cold bit through my jeans, seeping up from the stone I’d been sitting on for the past hour. My legs had gone numb somewhere around the 40inute mark, but I couldn’t bring myself to stand. Standing meant making a decision.
Sitting meant I could keep pretending I’d driven out here at 4:00 in the morning just to think. The Columbia River Gorge stretched below me. Darkness broken only by scattered lights from houses too far away to matter. Wind whipped my hair across my face. strands catching in my mouth. I didn’t bother pushing them away. Three weeks. 21 days since Tyler’s car went over a cliff 20 m south of here.
21 days since the police knocked on my apartment door with faces that told me everything before they spoke a word. Loss of control, they’d said tragic accident. Liars. All of them. I’d found Tyler’s notes 2 days after the funeral hidden in his gym bag. The one place I almost didn’t check. Pages of names, dates, locations, testimony he’d planned to give against the Brata, against Alexe Stapanov specifically.
My baby brother had witnessed something he shouldn’t have. Agreed to testify and paid for it with a staged accident that fooled everyone except me. The edge called just one step, maybe two. Then the wind would do the rest and the pain crushing my chest would finally stop. No more waking up reaching for my phone to text Tyler before remembering he’d never answer.
No more eviction notices I couldn’t pay. No more failed pitches to editors who’d stopped returning my calls. No more anything. I shifted forward. Gravel skittered over the edge, disappearing into darkness. My heart hammered, but my mind felt eerily calm. This was the same type of cliff that had taken Tyler.
Poetic maybe, or just pathetic. I couldn’t tell anymore. Headlights swept across the overlook behind me. I flinched, squinting against the sudden brightness. A black SUV rolled to a stop 30 ft back, engine cutting to silence. Who the hell came to a hiking overlook at 4:30 in the morning beside someone like me? The driver’s door opened.
A man emerged, tall and broad- shouldered, moving with the kind of control that suggested he knew exactly how much space his body occupied in the world. He didn’t approach immediately, just stood there, one hand resting on the open door, watching me. Beautiful view, he said. His voice carried despite the wind, low and careful. Mind if I share it? Every muscle in my body locked.
It’s a public overlook. True. He closed the door softly. Not the slam I expected, though. Most people wait for sunrise before making the drive. Maybe I like the dark. He moved closer, but slowly, like approaching a spooked animal. Smart man. Or maybe you’re here for the same reason I stopped.
I turned to face him fully, anger flaring hot through the numbness. You don’t know anything about why I’m here. The overlooked security light caught his features as he stepped into range. Late 30s, maybe 35. Dark hair with threads of gray at the temples, though his face was too young for it. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. Eyes that looked almost black in the dim light. Fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
A thin scar cut horizontally through his right eyebrow. Pale against tanned skin. You’re right, he said. I don’t, but I know that look. What look? The one that says you’re weighing options you can’t take back. He stopped 10 ft away, hands visible at his sides. Non-threatening. I’ve seen it before. Worn it myself once.
Then you know this is none of your business. Probably not. He tilted his head slightly. But I’m making it my business anyway. Call it a character flaw. I laughed, the sound harsh and broken. You always harass strangers at cliffsides. Only the ones standing too close to the edge.
His gaze dropped to my feet, inches from where solid ground became nothing but air. Do you have someone I can call? Family? Friend? The question hit like a physical blow. No, no one at all. Tyler’s dead. The words escaped before I could stop them. Raw and jagged. 3 weeks ago, right here in the gorge. They said it was an accident, but it wasn’t.
He was going to testify against the Bratva, against Stapanov, and they killed him for it. Staged the whole thing so perfectly that everyone believes it was just bad luck, bad weather, bad timing, just my little brother being careless. I was breathing too fast, words tumbling out in a rush I couldn’t control.
I spent two years scraping by to put him through community college. He was going to be an accountant. boring, safe, exactly what I wanted for him after everything we’d been through. But he took a job with the wrong company, saw the wrong thing, and now he’s gone. And I’ve got nothing.
No family, no money, no job that pays enough to matter. Just debt and an eviction notice and the knowledge that the man who killed my brother is walking around free while everyone calls it an accident. Tears burned my eyes. I swiped at them angrily. So yeah, no one to call. You can leave now. Go back to whatever brought you out here and forget you saw me. He didn’t leave. Didn’t speak either.
Just stood there absorbing everything I’d thrown at him. When he finally moved, it was to take one careful step forward. Stapanov, he said quietly. You’re sure it was him? I blinked. What? Alexe Stapanov, head of the Russian operations in the Northwest. You’re certain he’s the one who had your brother killed? My pulse kicked.
How do you know that name? His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Because he’s been trying to kill me for the past 6 months. He extended his hand toward me, palm up. An offering, not a demand. My name is Adrien Castravani, and I think we should talk somewhere that isn’t a clifftop at dawn.
I stared at his hand, at the expensive watch on his wrist, at the tailored jacket that probably cost more than 3 months of my rent. Who are you? Someone who wants Stephenoff gone as badly as you do. His eyes held mine, steady and unflinching. Someone who didn’t know he’d eliminated a witness 3 weeks ago.
Someone who can help you make sure your brother’s death actually means something. I don’t need help. Everyone needs help. His hand remained extended. And right now you need it more than most. So I’m offering one conversation somewhere warm with coffee and a door that locks. After that, if you want me to walk away, I will. Why would you do that? You don’t know me? No. Something shifted in his expression.
A shadow of old pain. But I know what it’s like to lose someone to Stupanov’s violence. I know how it eats at you. How the grief turns into something darker. And I know that standing on this edge won’t bring them back. It just means Staponoff winds twice. The wind gusted hard, nearly pushing me forward. I wobbled, arms pinwheeling.
Adrienne moved fast, closing the distance between us in two long strides. His hand caught my wrist, grip firm, but not painful, and pulled me back from the edge. For a heartbeat, we stood frozen, his fingers circling my wrist, my pulse hammering against his thumb. Then my knees gave out, just completely quit like someone had cut the strings holding me upright.
He caught me, arms sliding around my waist, taking my weight as I crumpled. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” I wasn’t okay. Hadn’t been okay in 3 weeks, maybe longer. But his arm was solid, his voice steady, and for the first time since the police had knocked on my door. I wasn’t alone with the weight of Tyler’s death. I buried my face against his shoulder and sobbed.
Great ugly sounds that I couldn’t hold back. He didn’t tell me it would be all right. Didn’t offer empty platitudes. Just held me while I fell apart. One hand pressed between my shoulder blades, anchoring me to something besides my own spiral of grief and rage. When I finally ran out of tears, I pulled back. He released me immediately, though his hand hovered near my elbow like he expected me to collapse again. Sorry, I managed.
Don’t be. He studied my face, cataloging the damage. When’s the last time you ate something? I tried to remember. Failed. Yesterday, maybe. Sleep? What’s that? His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe before you pass out. I don’t even know you. You know I hate Stephanov. That’s more common ground than most people start with. He gestured toward the SUV.
I promise I’m not planning to murder you. Bad for business. And I’ve got enough problems without adding random acts of violence to the list. Business? I repeated. The expensive clothes. The way he moved. The casual mention of people trying to kill him. What kind of business? the kind that puts me at war with Russian mobsters. He met my eyes directly. I’m not going to lie to you.
I’m not a good man. But right now, I’m the only option you’ve got. So, you can get in the car and let me buy you breakfast or you can stay here and freeze. Your choice. It wasn’t really a choice. Not when my apartment was 3 hours away and I’d spent my last $20 on gas to get here. Not when exhaustion pulled at every bone in my body.
Not when the alternative was going back to that edge and finishing what I’d started. I walked toward the SUV. Adrienne followed, opening the passenger door for me with old-fashioned courtesy that felt bizarre given everything else. The interior smelled like leather and expensive cologne. Warm air blasting from the vents.
He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the overlook without asking where I lived. Maybe he knew I had nowhere to go. Maybe he just didn’t care. We drove in silence for 10 minutes before I found my voice again. Tyler had notes, I said. Dates, times, locations. He was documenting trafficking routes.
Stanov’s people were moving people through the port using legitimate shipping companies as cover. Tyler worked as a warehouse supervisor. He saw things he wasn’t supposed to see. Adrienne’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. How much did he document? 3 months worth. names of the ships, manifests that didn’t match cargo. He was going to turn it all over to the FBI. My voice cracked.
He told me two days before he died, said he’d made a deal for witness protection. I begged him not to do it. Told him it was too dangerous, but he said someone had to stop them. And now he’s dead. And Stupanov thinks the threat died with him, probably. Adrien was quiet for a moment, jaw working. Did Tyler give you copies of his documentation? hidden in my apartment.
Why? Because if Stapana finds out you have them, you’re dead, too. He glanced at me. Those dark eyes unreadable. Where do you live? Portland. But I got evicted. I have until the end of the week to clear out. Then you’re coming home with me. I should have argued. Should have demanded he take me back to the city. But exhaustion crashed over me like a wave, dragging me under. My eyes drifted closed despite my best efforts.
What’s your name? Adrienne asked softly. “Alyssa,” the word came out slurred. “Alyssa Grant, Alyssa.” He said it carefully, like testing the weight of it. Stay awake a little longer. We’re almost there. Where there was, I didn’t know. Didn’t particularly care. For the first time in 3 weeks, someone else was making the decisions. Someone else was carrying the weight.
