Twelve Years Later, His Canary Flew Away

I had stood by Soren's side as he clawed his way up from a low-level enforcer to the rank of capo. He had promised me countless times that he would take me away from this violent underworld to live a quiet life in Northern Europe.

Only now did I see the truth. A new woman, the lure of power—both were more important than the fiancée who had been with him for over a decade.

Soren's words were a bullet straight through my heart.

That clean future was the one escape we had earned after twelve years of fighting and bleeding, of clinging to each other since our days on the streets.

And just like that, he destroyed it.

He couldn't even be bothered to tell me to my face.

Inside the club, his drunken men continued their discussion.

"That Abby would never give up this life of luxury. Without the Boss's protection, she wouldn't last a day out there."

"Exactly. After all the good years the Boss gave her? No way she'd walk away from that."

Someone else added, "And the Boss is right. It's smart not to tell her the truth. She'd just get hysterical and screw everything up."

"Women, you know. All heart, no head."

Soren scoffed. "You're right about that. You all know Abby's temper."

"If she knew I changed my plans for Monica, she'd give me another goddamn headache."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging so deep they nearly broke the skin of my palms.

Then came words that cut even deeper.

"Let's be honest. Abby's loyal, but that's nothing compared to what a young, delicate princess like Monica brings to the table."

"Besides, Abby's getting older. The thrill is gone. A real princess like Monica is the kind of woman a boss like him should have."

Their vulgar laughter almost broke me.

I wanted to storm in there, press a gun to his head, and demand answers.

But my legs felt as if they were filled with lead.

I don't even know how I made it home. I drifted into my art studio like a ghost and locked the door.

Darkness swallowed everything. A tidal wave of betrayal and confusion washed over me.

The chill of the studio floor seeped into my bones.

I lay on the cold tiles, staring up at the ceiling, at a dense constellation of bullet holes.

Souvenirs from two years ago, when the Moretti family paid us a "visit."

Soren had held me as we hid in this very room, the sound of gunfire lasting the entire night.

At dawn, he pushed the door open, covered in blood, and said to me, "Abby, when we get out of here, I'll never let you be this terrified again."

What a fucking joke.

We had fought through a hail of bullets for twelve years to escape this world of blood and violence, just to get to where we were today.

I thought we were fighting for a future together.

Every time I felt like I couldn't go on, we would pull out the file with our new identities for Northern Europe and remind each other what we were fighting for.

The day we received the last of our forged documents, we held each other and cried, believing we could finally leave this hell behind.

But with that clean future right in front of him, he let go of my hand and ran toward an even deeper darkness.

I wouldn't have even blamed him for changing his mind.

But why couldn't he have just told me?

In his eyes, were our twelve years together worth so little?

If I was just an obstacle, then what were the vows he made on one knee the night he proposed?