CHAPTER 8

Nicholas’s POV

“He’s innocent, boss.”

Clark’s voice is hesitant, but the words hit me like a bullet.

For a second, I don’t react. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Then, rage.

A sharp slam echoes through my office as my fist crashes against the desk. The force sends a glass of whiskey toppling over, the amber liquid spilling across the dark wood.

Alex was innocent.

We killed the wrong man.

I push back from my desk, pacing the room, my breaths coming hard and fast. My mind replays every detail of the hit—every calculated move, every drop of blood spilled. And for what?

A mistake.

Someone had played me, fed me bad information, and now an innocent man was rotting in the ground while the real witness was still out there, breathing. Hiding.

I grit my teeth, fists clenching at my sides. “Who the fuck gave us that lead?”

Clark swallows hard but holds my gaze. “It came from our usual channels. The intel was solid—at least, it seemed that way.”

“Seemed?” I snap, turning on him. “We don’t deal in ‘seemed,’ Clark. We deal in certainty.”

He nods. “I know, boss. We’re already tracing the source. Someone wanted us to believe Alex was the witness, and we’re going to find out who.”

I inhale slowly, trying to rein in my fury. The need for control. Chaos solves nothing—I learned that lesson a long time ago.

“Find the real witness,” I order, my voice deadly calm. “And when you do, bring them to me. No mistakes this time.”

Clark dips his head. “Understood.”

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with my anger.

I rake a hand through my hair, my pulse still pounding. Sitting still isn’t an option. My body is wound too tight, my mind too restless. I need air.

Before I realize it, I’m behind the wheel, speeding through the city, the lights blurring past me. The roads stretch ahead, dark and empty, but the drive does nothing to settle the storm inside me.

Then, somehow, I end up outside her apartment.

The moment I pull up, a strange sense of clarity washes over me. I lean back in my seat, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as I watch the building.

I tell myself I’m just here to clear my head.

It’s a lie.

The front door opens, and there she is.

Chloe.

She steps outside in an oversized hoodie, clutching a plastic bag as she makes her way to the garbage bin. She moves lazily, her bare feet padding against the pavement. Her fingers push into her curls as she yawns, her lips parting slightly.

A small chuckle escapes me.

She’s always composed at the café—sharp-eyed, guarded, a woman with walls built high. But here, in the quiet of the night, she looks different.

Soft.

Unaware.

Human.

A thought flickers in the back of my mind. Would she look at me the same way if she knew the kind of man I really was?

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. I shouldn’t be here. Watching her. Thinking about her.

But I don’t leave.

Instead, I keep watching as she stretches her arms over her head, mumbling something under her breath before trudging back inside. The door clicks shut behind her, and the glow from her apartment window flickers to life.

I know I should drive away.

But I don’t.

Minutes pass, maybe longer, as I sit in the shadows, staring up at that light. She’s in there. Oblivious.

A dangerous part of me wonders what she’s doing. If she’s thinking about me.

I should leave her alone.

But I won’t.

Instead, I keep watching as she stretches her arms over her head, mumbling something under her breath before trudging back inside. The door clicks shut behind her, and a moment later, the glow from her apartment window flickers to life.

I should leave. I know that.

But I don’t.

I lean back against the headrest, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as my gaze stays locked on that single illuminated window.

Then, she moves.

A shadow shifts behind the thin curtains. She pulls off her hoodie, tossing it aside, leaving her in a simple tank top. She moves around her small apartment—first to what I assume is a dresser, where she rummages through something, then to the other side of the room.

Her bed.

A heat flushes through me at the thought of stepping inside that space, of standing there—close enough to breathe the same air she does. Close enough to see her in these quiet, unguarded moments.

I shake the thought off.

She sits down, head bowing slightly. Her fingers toy with something in her lap—a phone, maybe? A book? Whatever it is, her expression is unreadable from this distance.

For a long while, she stays like that, lost in thought.

Then, finally, she leans over and flicks off the lamp.

Darkness.

I exhale slowly. That’s my cue.

Turning the key in the ignition, the engine hums to life, low and steady. I steal one last glance at the now-dark window before pulling away from the curb.

This time, I don’t stop.

But I already know I’ll be back.

Chloe’s POV

Beeeeeeeeep!

I blindly smack my alarm clock, groaning as I pull the blanket over my head. The shrill sound claws at my brain, dragging me out of the fragile sleep I barely got. My limbs feel heavy, like I spent the whole night running instead of tossing and turning in bed.

For a moment, I let myself sink deeper into the mattress, hoping for just a few more minutes of peace. But my mind won’t let me. The news report from last night replays in my head. Nicholas. Alex Gray. The mafia.

My stomach twists.