I could let go for just a moment and trust that I wouldn’t completely shatter. The SUV turned off the main highway onto a private road, gate sliding open automatically. Through half-closed eyes, I glimpsed high stone walls, security cameras, flood lights illuminating manicured grounds. Then the house appeared. All modern lines and floor toseeiling windows worth more money than I’d see in a lifetime.
“Come on,” Adrienne said gently when we stopped. “Let’s get you inside.” I stumbled out of the SUV, legs barely supporting me. He didn’t touch me, just walked beside me up wide steps to a door that opened before we reached it. A woman in her 60s stood there, silver hair pulled into a neat bun, eyes sharp as she took in my appearance. Guest room, Rosa, Adrienne said.
Food, water, and privacy. She’s been through enough tonight. Rosa nodded once, crisp and efficient. This way, I followed her through rooms that blurred together, too exhausted to process any of it. A bedroom appeared, larger than my entire apartment, decorated in soft grays and blues.
Rosa pointed out the bathroom, the closet, the small refrigerator stocked with water. Mr. Castroani says you should rest, she told me. Everything else can wait. The door closed behind her. I stood alone in a stranger’s house in a room worth more than everything I owned combined and felt nothing but overwhelming relief that I was still breathing. I collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and surrendered to darkness.
Sunlight burned through my eyelids, dragging me from sleep I hadn’t expected to find. My body achd in unfamiliar ways, muscles stiff from finally relaxing after weeks of carrying tension like armor for three blissful seconds. I didn’t remember where I was or why. Then it crashed back. Tyler, the cliff, Adrien Castroani. I sat up too fast, head spinning.
The room looked even more expensive in daylight. All clean lines and muted colors that probably had names like storm gray and morning mist. My jeans were twisted around my legs, shirt wrinkled beyond saving. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure. A soft knock preceded the door opening.
The woman from last night appeared, carrying a tray that smelled like actual heaven. “Rosa,” Adrienne had called her. “Good morning, Miss Grant,” she said, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Mr. Castroani asked me to let you rest as long as you needed.” I glanced at the clock. 2:15 in the afternoon. I’d slept for almost 12 hours. Thank you. I managed. Voice rough. I should probably go.
I’ve imposed enough. Rose’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. Pity, maybe, or understanding. Where would you go? The question hit harder than it should have. I have an apartment for a few more days anyway. Mr. Castrovani is in his office when you’re ready to speak with him. She moved toward the door, paused.
The coffee is fresh. So is the bread. You should eat. She left before I could respond. I stared at the tray, stomach cramping with sudden hunger. Scrambled eggs, toast that looked homemade, fresh fruit I definitely couldn’t afford on a good day.
Coffee in an actual ceramic mug, not the chipped Goodwill disaster I used at home. I ate mechanically, tasting nothing but needing the fuel. My hands shook around the mug. Caffeine or fear or exhaustion, impossible to tell. When the tray was empty, I stood on legs that felt more solid than they had in weeks, and went looking for answers. The house was massive.
Room after room of underststated wealth that screamed old money, even though I knew Adrienne’s fortune came from significantly less legal sources, I found him in what had to be his office, surrounded by dark wood and leather furniture that matched his aesthetic perfectly. He looked up when I appeared in the doorway, still wearing the same clothes from last night, though he’d shed the jacket, white shirt rolled to his elbows, dark slacks, watch that probably cost more than my entire education.
Those deep brown eyes tracked my movements with the same intensity I remembered from the cliff. Alyssa, not a question, just acknowledgement. How are you feeling? Like I made a series of spectacularly bad decisions. I stayed in the doorway, one hand on the frame, anchoring myself. Thank you for the room and the food, but I should get back to Portland. To do what? He leaned back in his chair, finger steepled.
Pack up an apartment you can’t afford. return to a job that isn’t covering your bills.” Heat rushed to my face. “You don’t know anything about my situation. I know you were standing on a cliff at dawn, contemplating whether to step off.” His voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse.
“I know your brother was murdered 3 weeks ago, and the police called it an accident. I know you have nowhere to go and no one to call. Am I wrong?” My throat tightened. “What do you want from me? I want to make you an offer.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. Sit, please. I should have walked out. Should have called a cab, hitchhiked back to the city.
Anything but accept help from a man who’d admitted to being at war with Russian mobsters. Instead, I crossed the room and sank into leather that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Adrien watched me settle before speaking. You said Tyler had documentation, evidence of Stanov’s trafficking operation. Do you still have it? Hidden in my apartment. Why? Because if those documents are as detailed as you described, they’re valuable. Not just to the FBI, but to me.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. I’ve been trying to dismantle Stapanov’s network for 6 months. He’s been encroaching on territory I control using methods I don’t tolerate. Trafficking specifically, so this is business for you. Partially, something shifted in his expression. It’s also personal.
Stephenov killed my sister four years ago. Lucia, she was 23, fresh out of college, working as a social worker helping trafficking victims. She got too close to his operation. Asked too many questions. They made it look like a carjacking gone wrong. The pain in his voice was raw, unguarded. I recognized it because I carried the same weight. I’m sorry. So am I.
He straightened, control sliding back into place. Here’s what I’m proposing. You stay here temporarily. We work together to build a case against Staponov using Tyler’s documentation and my resources. You have access to investigative tools I can provide. Contacts that won’t talk to police. In exchange, you have a roof over your head while you process everything you’ve lost. That’s not how this works.
I’m a journalist, not some damsel you rescued. I’m not suggesting you’re helpless. His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. I’m suggesting you have value beyond needing rescue. You’re an investigative journalist with knowledge of a case that affects both of us.
You can access sources I can’t ask questions that won’t raise the same red flags. This isn’t charity, Alyssa. It’s strategy. I wanted to argue. Wanted to throw his offer back in his face and storm out with whatever dignity I had left. But he was right about one thing. I had nowhere else to go.
And the idea of crawling back to my empty apartment to pack Tyler’s things made my chest constrict. How long? I asked. As long as it takes to make sure Stuponov pays for what he’s done. And after that. After that you leave if you want. No strings, no obligations. He held my gaze. I’m offering you purpose, Alyssa. A way to channel everything you’re feeling into something productive. You can sit in that apartment drowning in grief.
or you can help me make sure Tyler’s death actually means something. My hands clenched in my lap. This is insane. Probably. Adrien stood, moving to a cabinet against the wall. He pulled out a thick folder, set it on the desk between us. These are the files I’ve compiled on Steenoff.
Shipping routes, known associates, properties we’ve identified. It’s incomplete because he’s careful, but combined with what Tyler documented, we might have enough to actually hurt him. I stared at the folder. All I had to do was reach out and take it. Cross a line I couldn’t uncross. I need to think, I said. Take all the time you need. Adrien returned to his chair. Rosa will show you around. Get you anything you require.
The house is yours to explore. I stood, legs steadier now. I’m not staying longterm, just until I figure things out. Of course, that almost smile again. Whatever you need to tell yourself. The next three days blurred together in a haze of observation and careful distance. The house was enormous. Room after room of space I didn’t know what to do with.
Rosa appeared at regular intervals with food I didn’t ask for but ate anyway. My body was slowly remembering what it felt like to be cared for, even peripherilally. Adrienne gave me space, which I appreciated more than I could articulate. But I saw him, watched him move through his days with the precision of someone who’d built an empire on control and calculation.
Men came and went, dark suits and careful words. Meetings behind closed doors, phone calls in languages I didn’t speak. On the third day, I met Vincent. He found me in what passed for a library, surrounded by books I wasn’t reading, just existing in a space that felt separate from everything else. Miss Grant. His voice carried authority, tempered with something careful.
He was maybe 40, built solid, with gray threading through dark hair. I’m Vincent Moretti, head of security for Mr. Castravani. I sat down the book I’d been pretending to read. Head of security. That’s one way to describe it. His mouth twitched. Mr. Castravani mentioned you prefer direct conversation.
I prefer not being lied to. Then I’ll be honest. Vincent moved further into the room, hands visible at his sides. Non-threatening, despite everything about him suggesting capability for significant violence. You’re an outsider in a world that doesn’t tolerate outsiders. That makes you a liability. But the boss says you stay, so you stay.
My job is to make sure you don’t become a problem. Comforting. Not meant to be comforting. Meant to be clear. He studied me with eyes that had seen things I couldn’t imagine. I’ve worked for Adrien Castroani for 15 years. Saved his life twice. He saved mine three times. That’s the kind of loyalty this world runs on. You don’t have that history. You don’t have that trust.
So, while you’re here, you follow the rules, which are don’t leave the property without authorization. Don’t make calls we haven’t cleared. Don’t ask questions about operations that don’t concern you. His expression didn’t change. And don’t make the boss regret pulling you off that cliff. Heat flared in my chest. He told you about that? He tells me everything that affects security.
Vincent’s voice gentled slightly. He also told me about your brother. I’m sorry for your loss. Stephenoff is a bastard who deserves everything coming to him. If you can help make that happen, you’re welcome here. Just don’t forget where you are or who we are. He left before I could respond. I sat in the silence processing. This was Adrienne’s world.
