropped to the couch as if the floor might open beneath him. His hands still shook; his breath came in shallow, quick pulls. Luca prowled the perimeter like an animal that could not decide whether to sleep or strike. Nico moved through the room with the economy of someone who had learned to reserve every gesture—checking locks, peering through blinds, folding himself into the smallest possible shape while remaining watchful.I stood in the doorway and let the scene arrange itself around me. The wet on my coat evaporated into the stale heat. For a moment I wanted to peel the skin off my shou

  • My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?   The deadliest truth of all

    Serena:The storage room stank of oil and mildew, the kind of rot that clung to your throat until you could taste it. Damp boxes leaned against each other like drunks in an alley, paper curling from years of neglect. Every flicker of the overhead light carved the walls into sharper angles, shadows stretching long and brittle.My pulse hadn’t slowed since the first shot was fired. I could feel it in my wrists, in my ribs, in the bruised places memory refused to let heal.Marco stood near the rusted door, his face half-shadowed, unreadable. He had always been like that—a storm contained behind stone walls. It wasn’t comfort, not really. It was just… stillness in the wrong shape.Outside, the world breathed closer. The low hum of an engine vibrated through the thin walls. Tires whispered across the wet pavement, the rhythm deliberate and controlled. Umbra’s men weren’t searching anymore. They were circling.Matteo muttered something sharp under his breath, his hand tight around his weapo

  • My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?   Things change… just like that.

    Serena:The moment Marco’s boots hit the floor, the room shrank to the width of our pulse. Every shadow seemed to lean toward us, heavy and knowing. Nico didn’t lower his gun—he never did—but the tremor in his fingers said more than words could. Matteo muttered a string of curses I didn’t fully hear, and Luca’s jaw was a rigid line, knuckles white against the window frame.I forced myself to breathe, to anchor to something other than fear. My gun stayed trained on Marco, but my eyes flicked to the blinds. The street beyond was a study in tension: the van, black as oil, its engine a soft growl; the figure on the corner, lean and patient; the city itself holding its breath.“Move fast,” Marco whispered, as though speaking louder would snap the thin thread of survival.I stepped aside, letting him take the center of the room without lowering my weapon. The moment was electric, a fuse lit on both ends.Then it happened.A shout from the street. Tires squealing. The corner man ducked behin

  • My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?   In the moment

    My hand found the handle before my brain could argue with it. The metal was slick with sweat. For a moment, everything narrowed—my pulse, the gun in my palm, the three sets of eyes on my back, the single name that had split the room like a knife.I twisted.The door cracked open on a wedge of night and a face.Marco.He was smaller than I’d pictured—lived-in lines around his mouth, a thin crescent scar at his temple, hair pushed back with a hand that trembled like he'd been running. He smelled of smoke and oil and something metallic, the kind of odor that clung to men who’d slept in cars and prayed to no one. He wore a coat the color of old bruises, collar turned up, and his left shoulder sagged where a strap should have been. Blood darkened his sleeve, but his eyes were bright, too bright, as if whatever had found him refused to dull him.For a breath, the room held together on his look alone. Matteo’s face went white and red in the same heartbeat. Nico’s gun clicked; the sound was t

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