(Emmeline)
I can’t breathe properly.
I can’t think.
My heart is beating so fast I’m worried I may pass out and there’s no time for that now.
Jackson’s been gone for over an hour. They waited to call me until they’d searched the entire school.
I knew he was up to something this morning, I should have pushed him for an answer.
Where could he have gone?
What if he was kidnapped?
Jackson is such a beautiful boy and there are so many predators.
He’s smart as a whip, but he’s still 4 years old and he’ll trust anyone.
My head seems to be filled with static, thoughts coming and going arbitrarily.
I have to do something. Anything.
What if he’s trapped somewhere, screaming for me?
I’ll die if anything happens to him. He’s my entire life.
The moment they put him in my arms the day he was born, I knew my heart would be living outside my chest for the rest of my life.
He wants to find his dad. He saw him on television and he has a name now, but it’s not like mafia bosses publish their addresses online.
I type Asher Giordano into the search bar on my phone and I’m inundated with results. None of them telling me where he lives.
“I’m going to drive around and see if I can’t find him,” I tell Rosa, grabbing my keys.
“Honey, the police are already doing that. Maybe you should go home and see if he hasn’t gone back to the apartment?” she suggest gently.
She’s right. Why didn’t I think of that?
I can’t allow panic to get the better of me. I have to stop spinning in circles right away. I’ll find Jackson.
Going off the rails won’t help anyone.
Tears pour silently down my cheeks and I keep scanning the sidewalks for any sign of him.
He’s so small, would I even see him amongst the sea of people?
His hair is like a beacon, as fiercely red as mine, but if he’s behind someone taller, that won’t help me.
I’m out of the car before it comes to a full stop, my hands shaking so badly it takes me 3 tries to get the security door downstairs unlocked.
We’re on the 4th floor and the elevator in this old building is fickle and slow.
Taking the stairs 2 at a time, I start calling Jackson’s name when I’m on the last landing.
There’s no response, but my heart leaps in my chest when I see the front door of our apartment is ajar.
Maybe the super let him in? He should have called me, but I’m too grateful to really care.
“Jackson, baby, you scared me half to-”
The words die in my throat when I rush inside and find Asher standing in the middle of my living room.
Asher.
I can’t tell whether I’m shivering or just falling apart.
Every breath tastes like ash and panic.
“What have you done with Jackson?” I demand.
“My son?” Asher asks calmly, looking around my small apartment disdainfully. “The one you’ve been hiding from me and forcing to live in this…pigeonhole, when I could have been taking care of him?”
My heart is a trapped bird, slamming against my chest.
“Our son, not yours. And you’re the one who disappeared without as much as a ‘see you later’. If you left me a forwarding address to contact you at, I must have missed it.”
Asher’s brows shoot up as he regards me coldly.
I don’t know this person.
The boy I fell in love with was warm, giving and open.
This man is frostier than the arctic.
He hardly seems human to me as I stare into his glacial eyes.
“You can’t take Jackson from me, he’ll never forgive you,” I warn Asher.
I don’t know what else to do. Asher has money, connections and hitmen.
All I have is the desperate love of a mother for her child.
“I’m not letting him come back here,” Asher informs me with great finality. “If you want to see Jackson again, you’ll do what I say and I’ll take you to him.”
All that matters now is getting to my son. “What do you want?”
Asher nods at me condescendingly, like I’m a pet who’s come to heel, and I want to fly at him in fury.
I hate feeling this helpless when Jackson needs me to be strong.
“I believe you work at the DA’s office,” Asher says, his brow wrinkled in distaste. “If you wish to be reunited with Jackson, you’ll resign with immediate effect and tell me exactly what they think they have on me.”
“I need that job. I can’t just resign-”
I start to protest, before Asher abruptly interrupts me.
“You have one minute to decide. Do as I say, or never see Jackson again. The clock is ticking.”