Men like Vincent, loyalty bought in blood. Rules I didn’t understand. And I’d agreed to stay in the middle of it because the alternative was going back to an apartment full of Tyler’s ghost. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Nightmares kept jerking me awake. Images of Tyler’s car going over the cliff. Of him calling my name while I stood frozen.
By 2:00 in the morning, I gave up and wandered downstairs, looking for water or distraction or anything to quiet my mind. I found Adrien in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a mug of something hot. He looked up when I appeared, taking in my rumpled appearance without comment. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. “Dreams?” I moved to the sink, filled a glass. My hands trembled enough that water sloshed over the rim.
Adrienne stood, crossed to the stove. “Sit. I’ll make tea. You don’t have to. I know. He pulled down a second mug, but I’m already awake. And you look like you’re about to shatter. Humor me. I sank onto a stool, watching him move through the space with easy familiarity. He set the mug in front of me minutes later, steam curling between us.
Nightmares about Tyler? He asked, taking the seat beside mine. How did you know? Because I still have nightmares about Lucia. He wrapped both hands around his mug. 4 years and I still wake up reaching for my phone to call her before I remember she won’t answer. The shared pain created a bridge between us. Fragile but real. Does it get easier? No.
His honesty cut clean. But you learned to carry it differently. Learned to function around the weight instead of being crushed by it. We sat in comfortable silence, drinking tea while the house settled around us. For the first time since Tyler died, I wasn’t alone with the grief.
Someone else understood the specific shape of this loss. Thank you, I said eventually. For this, for all of it. Adrienne’s eyes met mine, something warm flickering in their depths. You’re welcome, Alyssa. Now, finish your tea and try to get some rest. Tomorrow, if you’re ready, I’ll show you what we’re really up against. I nodded, throat tight with emotions I couldn’t name.
When I finally returned to bed, sleep came easier than it had in weeks. Work became my anchor. For the next week, I buried myself in Tyler’s documentation, cross-referencing dates and locations with the files Adrienne provided. The world narrowed to spreadsheets and shipping manifests, patterns emerging from chaos-like constellations appearing in a dark sky. Four witnesses, 3 months, all dead. Tyler was the fourth.
His car sent over a cliff on Highway 26. Before him came Sarah Chen, overdose that looked accidental until I matched the timeline to her scheduled testimony. Marcus Webb, housefire attributed to faulty wiring 2 days after he spoke to the FBI. Jennifer Kuzlowski mugging gone wrong in a parking garage she’d used safely for 3 years.
Stanov’s signature was all over it, invisible to anyone not looking for the pattern. But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. The precision, the timing, the way each death removed a witness without raising enough suspicion to warrant deeper investigation. I sat at Adrienne’s dining table, surrounded by documents, highlighter in hand.
When he appeared with coffee I hadn’t asked for, but desperately needed, steam curled between us as he set the mug at my elbow. “You’ve been at this for 6 hours,” he said. I glanced at the window, surprised to find darkness outside. I didn’t notice. That’s a pattern. He pulled out the chair beside mine, close enough that I could smell cedar and something warmer.
You work yourself to exhaustion, skip meals, forget the world exists. Roses complained twice about untouched food. I’m fine. You’re obsessed. No judgment in his voice. Just observation. I recognize it because I’ve been there. After Lucia died, I spent eight months doing exactly what you’re doing now.
Chasing every lead, building cases that went nowhere, forgetting to sleep or eat or breathe, my hands stilled on the papers. Did it help? Eventually, he leaned back, dark eyes tracking my face, but not until I learned to pace myself. Revenge is a marathon, not a sprint. You burn out. You become useless. I’m not useless. I didn’t say you were. Something shifted in his expression.
I said, “You will be if you don’t take care of yourself, and I need you functional, Alyssa. These connections you’re making, they’re valuable, but not if you collapse from exhaustion.” Heat crept up my neck. Fine, I’ll eat. Good. He stood, moved toward the kitchen. Rosa left lasagna. I’ll heat it up.
I watched him go, processing the casual domesticity of a mafia boss warming food for the journalist living in his house. Nothing about this situation made sense. Yet here I was accepting it as normal. The lasagna was incredible. I ate mechanically while Adrien worked on his laptop across from me. Comfortable silence settling between us. Our fingers brushed when we both reached for the same document.
Electricity jumping at the contact. He pulled back first, clearing his throat. Vincent wants to meet with you tomorrow, he said. Go over security protocols. I’ve been here a week. Seems late for that conversation. He’s been evaluating whether you’re a liability or an asset. Adrienne’s mouth curved slightly. Apparently, you’ve graduated to asset status. How generous.
Vincent’s loyalty is absolute. If he’s accepted you, that means something in this world. I set down my fork. What world exactly? You keep mentioning it, but I still don’t understand what I’m actually looking at here. Adrien closed his laptop, giving me his full attention. I control operations across the Pacific Northwest.
Shipping, imports, some construction. On paper, everything’s legitimate. In reality, about 40% of my revenue comes from activities the government frowns upon. Trafficking? Never. His voice hardened. That’s Stephenov’s specialty, and it’s why we’re at war. He wants my port access to expand his operations. I refuse to hand over territory that would be used to move human cargo.
So, you’re the ethical criminal? I’m the criminal with standards. He held my gaze. I won’t pretend I’m a good man. But I draw lines Staponoff wouldn’t recognize. Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, expression darkening. We have a problem. What kind of problem? He was already moving toward his office, voice dropping as he spoke into the phone in rapid fire commands I couldn’t follow.
I trailed after him, pulse kicking up. Vincent appeared from another room, weapon visible at his hip. Boss, explosion at the Riverside property, Adrienne said. Three guards. Stephenov’s people claimed responsibility. My stomach dropped. Are they dead? Vincent’s jaw tightened. Clean detonation. No warning. Adrienne’s hands clenched into fists.
Double security here. Full perimeter sweep. I want eyes on every approach and contingency plans for extraction if they try the same thing. Already mobilizing. Vincent’s gaze flicked to me. Miss Grant should be briefed on lockdown procedures. Agreed. Adrienne turned to me. This is what I meant about the reality of this world. Stephenoff just escalated. He’s going to keep pushing until one of us is dead or defeated.
The words should have terrified me. Instead, something cold and sharp settled in my chest. Good. Let him come. I want him to. Alyssa, no. I stepped forward. He killed Tyler. He’s killing your people, so let him try. Maybe he’ll get sloppy. Vincent’s expression shifted, something like approval flickering across his face. Adrienne studied me for a long moment before nodding slowly.
All right, then you’re going to learn how this works. Vincent, show her the security protocols, all of them. The next 5 days blurred together. Vincent walked me through the property’s defenses, showed me safe rooms and exit routes, taught me how to read security feeds.
I spent hours watching monitors, learning to distinguish normal movement from threat patterns. Adrienne worked around the clock, coordinating responses to Stapanov’s attack. I watched him transform from the man who’d made me lasagna into something harder, colder, a leader who commanded absolute loyalty because he’d earned it in blood.
We worked side by side in his office, building the case against Stanonov piece by piece. Late nights when exhaustion made my eyes blur, when his hand would steady mine over paperwork. moments when I’d look up and find him watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. Neither of us acknowledged it. Couldn’t afford to, not with everything else demanding attention. On the 10th day, Vincent found me in the library.
Boss wants you in the security room now. I followed him through corridors I’d memorized down to the basement level where banks of monitors covered an entire wall. Adrienne stood there with three other men, all focused on feeds showing the property’s perimeter. What’s happening? I asked.
Motion sensors on the north boundary. Vincent pointed to a screen. Four vehicles, eight men armed. My pulse hammered. Stepping off. His signature. Adrienne’s voice was ice. Vincent, get her to the safe room. No. The word surprised me as much as it surprised them. I’m staying. This isn’t a discussion.
You brought me here to help build a case against him. Let me see what he’s capable of. Let me witness it so I can document every detail. I held Adrienne’s gaze. You can’t protect me from reality while asking me to fight in it. Something flickered in his eyes. Respect maybe. Or recognition. Fine. But you stay with Vincent. You follow every order he gives without question. Understood? Understood.
Vincent gripped my arm, not gently. Come with me now. He pulled me to a reinforced room with a door that looked like it belonged in a bank vault. Monitors lined one wall showing feeds from every camera on the property. He shoved me toward a chair. Sit. Watch. Learn. His voice was hard. This is what your revenge actually looks like. The attack began at 11:47.
I watched through cameras as figures in dark clothing approached from multiple angles, moving with military precision. Adrienne’s men responded immediately, defensive positions activated with practiced efficiency. Gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes bright in the darkness.
I flinched at each burst, hands gripping the chair arms hard enough to hurt. On screen, Vincent led the response, his movements economical and deadly. Two attackers went down, then a third. It lasted 15 minutes. Felt like hours. When silence finally returned, the cameras showed bodies on the ground. Two of Stupanov’s men, neither moving.
One of Adrienne’s guards was down, too. Being dragged to safety by his colleagues. Vincent appeared on the monitors, checking each sector methodically before finally turning toward the camera closest to my location. He looked directly at it, directly at me, and nodded once. Then he was at the door, opening it with blood on his hands.