I throw off the blanket with a frustrated sigh, blinking up at the ceiling as the early morning light seeps through the curtains. It’s pale and weak, barely reaching the corners of my small room. The air feels cold against my skin, making me curl into myself before forcing my body to move.

Survive. Keep moving. Act normal.

I push myself up and rub the sleep from my eyes, forcing my sluggish limbs to cooperate. My bed is the first thing I tackle, smoothing out the sheets and fluffing the pillow before tossing the blanket back in place. It’s a routine I don’t even think about—it keeps my hands busy, my mind distracted.

With a stretch, I head toward the bathroom, yawning as I flick on the light. The mirror greets me with a reflection I barely recognize. My blonde hair is a tangled mess, sticking out in different directions, and there are faint shadows under my blue eyes. I sigh, pushing my hair back before turning on the faucet.

The cool splash of water against my skin is a relief. I take my time, letting the sensation ground me as I scrub my face and brush my teeth.

The shower comes next. I step under the hot stream, allowing it to loosen the tension coiled in my shoulders. Steam fills the small space, fogging up the mirror. I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool tiles.

I need to stop overthinking.

Nicholas is just a customer. That’s all he ever was.

Except now I know the truth.

I exhale sharply, pushing the thought away as I wash my hair, running my fingers through the strands until they’re silky and smooth again. Once I’m clean, I wrap a towel around myself and head back to my room.

Dressing is another mindless task. I pull on a simple pair of jeans and a sweater, something warm and comfortable. My fingers automatically reach for a hairbrush, dragging it through my damp locks until they fall in soft waves down my back. I debate tying it up but decide against it.

The scent of coffee drifts from downstairs. Mom’s already at the shop.

I glance at the clock. I still have time before I need to leave, so I move to the small vanity in the corner of my room. I don’t usually wear much makeup, but today, I reach for some concealer, dabbing it under my eyes to hide the exhaustion that lingers there. A bit of mascara follows, just enough to make me look more awake.

Once satisfied, I head to the kitchen. Breakfast is a quiet affair—just me, a bowl of cereal, and the hum of the refrigerator. I eat slowly, spooning the food into my mouth without much enthusiasm. My appetite is nonexistent, but I force myself to finish.

Another day begins.

And Nicholas is coming back today.

I grip my spoon a little tighter, the cold pit in my stomach growing heavier.

I rinse my bowl and place it in the sink, wiping my hands on a dish towel. My movements are slow, deliberate—anything to stall the inevitable. But time doesn’t stop for me, and I can’t sit here all day, drowning in my thoughts.

With a deep breath, I grab my coat and sling my bag over my shoulder. The morning air is crisp when I step outside, the bite of cold making me tug my sweater closer around my body. The sky is still a pale gray, the sun barely peeking over the horizon.

The streets are quiet, save for the occasional car rolling by and the distant chatter of early commuters. I make my way to the bus stop, my boots clicking against the pavement.

My mind is restless the whole ride to the café. I keep my head down, staring at the scuffed floor of the bus, gripping the strap of my bag like a lifeline. The thought of seeing Nicholas again makes my skin prickle with unease.

When I finally reach the café, the bell above the door chimes as I step inside. The warmth is immediate, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. The scent of fresh coffee and baked goods fills the air, comforting in its normalcy.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Mom glances up from the counter, offering me a soft smile.

“Morning,” I mumble back, setting my bag down behind the counter and tying an apron around my waist.

Mom studies me for a moment, her brows knitting together. “You okay?”

I force a smile. “Yeah, just tired.”

She doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t push either. Instead, she hands me a cup of coffee. “Here. You look like you need it.”

I take it gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic mug. The first sip is like liquid comfort, the bitter taste grounding me.

The morning rush begins soon after, a steady stream of customers coming in for their usual orders. I lose myself in the routine—taking orders, pouring coffee, making small talk. It’s easier to focus on the tasks in front of me than to think about Nicholas.

But then the bell chimes again, and I freeze.

Isaac strides in, looking just as put-together as yesterday. His sharp brown eyes land on me immediately, and he smiles.

“Morning, Chloe,” he greets, stepping up to the counter.

I swallow, gripping the edge of the counter tighter. “Morning.”

“Just the usual for Nicholas,” he says casually, like this is an everyday occurrence.

And maybe for him, it is.

I nod stiffly and move to prepare the drink, my hands moving on autopilot.

“He’ll be here later today,” Isaac adds, watching me closely.

I falter for just a second, nearly spilling the coffee. But I recover quickly, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

“Okay,” I say simply, handing him the cup.

Isaac studies me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. But he doesn’t say anything else. He just takes the coffee, thanks me, and walks out the door.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my heart pounding in my chest.

Nicholas is coming.

And I have no idea what I’ll do when he does.