SebastianThe bar is one of those places that forgets its own name after midnight. I pick the table with my back to the wall and a view of the door because I used to mistake paranoia for a phase and it turned out to be a skill set.Bruce arrives without announcing himself. One second there’s a chair, the next there’s a wall of man sitting in it. Black T-shirt, clean jaw, the kind of stillness that makes other people fidget.He folds his forearms on the table. “Tell me.”I slide my phone across the scarred wood. He scans the screen from a distance, cataloging like he does doorframes and fire escapes. The photo of me and Emmeline on those courthouse steps. The spreadsheets.“They want me to step down from the Bureau,” I say.“Because you’re close to something,” he says, and it isn’t a question.“The account numbers are elegant forgery. The dates are almost right. The offshore shells are real, just not mine. If the SEC sees this without context, I’m radioactive.”Bruce reaches, opens a se
EmmelineHe locks the door without looking away from me.Click. The kind of sound that lands between my ribs and blooms there.“Come here,” Asher says.The coat slides from his shoulders, heavy with rain. His hands find my jaw like he’s checking the hinge on a door he intends to walk through.He moves first. No preamble. No safety rails except the ones we always keep for each other. Mouth on mine, pressure decisive, that bite-soft glide that strips thought and leaves the body fluent.My back meets the wall. My palms find his shoulders. He’s warm through the shirt. Solid. The kind of strength that isn’t just muscle but power.His hand brackets my throat, squeezing lightly, heat and claim, his thumb finding the flutter of my pulse. “Breathe.”I do. In on a three-count, out on a five. The world steadies and then tilts harder when he kisses the point under my ear that unspools my spine. My head hits the wall with a soft thud. He catches it with his palm and laughs like a sinner in church.
AsherMy captains ring the long table like constellations I used to navigate by. Bruce stands at my right shoulder, a dark planet with its own gravity.Emmeline’s words are still in my blood. Put the crown on. Use every tool. I can taste them the way I taste her. Steel and honey. I’ve already made the calls, put men on schools, on routes, on the places my enemies sleep and pretend it’s safe. What I haven’t done yet is say it out loud.I open my mouth just as Bruce’s phone vibrates.He glances at the screen, and the small, bare shift in his jaw is enough to tell me the night just changed. He steps close, voice pitched for me alone. “Nico didn’t check in.”Nico. Forty-two. Drove for my father when I was still a problem in cufflinks. Taught me the quiet parts of survival. How to breathe through an ambush, how to keep your eyes up in a crowd.“Where?” I ask.Bruce answers with motion. We’re already walking to the car. “Something’s come up. Wait here,” I tell the room.We cut through the c
EmmelineI’m halfway through a piece of toast when my phone starts vibrating across the counter like it wants to escape.Three texts from Sarah. Elias’s campaign manager.You seeing this???Turn on Cityline.We need you at HQ.I unmute the TV and the caption slaps me in the face. IS THE BOY SCOUT A BAGMAN? Elias’s smiling campaign photo sits beside a grainy still of Asher stepping out of a black car. The segment host has the smooth voice of a snake oil salesman.“Anonymous financial records obtained overnight appear to show a pattern of-”I don’t hear the rest. I’m already scrolling the linked article. Screenshots. Red circles. Arrows. A “timeline” that stitches unrelated events into a story where Elias is Asher’s friendly neighborhood money launderer.Asher appears in the doorway, tie loose, shirt sleeves rolled, dangerously sexy without trying. “What happened?”“Vescari happened,” I say, shoving my arms into the coat. “They’re hitting Elias. Anonymous bank records, out-of-context ph
CaterinaThere’s a particular kind of dark right before dawn when New York holds its breath and decides whether to behave.I stand barefoot on the kitchen tile, staring at the window like I can see Palermo through the glass if I focus hard enough. The espresso machine purrs and I pour without tasting. My hands are steady. That’s how I know I’m afraid.Bruce ghosts past the doorway, a mountain in a black T-shirt. He does it every hour. Checking all the doors and windows. The ritual should annoy me. It seduces me instead. A man who treats safety like worship is a dangerous prayer to answer.I’m not here for prayers. I’m here to confess.Emmeline pads in, hair braided back, Asher’s hoodie swallowing her small frame. She looks like soft sleep and sharp corners. Mrs. Giordano. The title sits on her like a crown she didn’t ask for and wears anyway.“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, voice low. The house is full of men who will be awake soon. For a moment, it’s just us.“Not really.”I sink onto a
EmmelineThe house is too quiet after midnight. I lie awake and listen to the faint hush of cars down on the avenue. My hand rests on my stomach like a promise and a threat. I am not prey. I am a mother. Those are different animals.Asher comes in at one twenty-three, tie in his pocket, coat open, winter air clinging to him.“How was it?” I ask.He meets my eyes in the mirror, loosening his cuffs. “Contained.”“Contained is not a report. It’s a prayer.”A beat of amusement ghosts across his mouth and dies. “I met the captains. Not all. A handful. Enough to make it clear things have changed.”“Did you say the words?” I sit up, knees to my chest, the strap of my negligee falling down to my collarbone. “Did you claim your crown back?”“Not yet.” He turns, taking me in like I’m a cliff he has to climb. “I won’t swing a wrecking ball through our life because a grandmother in widow’s black wants to play chess from Palermo.”“She nearly set fire to our son’s school,” I say, voice even. “She