You okay? I couldn’t form words, just stared at the screens, at the evidence of violence I’d only imagined until now. Miss Grant, his voice gentled slightly. Are you injured? No. My voice came out. I’m fine. You’re not fine, but you’re unharmed. He moved past me, checking monitors. The boss will want to see you. I found Adrien in his office, shirt sleeves rolled up, exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
He looked up when I entered, something raw in his expression before control slid back into place. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Everyone keeps asking me that.” I moved to the window, staring at darkness beyond. I watched people die tonight. “I know your world is violent.
” “Yes, and if I stay, I’ll see more of it, probably.” He crossed to stand beside me, not touching, but close enough that I felt his presence like heat. You can leave, Alyssa, right now. I’ll have Vincent drive you back to Portland. Set you up somewhere safe. You don’t have to be part of this. I turned to face him. Tyler’s dead because of Stephenov.
Those witnesses are dead because of him. Your sister is dead because of him. And tonight, your people died protecting this place, protecting me. So, no, I’m not leaving. I want to see him pay for every single death. Revenge changes you. Good. The word came out fierce. Maybe I need to change. Maybe the version of me that sat in that apartment crying over Tyler’s ghost was useless.
This version, the one building a case that might actually matter, she’s doing something. Adrienne’s hand lifted, hovering near my face before dropping. You scare me a little when you talk like that. Why? Because I recognized myself at 25. Right after Lucia died. That burning need to make someone pay.
Consequences be damned. His eyes held mine. It cost me pieces of my soul I’ll never get back. I don’t want that for you. Maybe it’s too late. It’s never too late to walk away, says the man still fighting Stupana 4 years later. His mouth twisted. Fair point. We stood there in silence, something shifting between us.
Not just the investigation or shared grief, but recognition. Two people who’d lost everything and chose to fight back instead of surrender. Tomorrow, I said finally, tomorrow I want to dive deeper into the trafficking roots. If we can prove a pattern, build a timeline that connects directly to his organization.
Tomorrow, Adrienne interrupted gently. Tomorrow you rest. We both do. Tonight was brutal. Give yourself space to process it. I don’t want to process it. I want to work. I know. His fingers finally made contact, brushing my cheek so briefly, I almost thought I’d imagined it. But you’re going to rest anyway. That’s an order. I should have argued. Should have pushed back against his authority.
Instead, I nodded, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave. Okay, I whispered. Tomorrow. He walked me to my room, present solid beside me. At my door, he paused. What you saw tonight, he said quietly. That’s the reality. No filters, no protection. If you stay, it will happen again. Probably worse. I know.
And you’re still staying? I’m still staying. Something in his expression softened. Then we’ll make sure Stupanov pays for every death he’s caused. I promise you that, Alyssa. We’ll make him pay. I believed him. More than that, I trusted him. Somewhere in the past two weeks, Adrien Castroani had gone from stranger to ally to something I couldn’t quite define.
Someone who understood the specific shape of my grief and didn’t try to fix it, just offered to walk beside me through it. That night, I dreamed of Tyler, but for the first time since his death, he wasn’t falling. He was standing beside me, nodding approval, telling me to keep fighting. I woke with tears on my face and determination in my chest.
Stanov had taken my brother, had taken Adrienne’s sister, had taken lives without consequence for far too long. But that was going to change. I’d make sure of it, whatever the cost. The breakthrough came on day 15. Buried in financial records Adrienne’s people had intercepted.
A pattern in wire transfers that didn’t match any legitimate business I knew. I traced the accounts backward, cross- referencing with Tyler’s documentation, and found the connection. Adrien. I looked up from my laptop, pulse hammering. I found something. He crossed the office in three strides, leaning over my shoulder to see the screen. Close enough that I caught cedar and leather, warmth radiating from his body.
Close enough that my breath hitched before I could control it. These transfers, I said, forcing focus. They coincide exactly with Tyler’s documented shipments. Same dates, same amounts converted to match cargo manifests. Someone inside Staponov’s organization is keeping meticulous financial records. Adrienne’s hand came down beside mine on the desk, caging me in. Who’s signing off on these? I clicked through screens.
Someone named Dimmitri Soof, controller for Stapanov’s West Coast operations. I know that name. His voice dropped. Thoughtful. Vincent ran background on him last year. Family man, two daughters, wife with medical issues. He’s been with Stanov’s organization for 8 years. Moved up from bookkeeper to full controller.
Why would someone like that stay with trafficking operations? Fear? Debt? Maybe both. Adrien straightened, already pulling out his phone. If he’s documenting everything this thoroughly, he’s either covering himself or preparing an exit strategy. Vincent appeared within minutes, called from wherever he’d been monitoring security. He studied my screen, jaw tightening. So careful, he said.
Keeps low profile. We’ve never been able to get close to him without raising flags with Stanov’s people, but I could. The words came out before I’d fully thought them through. Both men turned to look at me. I’m a journalist. Reaching out to sources is what I do. If I approached him offering anonymity, protection through publication.
No. Adrienne’s response was immediate. Too dangerous. It’s the perfect approach. I stood facing him directly. He won’t trust you. You’re a rival organization. Another criminal asking him to betray his boss. But me? I’m investigating Stapanov’s operations for a story. I can offer him something you can’t.
A way out that doesn’t involve switching one mafia for another. Vincent studied me with new assessment in his eyes. She’s not wrong, boss. It’s good strategy. Strategy that puts her directly in Stapanov’s crosshairs. I’m already there. I held Adrienne’s gaze. Tyler’s documentation made sure of that.
At least this way, I’m actively fighting back instead of waiting for them to come for me. Adrienne’s jaw worked, conflict clear on his face. Finally, he nodded once, sharp and reluctant. We do this carefully. Controlled contact. You make the approach through encrypted channels. Vincent sets up. No face to face until we vetted his responses and confirmed he’s genuine. Agreed. The next four days were a blur of careful planning.
Vincent taught me communication protocols, how to use encryption software, what phrases would signal danger if the contact went wrong. Adrienne compiled everything we knew about Dimmitri, building a profile I could use to approach him effectively. We worked late every night, Adrienne and I, hunched over documents and laptops, piecing together the puzzle of Stephenoff’s operations.
Somewhere around midnight on the third night, my hand cramped. I flexed my fingers, wincing. Adrienne’s hand covered mine before I could pull away. His thumb pressed into my palm, working the muscle with surprising gentleness. Heat shot up my arm, settling low in my stomach. You push yourself too hard, he murmured.
Says the man who hasn’t slept more than 4 hours a night since I’ve been here. Different circumstances, are they? I turned to face him fully. We were close. Closer than we’d been since that moment at the cliff. We’re both using work to avoid dealing with everything else. His thumb stilled against my palm.
What else is there to deal with this? The word came out barely above a whisper. Whatever’s happening between us that we keep pretending isn’t. Adrienne’s eyes darkened. Alyssa, I’m not asking for anything. My free hand lifted, fingers tracing the scar through his eyebrow before I could stop myself.
I just need you to know that you’re the only thing I’ve felt in weeks. Everything else is numb or painful or empty. But when I’m with you, working beside you, I feel alive again. Real again. His hand came up, covering mine against his face. You scare me. Why? Because I feel the same thing. Because you brought something back. I thought Lucia’s death killed.
The ability to care about someone beyond duty or obligation. His voice roughened. And because caring about you makes you a target in ways I can’t fully protect against. I don’t need protection from this. You might. I closed the distance between us. Then let me decide what risks I’m willing to take.
The kiss started gentle, questioning, his lips soft against mine, giving me every opportunity to pull away. I didn’t. My mouth opened under his, and the gentleness shattered. He kissed me like a man drowning, desperate and deep. One hand sliding into my hair to angle my head exactly where he wanted it. I gasped against his mouth. Heat flooding through me.
His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him until no space remained between our bodies. Every point of contact burned when we finally broke apart. We were both breathing hard. Adrienne’s forehead rested against mine, eyes closed. This complicates everything, he said. I know. I can’t promise you safety. Can’t promise this ends well. I’m not asking for promises.
My hands fisted in his shirt. I’m asking for this right now. However long we have, his eyes opened, searching mine. Whatever he found there made something in his expression soften and sharpen simultaneously. Then come with me. He led me upstairs to his room. Not the guest suite I’d been using. Kissed me against the closed door until my knees weakened.
made love to me with a controlled intensity that stole my breath and shattered every defense I’d built since Tyler’s death. Afterward, lying tangled in expensive sheets with moonlight cutting across the bed, guilt crashed over me. “I shouldn’t feel this,” I whispered. “Tyler’s only been gone a month, and I’m here with you.” Feeling good when I should still be drowning. Adrienne’s arm tightened around me. “Grief doesn’t follow rules.
Neither does healing. It feels like betrayal. It’s survival. He turned me to face him. Tyler wouldn’t want you to stop living. Trust me on that. The dead never want the living to join them in the dark. Tears burned my eyes. How do you know? Because if I died instead of Lucia, I’d want her to find joy wherever she could to fight for it.
Hold on to it with both hands. His thumb brushed away the tear that escaped. You’re allowed to feel good, Alyssa. Even now. Especially now. I buried my face against his chest and let him hold me while I cried. Grief and relief tangled together. When I finally slept, it was deep and dreamless for the first time in weeks.
