Second Chance

Rosalind stared at the phone until the screen dimmed on its own.

*I know what you saw. Meet me tonight. Alone.*

Nobody could know. She hadn't told a soul, hadn't even said it out loud yet, not to her father, not to anyone. Whoever sent this either meant something else entirely, or they somehow knew more than they should.

She typed back with shaking fingers.

*Who is this?*

The reply came fast.

*Someone who's been watching Silas longer than you have. Ninth Street warehouse. 9pm. Come alone or don't come at all.*

She set the phone down like it had burned her.

A warehouse. Of course it was a warehouse.

She spent the rest of the day moving through the house on autopilot, washing dishes that were already clean, straightening books that didn't need straightening, anything to keep her hands busy while her mind ran in circles. By the time evening came, she'd talked herself in and out of going a dozen times.

Her father came home around six, tired but in a good mood, dropping his keys on the counter and kissing the top of her head again.

"Silas cause you any more staring contests today?" he asked, grinning.

"Guess I'm just tired of him," Rosalind said, keeping her voice light.

"He's a good man," her father said. "Kept this club standing when I couldn't. You'll understand that one day."

She almost told him then. The words sat right at the back of her throat, heavy and sharp. *He's going to kill you. He's going to burn everything you built and let you take the blame for it.* But there was no way to say it that wouldn't sound like a girl who'd had one too many nightmares.

"I'm heading to bed early," she said instead. "Long day."

"Alright, kid. Love you."

"Love you too."

She waited until his door shut down the hall, until the house went quiet except for the low hum of the television, before she pulled on her jacket and slipped out through the back door.

The night was colder than she remembered fifteen years being. She walked fast, hood up, checking over her shoulder more than once, though there was no reason to think anyone would recognize her yet. Nobody knew this version of her existed.

The Ninth Street warehouse looked exactly the same as it had in her memory, minus the blood on the floor, minus the bullet that hadn't happened yet in this life. She stopped outside the door, hand on the cold metal, heart slamming against her ribs.

"You came."

She spun around.

A woman stepped out from behind a stack of crates, older than Rosalind by maybe ten years, dark hair pulled back tight, a scar cutting through one eyebrow. Rosalind didn't recognize her.

"Who are you?" Rosalind asked.

"Name's Dahlia," the woman said. "I used to run with the Reapers before Silas made sure I didn't anymore."

"You're not with the club now?"

"Nobody who asks the wrong questions stays with the club long." Dahlia crossed her arms. "You've been asking a lot of wrong questions lately, for a fifteen-year-old girl."

Rosalind's stomach tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I've been watching that house for weeks," Dahlia said. "Waiting for the right moment to get close to your father without Silas noticing. This morning, I watched you walk out that door looking like you'd seen a dead man walk into your kitchen. I know that look. I wore it myself, right before Silas destroyed my life."

"What did he do to you?"

"Framed me for skimming club money. Nobody checked. Nobody wanted to check, because checking meant doubting Silas, and doubting Silas gets you nowhere fast." Dahlia's jaw tightened. "I've spent three years trying to get someone, anyone, inside that club to listen. And then this morning I watch a fifteen-year-old girl walk out of that house looking like she already knows how the story ends."

Rosalind swallowed hard. "Maybe I just don't like him."

"Don't waste my time." Dahlia's voice sharpened. "I didn't drag myself out here at nine at night to hear you lie to me too."

Silence stretched between them. Rosalind studied the woman's face, the scar, the way her hands stayed loose but ready, like she'd learned a long time ago never to stand anywhere without an exit in sight.

"If I tell you what I know," Rosalind said slowly, "how do I know you won't run straight to him?"

"Because he's the reason I lost everything," Dahlia said. "My club. My name. My brother, who believed Silas over me and hasn't spoken to me since." Her voice cracked slightly on the last part, just enough for Rosalind to hear it was real. "I want him gone more than you do, kid. Whatever this is."

Rosalind studied her a moment longer. She thought about the years she'd spent not knowing, walking straight into a bullet because nobody warned her in time. She thought about how much faster things could move if she wasn't doing this completely alone.

"He's going to burn the club down," Rosalind said quietly. "Not with fire. With lies. He's going to make it look like my father sold us out to a rival syndicate, and by the time anyone figures out the truth, it'll already be too late. My father will be dead."

Dahlia went very still. "How do you know that?"

"I can't explain it in a way you'd believe."

"Try me."

Rosalind hesitated, then shook her head. "Not tonight. Not until I know I can trust you."

Dahlia studied her for a long moment, then gave a short, sharp laugh. "Smart girl. Fine. Keep your secrets." She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small notebook, worn at the edges, and held it out. "This is everything I gathered before they threw me out. Names. Dates. Money that doesn't add up. It's not enough on its own, but it's a start."

Rosalind took it carefully, like it might disappear if she moved too fast. "Why give this to me?"

"Because you're inside," Dahlia said. "And I'm not anymore."

Rosalind slid the notebook into her jacket. "I need time to figure out how to use this without him knowing it exists."

"You don't have as much time as you think." Dahlia's eyes flicked toward the warehouse door behind her, then back to Rosalind. "He's already planning something. I don't know what yet, but I've heard whispers. A meeting with someone outside the club. Someone dangerous."

Rosalind's chest tightened. "Who?"

"I don't have a name," Dahlia said. "Just a description. Young. Ambitious. Runs with a rival crew that's been circling Reapers territory for months."

Rosalind's mouth went dry.

"They call him Ashworth," Dahlia said. "Kade Ashworth."

The warehouse seemed to tilt slightly under Rosalind's feet.

"You know that name," Dahlia said, watching her face too closely.

Rosalind didn't answer.

Because if Silas Cade was already reaching out to Kade Ashworth, this early, this soon, that meant the man she'd once loved wasn't just going toinherit the ashes of her father's club someday.

He might be the one Silas was planning to burn it down for.