Morning brought Vincent’s knock and carefully neutral expression when he found us together. Adrienne held my gaze across the breakfast table, silent question in his eyes. I nodded once. “Whatever this was, we’d face it together.” Boss, Vincent said, tone carefully professional. We need to discuss Miss Grant’s position here.
My position? I sat down my coffee. You’re involved with the man Staponoff most once dead. Vincent’s voice was blunt. That makes you a target in ways you weren’t before. It also makes you a potential liability if emotions compromise operational security. Adrienne’s voice went cold. That’s not your call to make.
It’s my job to make it. Vincent didn’t back down. I’m not questioning your feelings. I’m questioning the timing. We’re in active conflict. This complicates things. Everything about this situation is complicated, I said. But I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not stopping the investigation.
If Stupanov wants to come after me for being with Adrien, let him try. It just gives us another reason to take him down. Vincent studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Fair enough. Just be aware of what you’re signing up for. I’m aware. The contact with Dimmitri happened 2 days later.
I crafted the message carefully, offering protection through journalistic exposure and FBI connections. Promised anonymity, safety for his family, immunity if he cooperated fully. His response came within 6 hours. Cautious but interested. Over the next week, we built trust through carefully monitored exchanges. He wanted out. had wanted out for years, but Stephenoff didn’t let people leave, and Dmitri had two daughters to protect.
Finally, he agreed to provide documentation in exchange for concrete guarantees. Adrien coordinated with contacts in the FBI while I worked my journalism connections, building framework for protection Dimmitri would actually trust. The documents arrived encrypted, 18 years of meticulous financial records proving every transaction Stonoff had ever made.
Combined with Tyler’s documentation, it was damning enough to dismantle the entire operation if leveraged correctly. Staponov has a major operation planned, Dmitri told me during our final encrypted call. 18 days from now, two shipments from eastern ports, 40 people being moved through Portland to inland locations.
If you can stop that, you [ __ ] his west coast network for months, 18 days. The timeline was brutal, but it gave us focus. Adrienne and I worked around the clock building strategy. I would write the expose, published through a respected investigative outlet using Tyler and Dmitri’s documentation. Simultaneously, Adrienne would leak intel to Stapanov’s rivals, and feed information to FBI contacts.
Multidirectional attack designed to crush the operation before it launched. But as we worked, tension escalated. More attacks on Adrienne’s properties, more security lockdowns. The sense that we were running out of time pressed down like physical weight. Then the message arrived.
Plain envelope delivered to the house through means that shouldn’t have been possible given our security. Inside a single piece of paper with words cut from newspapers, like something from a thriller. The journalist thinks she’s safe. She’ll fall from the cliff she have jumped from, just like her brother. My hands shook as I read it.
Adrienne took the paper from me, face going hard as stone. He knows, I said. Stephenov knows I’m investigating him. Knows where I am. He’s been watching. Adrienne’s voice was ice. Vincent. Security protocols escalated immediately. I wasn’t allowed outside without armed escort. Windows got reinforced. Guards doubled. The house that had started feeling like sanctuary transformed into the fortress it truly was.
Adrienne barely left my side. When meetings required his attention, Vincent stayed with me. Weapon visible, eyes constantly scanning. This is what loving him looks like. Vincent told me during one of those vigils, “Constant danger, constant vigilance.
Are you sure you can handle it?” I thought about Tyler, about the cliff, about Adrienne pulling me back from an edge I’d been ready to step off. I’m sure, I said, because the alternative was going back to that numbness, that darkness, and I’d rather face Steppingoff’s threats beside Adrien than face nothing alone. 7 days. That’s all we had left before Steppenoff moved 40 people like cargo through ports Tyler had documented.
7 days to finish the article, coordinate with the FBI, leak information to the Sinaloa cartel, and somehow survive whatever retaliation came next. I worked 18-hour days finalizing the expose. Every word mattered. Every citation needed verification. Dimmitri’s financial records, combined with Tyler’s documentation, painted a picture so damning that even corrupt officials couldn’t ignore it.
The piece was scheduled to publish in 4 days through the Northwest Investigative Journal, a respected outlet that had broken trafficking cases before. Adrienne coordinated simultaneously. Phone calls in multiple languages, meetings with men whose faces I learned not to remember. Vincent was everywhere, checking security, running drills. His presence a constant reminder that we were preparing for war.
You need to sleep, Adrien said, finding me at 2:00 in the morning, hunched over my laptop. I need to finish this. His hand covered mine on the keyboard. It’s already finished. You’ve rewritten the same paragraph three times tonight. Your exhaustion is showing. I wanted to argue. Instead, I let him pull me upstairs, fell asleep in his arms with my laptop still glowing on the nightstand.
The attack came 20 hours before publication. I was reviewing final edits when the alarm screamed. Not the warning system from previous attacks. The full evacuation protocol that meant imminent breach. Vincent materialized beside me. Weapon drawn. Safe room now. What’s happening? 30 hostiles. Heavy weapons. They’re coming for both of you.
He grabbed my arm, propelling me toward the reinforced door hidden behind Adrienne’s bookshelf. Move. Adrienne appeared from the opposite direction. Blood on his shirt that wasn’t his. Our eyes met for one suspended moment before Vincent shoved me through the doorway. “Keep her alive,” Adrien told him. “Always.” Vincent slammed the door between us.
The safe room was smaller than I expected, lined with monitors showing every camera angle. I watched Adrien disappear into the chaos, watched men in tactical gear swarm the property with military precision. This wasn’t a probe. This was annihilation. Gunfire erupted, brutal and sustained. Vincent positioned himself between me and the door, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency.
On the monitors, Adrienne’s men fought with desperate coordination. Bodies fell on both sides. Then the explosion came. The blast threw me against the wall, monitors shattering in cascades of sparks and glass. My ears rang. high-pitched wine drowning everything else. Through the ringing, I heard Vincent shouting, saw him moving toward where the reinforced wall had buckled inward. Smoke poured through the gap. Men in black pushed through behind it.
Vincent fired, methodical and lethal. Two attackers dropped, but shrapnel from the blast had torn through his side. Blood soaking his shirt dark and wet. He moved slower than usual, favoring his left leg. A guard I didn’t know by name tumbled through the gap. Wounded, but functional. He pressed his weapon into my hands. Safety’s off. Point and pull.
Don’t think. Then he was gone. Back into the fight. The gun was heavier than I expected. Cold. Real in ways nothing else had been since Tyler’s death. I’d held weapons during training with Vincent, but this was different. This was loaded. This was aimed at humans who wanted me dead. An attacker appeared in the gap. Weapons swinging toward Vincent’s exposed back.
I didn’t think, didn’t breathe, just pointed and pulled like I’d been taught. The recoil shocked through my arms. The man dropped, red blooming across his chest. His eyes met mine for one eternal second. Surprise and pain and nothing else before he collapsed. I’d killed someone. The knowledge hit like physical impact, doubling me over.
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the weapon. Vincent’s voice cut through the haze. Stay focused. More coming. But the reinforcements arrived first. Adrienne’s men flooded the room, securing the perimeter, shouting coordinates. The attack broke, scattered. Through ringing ears and shocked numbness, I heard retreat being called.
Vincent swayed caught himself on the wall. Miss Grant, you’re safe now. Then he fell. I don’t remember dropping the gun or crossing to him. Just suddenly I was there, hands pressed against the wound in his side, blood hot and slick between my fingers. Vincent, stay with me. Did my job. His voice was weak but satisfied. Boss is alive. You’re alive.
That’s what matters. You’re going to be fine. Help is coming. Don’t lie. He smiled slightly. been doing this too long not to know. Adrien crashed through the doorway, took in the scene instantly. He dropped beside Vincent, one hand gripping his oldest friend’s shoulder. You stubborn bastard. I told you to be careful. Careful is boring.
Vincent’s breathing was labored, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. Take care of her, boss. She’s good for you. Makes you remember what we’re fighting for. Save your strength for what? Vincent’s eyes found mine. You did good, Miss Grant. Held your ground. Your brother would be proud. The words broke something in me. Tears burned down my face, mixing with smoke and blood.
Vincent, please tell my girls I love them. Tell Maria she was right. I should have retired last year. His hand found Adrien’s. Watch your sick, brother. Stephenoff’s desperate now. Then his eyes went distant, fixed on something we couldn’t see. His chest stopped moving. Adrienne bowed his head, shoulders shaking with grief he couldn’t show anywhere else.
I sat in blood that wasn’t mine, hands still shaking, while men who’d fought beside Vincent for years, gathered around. Someone pulled me away gently. Rosa appearing from somewhere safe, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, even though I wasn’t cold. The rest of that night blurred together. Medics arriving. police who asked questions. Adrienne’s lawyers answered.
Five body bags leaving the property. Each one someone who’d fought to protect us. Vincent was the last, carried with ceremony that spoke to years of loyalty and sacrifice. Stapanov had lost 15 men. Small comfort when I’d watched Vincent die after saving my life. Dawn brought the scheduled publication. The expose went live at 6:00 a.m. Exactly as planned.
Within hours, every major outlet picked it up. Dimmitri’s documentation, Tyler’s records, my investigation connecting them into an indisputable case against Stanov’s trafficking network. The FBI executed warrants by noon, raids across three states, dozens of arrests. The Sinaloa cartel issued a statement cutting all ties with Stephenoff’s organization, unwilling to be associated with operations now under federal scrutiny. By sunset, we’d won.
Stupanov’s trafficking operation was cancelled, his network exposed, his allies abandoning him. Everything we’d worked for had succeeded. I felt nothing but the weight of the gun in my hands. The man’s eyes when I’d pulled the trigger, Vincent’s blood on my clothes.
Adrienne found me in the shower, fully dressed, water running cold, still trying to wash away what wouldn’t come clean. He turned off the water, wrapped me in towels, carried me to bed like I weighed nothing. I killed someone. I whispered. You defended yourself. He’s still dead. Because of me. Adrienne pulled me against his chest, one hand stroking my hair. I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to do that.
Vincent’s dead, too, because he protected me. Vincent died doing what he chose to do. He’d been with me 15 years. Saved my life three times. I saved his twice. We both knew how this might end. His voice cracked, but he chose to stand in front of you anyway. That was his choice, Alyssa. Not your fault. I cried until I had nothing left.
Cried for Vincent, for the man I’d killed, for Tyler, for every death that had brought us to this moment. Adrienne held me through all of it. His own grief held carefully in check until I finally fell asleep against him. When I woke hours later, he was gone.
I found him in Vincent’s room, sitting among his friend’s belongings, holding a photograph of Vincent with his wife and daughters, tears tracked silently down his face. I sat beside him without speaking. Sometimes grief didn’t need words, just presence, just someone willing to sit in the darkness and not try to fill it with false comfort. “We won,” he said.
Eventually, Stapanov’s finished. The trafficking operation is canled. Everything we worked for happened exactly as planned. Why doesn’t it feel like winning? Because victory always costs more than you expect to pay. He sat down the photograph carefully. Vincent’s funeral is in 3 days. I need to tell Maria what happened.
Tell his daughters their father died protecting someone he barely knew. I’ll come with you. You don’t have to. Yes, I do. I took his hand. Vincent saved my life. The least I can do is face his family and tell them it mattered. We sat together in the quiet, mourning a man who’d given everything to protect what he believed in.
Outside, the sun was rising on a world where Stephenoff’s power was broken, and Tyler’s death had finally been answered with justice. But the cost was written in blood and bodies. In Vincent’s empty room and Adrienne’s grief, in my hands that had taken a life, however justified, we’d won the battle. Now we had to learn to live with what that victory had cost us both.
The therapist’s office was in a nondescript building downtown, chosen specifically because it had no connection to Adrienne’s world. “Dr. Sarah Chen specialized in trauma,” Adrienne had said, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. “The latter qualification seemed more important than the former.
” “Tell me about the moment you pulled the trigger,” she said during our third session. I stared at the abstract painting behind her head, all bleeding colors and sharp angles. “I don’t want to talk about it. That’s why you need to. My hands clenched in my lap. He was going to kill Vincent. My finger pulled the trigger. He fell. That’s it. That’s not it. Dr. Chen leaned forward slightly. You took a human life in defense of another.
That’s not something anyone processes easily, regardless of justification. I don’t regret it. The words came out sharp. Vincent was protecting me. That man would have shot him in the back. I did what I had to do. Lack of regret doesn’t mean lack of impact. You can know something was necessary and still be traumatized by having done it. I met her eyes finally. I see his face when I close my eyes.
The surprise. Like he didn’t expect to die that day. Nobody ever does, I guess. No. She agreed quietly. They don’t. Vincent’s funeral was held on a gray Thursday that matched the mood perfectly. The church was packed with men in dark suits, faces hard but eyes wet.
Maria, his widow, sat in the front row, flanked by two daughters in their early 20s. All three wore black and dignity like armor. Adrienne delivered the eulogy, spoke about 15 years of brotherhood, of loyalty that transcended employment, how Vincent had saved his life three times, how he’d hoped to return the favor more than twice. His voice only broke once. when he mentioned Vincent’s last words.
Afterward, Maria approached me. I’d been trying to make myself invisible against the back wall, but she found me anyway. “You’re Alyssa,” she said. “Not a question.” “Yes, I’m so sorry.” Adrienne told me everything. Her voice was steady, controlled. “Vincent died protecting you. Protecting both of you. That was his choice, his honor. Don’t dishonor it by carrying guilt that isn’t yours to bear. Tears burned my eyes.
I wish he hadn’t needed to. We all wish that. She took my hand, pressed something into it. Vincent’s badge, the one he’d worn every day. He would have wanted you to have this. He believed you gave Adrien something to fight for beyond territory and revenge. Something human that mattered to him.
I closed my fingers around cold metal. Unable to speak, Maria squeezed my hand once more before returning to her daughters, leaving me holding a piece of a man who died for me. Adrienne found me in his office that night, staring at Vincent’s badge on the desk.
He’d been distant since the funeral, processing grief in whatever private space he retreated to. Now he stood in the doorway, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “You should leave,” he said. I looked up. “What? Return to your life, your apartment, your work. Steppanov’s network is dismantled. The trafficking operation is canled. Your expose accomplished exactly what we needed. He moved into the room but didn’t approach. You’re safe now.
You can go back to being who you were before all this. I can’t be who I was before. That person died on the cliff with Tyler. Then be someone new. Somewhere that isn’t here. His jaw tightened. Vincent’s dead because I pulled you into this world. Five other men are dead. You killed someone. This is what staying with me costs, Alyssa.
It will always cost this much or more. I stood, anger flaring hot through the numbness. Don’t do this. Do what? Push me away to protect me. I’m 27 years old. I know exactly what I’m choosing. You think you do? His voice rose slightly. But you’ve been here 6 weeks. You’ve seen violence, yes, but you haven’t seen years of it.
Haven’t felt it grind you down until you can’t remember what peace feels like. I won’t do that to you. That’s not your decision to make. It’s my world, my danger, my responsibility. I crossed to him, fury, making my hand shake. Then let me decide if I want to share it.
Stop trying to make choices for me because you’re scared of losing someone else. His mask cracked. Of course I’m scared. Everyone I care about dies violently. My sister, Vincent. How long before you’re next? How long before loving you gets you killed? You don’t get guarantees. Adrien, Tyler died in an accident that wasn’t an accident. People die randomly every day.
At least with you. I’m choosing to fight instead of just waiting for it to happen. I grabbed his shirt, pulling him close. I love you. I’m not leaving. So either tell me you don’t want me here or stop trying to protect me from decisions I’m making with open eyes. His hands came up to frame my face, trembling slightly.
I can’t lose you, then stopped pushing me away. He kissed me desperately. All control abandoned. Poured weeks of grief and fear and love into contact that bruised and healed simultaneously. When we finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. “I love you,” he whispered. I’ve loved you since you stood on that cliff refusing to be saved. I just don’t know how to keep you safe. You can’t.
Nobody can. But we can face whatever comes together instead of alone. 10 days later, Stanov was arrested attempting to board a flight to Moscow using a false passport. The FBI had been tracking him since the expose published, waiting for him to run.
Adrienne provided additional evidence through carefully anonymous channels, ensuring the case would be airtight. I watched the news coverage from Adrienne’s living room, seeing Stapanoff in handcuffs, and felt nothing but hollow satisfaction. The man who’d killed Tyler was caught. Justice would be served. But Vincent was still dead. Four witnesses were still dead. The man I’d killed wouldn’t come back to life.
Adrienne sat beside me, reading the hollowess in my expression. Revenge never fills the void. It just closes the wound so it can start healing. Does it heal eventually? The scar remains, but the pain becomes manageable. His arm came around my shoulders. You honor Tyler by living, not by destroying yourself over his death. That’s what I learned after Lucia.
She’d have been furious if I’d wasted my life mourning hers. I’m tired of being here. The words surprised me. Not with you, but in this house surrounded by security and reminders of everything that happened. I need normal for a while. Your apartment, if I can handle it, he nodded slowly. I’ll have it cleaned. Make sure it’s safe. But Alyssa, this doesn’t mean you’re leaving me.
It means we’re finding out if we work outside of crisis. I know. My apartment felt smaller than I remembered. The walls needed paint. The carpet had stains I’d stopped seeing years ago, but it was mine. Space that didn’t carry the weight of violence and death.
Adrienne helped me carry in boxes of belongings I’d retrieved from storage, stood in my tiny kitchen that barely fit two people and looked completely out of place in his expensive suit. This is where you lived, he said, taking in the shabby reality. This is where I survived. I set down the box I’d been carrying. There’s a difference. He stayed that first night, though I’d told him he didn’t have to.
We ordered pizza because neither of us knew how to cook and ate it sitting on my secondhand couch. Watched a movie on my laptop because I didn’t own a TV. Made love in my narrow bed that forced us to stay tangled together. It was normal, mundane, perfect. Over the next two weeks, we established a rhythm.
He’d visit three or four times a week, sometimes staying overnight, sometimes just a few hours. We’d talk about his work, about the expose continued impact, about nothing at all. He never brought guards, never arrived in the SUV, just showed up in regular clothes, driving a regular car, being as close to a normal person as Adrien Castroani could manage. This is strange, he said one night, helping me wash dishes in a sink too small for the task.
What is doing dishes? Being domestic. I have people for this. Welcome to how normal humans live. I bumped him with my hip. Revolutionary concept, I know. He smiled. Genuine and unguarded. I like it. Scares me how much I like it. Why? Because it makes me want things I thought I’d given up on. Quiet nights, simple routines, a life that isn’t constantly at war, his hands still in the soapy water. You make me want to be different than what I am. You are different.
You just haven’t let yourself admit it yet. He pulled me close. Soap suds and all. If I change too much, I stop being effective at protecting what I’ve built. Or maybe you become better at building things worth protecting. We stood there in my cramped kitchen, and I knew with bone deep certainty that this was real.
Not adrenaline or trauma bonding or desperation. Just two people who’d found each other in darkness and chosen to walk toward light together. The nightmares still came. I’d wake gasping, seeing the man’s eyes or Vincent’s blood or Tyler’s car going over the cliff, but Adrien would be there, or a text away when he wasn’t, reminding me that surviving meant carrying the weight, not being crushed by it.
6 weeks after Stanov’s arrest, I accepted a staff position with the Northwest Investigative Journal. My expose had opened doors I’d thought permanently closed. The work was good, meaningful, exactly what I’d fought to build before grief had torn everything apart. Adrien came to celebrate, bringing champagne that cost more than my first car. We drank it from coffee mugs because I didn’t own proper glasses.
To new beginnings, he toasted. To choosing life, I countered. Our mugs clinkedked together. And I thought about the cliff. About standing there ready to step off because I couldn’t see a single reason to stay. Now I had dozens work that mattered. Love I’d fought for a future I was actively building instead of just surviving. Tyler would never see it.
But maybe somehow he knew I’d found my way back to living instead of just existing in the spaces between grief. That night wrapped in Adrienne’s arms in my too small bed. I finally felt the wound close. Not healed. never fully healed, but closed enough that I could breathe around it.
Move forward, carrying the scar rather than bleeding from an open injury. Thank you, I whispered into the darkness. For what? For stopping that night. For seeing me when I couldn’t see myself. For pulling me back from an edge I didn’t think I wanted to be pulled from. His arms tightened. Thank you for letting me. For choosing to stay alive. For choosing me. Outside. The city continued its endless rhythm.
Inside, we held each other and breathed and existed in a moment of peace we’d both earned through blood and grief and refusing to let darkness win. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and that was enough. 3 months after Stephenoff’s arrest, I sat across from Jessica Lynn, my former colleague from my freelance days.
We’d agreed to meet for coffee, something I’d been putting off because I knew exactly what she wanted to discuss. So you’re really with him? She said, not bothering with pleasantries. Adrien Castroani, the mafia boss who runs half the illegal operations in the Northwest. I wrapped my hands around my mug, choosing words carefully.
I’m with Adrien. Yes. What he does professionally is separate from our relationship. That’s naive and you know it. Jessica leaned forward, voice dropping. Alyssa, you exposed to Ponov’s trafficking network. That was incredible journalism, career-defining work, but now you’re sleeping with someone who operates in the same world.
How is anyone supposed to trust your integrity? The accusation stung because I’d asked myself the same question dozens of times. My work speaks for itself. I investigate crimes, expose corruption. Adrienne’s operations aren’t trafficking or human exploitation. I’ve drawn clear lines. Lines that you’ll conveniently never cross because you’re in love with him. Lines I won’t cross because I have professional ethics. Heat crept up my neck.
I won’t write about Adrienne’s business. Yes, but I also won’t lie for him or cover anything up. He understands that. Respects it even. Jessica studied me like I was a stranger. Maybe I was. The woman she’d known before Tyler’s death wouldn’t have understood these compromises, this balance between competing loyalties. I hope you know what you’re doing, she said finally. Because the journalism community is watching.
One misstep and everything you’ve built gets destroyed. I left that meeting shaken, called Adrien from my car. He picked up on the second ring. Jessica cornered me, I said without preamble. Made it very clear that dating you makes my professional credibility questionable. Silence stretched for several heartbeats.
Do you agree with her? I don’t know. Honesty felt necessary even when it hurt. I know I love you. I know my work is solid. But I also know that perception matters in journalism. If people think I’m compromised, my investigations lose impact. Then maybe we should don’t finish that sentence. I cut him off. I’m not breaking up with you because Jessica Lynn has opinions.
I’m just processing that this relationship costs me things professionally. I need you to understand that. I do. his voice softened. And I’m working on making those costs smaller. The legitimate businesses I’ve been expanding. They’re not just fronts anymore. I’m actively selling off the territories that draw attention.
Transitioning to operations that won’t put you in ethical compromises. You don’t have to do that for me. I’m doing it for us, for the future I want with you that doesn’t involve you choosing between your career and our relationship. Tears burned my eyes. How long will that transition take? months, maybe a year, but I’m committed to it, Alyssa. You made me want to be different, better. I’m trying.
That conversation became the first of many difficult negotiations about how we’d make this work. I established boundaries Adrienne agreed to respect. No involvement in his business decisions. No access to information I might feel obligated to report. Complete independence in my journalism work, even if it meant investigating organizations adjacent to his operations.
In return, I accepted that his past wouldn’t disappear overnight, that men would always defer to him with respect born from fear, that security would remain a constant presence in his life, and by extension mine. The work helped. My position at the Northwest Investigative Journal came with real resources, editorial support, and respect I’d never experienced as a freelancer.
I dove into new investigations, letting the work consume hours that might otherwise spiral into overthinking everything Jessica had said. Adrienne’s transformation was slower but visible. He sold his stake in two distribution networks to neutral parties, invested heavily in construction and shipping operations that were completely legitimate.
I watched him in meetings, saw the shift from crime boss to businessman happening in incremental degrees. One evening, I arrived at his house for dinner and found an older man I didn’t recognize in Adrienne’s office. They were arguing in rapid Italian, voices raised. I started to retreat, but Adrien called me in. Alyssa, this is Paulo Grimaldi, my father’s oldest friend and current business adviser.
His jaw was tight with tension. He has concerns about our relationship. Paulo’s eyes swept over me, dismissive and cold. You’re making him weak, distracted. Enemies will see this and exploit it. Enemies like who? I kept my voice level despite anger simmering beneath. Stephenoff’s in prison. His network is dismantled. Adrienne’s been more effective since I’ve been here. Not less. You don’t understand this world.
No, you don’t understand me. I stepped fully into the room. I’m not some civilian he needs to protect. I killed a man defending this house. I watched Vincent die. I’ve seen exactly what Adrienne’s world costs, and I’m still here. That’s not weakness. That’s choice. Paulo’s expression shifted slightly, reassessing.
And when the next threat comes, when loving you makes him hesitate at a critical moment, Adrienne’s voice cut through before I could respond. Then I hesitate, knowing I have something worth protecting beyond territory and reputation. Alyssa gives me reason to build instead of just defend. That’s not weakness, Paulo. It’s evolution.
The older man studied us both for a long moment before nodding slowly. Your father would have questions. But perhaps he’d also recognize that times change, and so must we. He stood, gripped Adrienne’s shoulder briefly. Just be careful, both of you. After he left, Adrienne pulled me close, face buried against my neck. Thank you for what? For defending us. For staying even when people like Paulo and Jessica make it clear how complicated this is.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, feeling the tension in his shoulders. I’m not going anywhere, but we need to be realistic about what we’re building here. It’s not going to be easy or simple. Nothing worth having ever is. We stood there in his office holding each other. And I realized this was the relationship we were choosing.
complicated, messy, requiring constant negotiation and compromise, but real, honest, built on foundation of shared trauma and conscious decision to walk forward together despite obstacles. The months passed with increasing stability. We fell into rhythms that worked. Nights at my apartment mixed with weekends at his house.
Separate professional lives that sometimes intersected but remained distinctly ours. I met more of his world, learned names and faces, understood the complex web of loyalty and obligation that defined his operations. He met mine, too. Attended a journalism award ceremony where my Stanov piece won recognition. Endured questions from colleagues who clearly wondered what investigative reporter was doing with someone like him.
Handled it all with grace I hadn’t expected, making small talk about my work without once trying to claim credit or connection. One Saturday morning, 6 months after I’d moved back to my apartment, Adrien appeared with coffee and a serious expression. “I sold the last distribution territory yesterday,” he said.
“The operations that concerned you most are gone, transferred to people who will run them without my involvement. I set down my coffee mug carefully.” “That’s what you’ve been working toward.” “It is, but I want you to understand what it means.” He moved to sit beside me. I’m not suddenly legitimate. There’s history, connections, influence that won’t disappear. But the active criminal operations, those are finished.
What remains is business that won’t put you in ethical compromises. Why are you telling me this? Because I want to marry you someday. Want to build a life that doesn’t require you to constantly navigate impossible choices between me and your work. His hand found mine. I’m not asking you to decide anything now.
Just wanted you to know I’m committed to becoming someone you can build a future with without sacrificing your integrity. Tears blurred my vision. You’re already someone I want a future with, even with all the complications, especially with them. Because you’re not trying to change me or control me.
You’re transforming yourself to meet me halfway. I kissed him softly. That’s not something people do lightly. We spent that day planning nothing and everything. talking about what future might look like if we kept choosing each other through obstacles and complications, where we’d live, how we’d handle families and expectations, what compromises we could accept, and which ones remained non-negotiable.
It wasn’t perfect. wasn’t the fairy tale version of love where everything magically aligned, but it was honest, built on mutual respect, shared trauma that we’d transformed into strength and conscious decision to fight for something worth keeping. That evening, sitting on my cramped balcony, watching sunset paint the sky orange and purple.
Adrienne’s arm around my shoulders, I thought about the cliff, about standing there certain I had nothing left worth living for. If someone had told me then that 6 months later I’d be here, in love with a man who’d pulled me from that edge, building a life I actually wanted instead of just enduring, I wouldn’t have believed them.
But here I was, breathing, living, choosing each day to stay in the light we’d found together instead of retreating back into darkness. Tyler would never see this, never meet Adrien or know that his death had been avenged. But somehow I thought he’d be glad I’d found my way back to living instead of just surviving. That I’d transformed grief into purpose and found love in the aftermath of loss.
The sun dipped below the horizon and Adrienne pressed a kiss to my temple. What are you thinking about? How far we’ve come? How much further we still have to go together? Always together. And in that moment, on a balcony barely large enough for two people, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever came next, we’d face it side by side. Not perfect, not easy, but real and worth fighting for.
That was enough. more than enough. It was everything. A year passed in the way time does when you’re actually living instead of just surviving. The journalism award came in early spring, recognition for the Stanov expose that had torn apart a trafficking network and given Tyler’s death meaning beyond senseless loss.
Adrienne sat in the audience while I accepted the crystal trophy that probably cost more than my first car. When I mentioned Tyler in my acceptance speech, thanked him for having the courage to document what he saw, Adrienne’s hand pressed briefly to his chest, honoring the dead we’d both lost.
Afterward, at the reception where journalists mingled with glasses of cheap wine, several colleagues congratulated me with genuine warmth. Others kept their distance, still uncomfortable with my relationship with Adrien. I’d learned to live with both reactions. You were brilliant up there, Adrienne said later, driving back to his house where I’d been spending most nights.
Not officially living together, but close enough that the distinction felt semantic. I almost cried during the speech. You did cry. Just controlled crying. His hand found mine across the console. Tyler would be proud. So would Vincent. Vincent’s name still brought a pang. Sharper some days than others. Maria had started speaking to me again after months of necessary distance.
Told me she understood I hadn’t asked for Vincent’s sacrifice. Understanding didn’t erase the cost, but it helped carry the weight. The first anniversary of Tyler’s death arrived in late autumn, leaves turning gold and red like the world was mourning with me. I’d been dreading it for weeks, knowing the date would hit differently than all the days before it.
Adrienne appeared at my apartment at dawn without calling first. Get dressed. We’re going somewhere. I didn’t ask where, just pulled on jeans and Tyler’s favorite hoodie that I’d kept, threw my hair into a ponytail, and followed him to the car. We drove to the memorial park where Tyler’s ashes had been scattered, a quiet space overlooking the river.
Adrien waited by the car while I walked to the bench with the small plaque bearing Tyler’s name. 24 years old. Beloved brother, gone too soon. I sat there for an hour talking to Tyler in my head. told him about the award, about Adrien, about building a life he’d never see but would hopefully approve of.
Told him I was sorry I couldn’t save him, but I’d made damn sure his death mattered. When I finally returned to the car, eyes swollen and throat raw, Adrienne drove us to the Columbia River Gorge, to the exact overlook where everything had started 13 months ago. The cliff looked the same. Wind still bit cold. Views still stretched endlessly.
Drops still called with that terrible seductive promise of ending pain. But I was different. Completely fundamentally different than the broken woman who’d stood here ready to step off. I was coming back from a meeting that night. Adrienne said quietly, standing beside me at the edge, not too close, respecting the space.
Deal that would have changed everything for my operations. biggest opportunity I’d had in years. What happened to it? I chose you instead. He turned to face me. Chose to stop, to pull you back, to take you home. Best decision I ever made, Alyssa. That meeting, that deal, none of it mattered compared to what we found together.
Tears burned cold on my windchilled cheeks. I didn’t believe there would be mornings worth waking up for. Couldn’t imagine feeling anything besides pain. You proved me wrong. You proved yourself wrong. I just offered a hand. His fingers brushed mine.
Do you remember what you said to me that night? After you told me about Tyler that I had nothing, no one to call. And now I looked at him, really looked at the man who’d transformed from stranger to savior to partner. Who’d sold criminal operations to build a life I could share without compromising my integrity. who’d sat with me through nightmares and grief, never trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed. Just offering presents.
Now I have everything, I whispered. Adrienne dropped to one knee on the same cliff where he’d saved my life. Pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. The ring inside caught sunlight. Simple and perfect. Alyssa Grant, you brought me back from an edge I didn’t know I was standing on.
Reminded me what it means to build something instead of just protect it. I want to spend whatever years we have choosing life together every single day. His voice caught. Will you marry me? Yes. The word came out choked with tears and joy and disbelief that this was real. Yes, absolutely. Yes.
He slid the ring onto my finger, stood and pulled me close, kissing me with the wind whipping around us on the cliff that had nearly taken me, but instead gave me everything. We married 6 months later in a small ceremony that honored both our worlds. Rosa cried during the vows. Maria came with her daughters who’d grown to accept me as part of their father’s legacy.
Paulo attended, approval grudging, but present. My journalism colleagues, who’d stood by me, filled half the room. Adrienne’s business associates and remaining loyal men filled the other half. I wore cream instead of white. Tyler’s photo in a locket against my heart. Vincent’s badge sewn into my bouquet. The dead we carried deserved acknowledgement on a day celebrating life. Adrienne looked devastating in his tuxedo.
Tears tracking silently down his face as I walked the aisle to him. We’d both learned that strength meant allowing emotion, not suppressing it. 2 and 1/2 years after that first dawn on the cliff. I stood in our home. The compromised space we’d found between his mansion and my apartment. My hand rested on the swell of my belly.
five months pregnant with a daughter we’d already named Lucia Grace. Lucia for his sister. Grace for the second chance we’d both been given. Adrienne appeared behind me, arms circling my waist, hands covering mine over our daughter. What are you working on? A memoir. I gestured to the laptop on the desk.
About Tyler? About grief? About finding reasons to live when everything feels impossible? Who’s it for? People standing on cliffs. literally or metaphorically. I want them to know that one year from their worst moment, life can look completely different. That choosing to stay alive, even when it feels pointless, can lead somewhere worth being. He rested his chin on my shoulder, reading over the dedication I’d typed.
For Tyler, who taught me courage. For Adrien, who taught me hope. For everyone who needs to know that tomorrow might be the day everything changes. It’s perfect, he murmured. It’s honest. I closed the laptop, turned in his arms. I can’t pretend it was easy or simple. Can’t promise everyone’s cliff moment leads to something beautiful, but mine did.
Tyler’s death led to justice. My pain led to purpose. Our love grew from the worst circumstances imaginable. And now, now we live. We build. We honor the dead by making the most of the time they didn’t get. I placed his hand where Lutia kicked, strong and insistent. We bring new life into the world and teach her that even darkness can’t extinguish hope if you refuse to let it.
Adrienne’s eyes were wet. But he smiled. The real smile, the one he’d only learned after I’d taught him it was okay to feel joy even after loss. That night, lying in bed with his hand on my belly and moonlight painting silver across our room, I thought about the woman I’d been on that cliff. how she’d been certain there was nothing left worth living for. How wrong she’d been.
Life had given me Tyler’s death. Trauma I’d carry forever. Scars both visible and hidden. But it had also given me Adrien. Work that mattered. Love I’d fought for. And a future I was actively building instead of just enduring. The grief didn’t disappear. Probably never would. But it had transformed from an open wound into a scar I could touch without bleeding. Tyler’s memory lived in the work I did.
The justice I sought. The life I’d chosen to keep living despite his absence. Adrienne’s breathing evened out into sleep beside me. I stayed awake a while longer, hand on my daughter, thinking about what I’d tell her someday. About her uncle Tyler, who’d been brave enough to stand against evil. About her namesake, Aunt Lucia, whose death had shaped her father into the man he’d become.
about Vincent, who’d given his life protecting strangers who’d become family. But mostly, I’d tell her about the cliff, about the moment her father stopped to check on a stranger in the dark, about the choice to accept his outstretched hand instead of stepping into nothing.
Because that choice, that single moment of deciding to stay alive just one more day had led to everything else, to justice and love and purpose and her existence in my belly. kicking reminder that life continues, that hope survives, that choosing to stay can be the bravest thing you ever do. Outside, the wind picked up, the same wind that had nearly pushed me off a cliff a lifetime ago.
But I was safe now, warm and loved and building something worth protecting. I closed my eyes and slept dreamlessly, wrapped in the arms of the man who’d saved me by showing me I was worth saving. And tomorrow I’d wake up and choose life again, just like every day before it, and every day that would come after. That was the gift Tyler had given me through his death.
The understanding that living fully was the best revenge against those who’d tried to break us. That love could grow in the aftermath of loss. That sometimes the worst moments led to the most profound transformations. I was Alyssa Castroani now, journalist, wife, soon to be mother, survivor of grief and trauma and violence, builder of a future I’d once thought impossible.
And I was alive, gloriously, gratefully, completely alive. And that was everything.
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