Chapter 11
Raze
Nathan Azzopardi.
I stared at the name on the screen longer than necessary. Not because I didn’t recognize it—but because I did. The kind of man whose confidence outweighed his competence. Small-time. Sloppy. Convinced proximity to danger made him untouchable.
A mule. Running product for the Nato family.
And, somehow, Izzy’s boyfriend.
I exhaled through my nose, like that might keep the irritation from cutting deeper. I couldn’t reconcile it—her sharpness, her honesty—with a man like that. A parasite with ambition and no spine. How she’d ended up tied to him at all felt like a failure of probability.
The word lodged in my chest anyway.
Drugs.
The reaction was immediate. Old. Instinctive.
I drew the line there. Always had. Weapons were tools—clean, transactional, a language I understood.
Currency. Leverage. A means to an end. Drugs were rot.
They hollowed people out from the inside and turned neighborhoods into graveyards.
I’d seen what they did to families, to children who grew up watching their parents disappear by degrees.
I didn’t touch it. I didn’t broker it. I didn’t let it bleed into my operations.
Ever.
The Nato family knew that. They’d tested the boundary more than once. We’d had words about it—then bullets. Lines drawn via body count.
And now Izzy’s boyfriend was running product for them.
My enemy.
The irony wasn’t subtle. It was a perfect loop closing in on itself, dragging her straight into a war she hadn’t known she was standing in the middle of. Or had she?
I locked my phone and leaned back in the chair, jaw tight.
Izzy Ferraro hadn’t lied to me. I was sure of that now.
If she had known, there would’ve been cracks.
Tells. Self-preservation instincts kicking in.
Instead, all I’d seen was confusion and stubborn honesty that made no sense for someone playing a long game.
That bothered me more than deceit would have.
I found her in the sitting room, perched at the edge of the couch with a mug of coffee she’d made herself, knees tucked up, attention half on the window like she expected something—or someone—to appear out of the dark.
She looked up when I entered.
“Am I in trouble?” she probed.
She was direct, if nothing else.
I closed the door behind me. “I want to talk.”
She nodded once and set the mug down. “Where’s Tone?”
“She had some sort of emergency,” I said. “Had to rush out.”
The lie sat too easily on my tongue.
I was glad they’d bonded—gladder than I was willing to admit.
Tone had a way of cutting through people, of finding the soft places without meaning to.
The fact that she’d taken to Izzy so quickly unsettled me more than it reassured me.
I didn’t know what it meant yet, only that it complicated things.
If anything, it made me consider sending Izzy home.
Not because I thought she was a danger. She wasn’t. Not in the way that mattered. But her presence kept Tone close, and Tone’s closeness was a liability I couldn’t afford. Anyone near me eventually paid for it. That was the pattern. That was the cost of orbiting my life.
If Izzy left, Tone would follow. She’d retreat to a safer distance, back to the version of my world I’d curated for her—guarded, clean, untouched by the mess I lived in every day.
I could breathe easier then. Because it wasn’t Izzy I was afraid of. It was the possibility that I’d already put my sister in danger just by letting her stay near me.
I sat opposite her, forearms braced on my knees, posture open by design. I kept my voice level. Gentle, even. It took effort.
“Nathan Azzopardi.” His name out of your mouth mouth felt like a curse. “How long have you been together?”
She blinked. “Two years. Why?”
“What do you know about him?”
“Why are you asking, Raze? What’s going on?”
She readjusted in the chair, angling her body toward me, and sent me a look that was equal parts curious and wary. I couldn’t tell what she was weighing—whether she was wondering how I knew her boyfriend’s name, or bracing for news she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.
She’d requested the use of her phone more than once. I hadn’t given it to her.
And in all that time, no one had tried to reach her. Not a call. Not a message. Nothing lighting up the silence she’d been left in.
That, more than anything else, was… telling.
“Did you know he was running drugs?”
Her brows pulled together, offended. “No.”
I watched her carefully. “Not once did you question where his money came from?”
She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “What money?”
That stopped me.
“He’s a stingy bastard,” she went on, irritation creeping into her voice now. “Painfully so. Never helped with rent. Never chipped in for groceries. I paid for everything. He borrowed money he never repaid. If he was moving drugs, then he was spectacularly bad at profiting from it.”
“You’re telling me you supported him.”
“Yes,” she retorted. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t think that was romantic or noble. I thought it was temporary. I thought he was just… lost.”
Her honesty landed like a weight.
“You’re not lying.”
“No,” she agreed. “I’m not.”
That should’ve simplified things. Yet somehow, it didn’t.
“You understand how this looks, right? Your boyfriend works for my enemy, in an industry I have prohibited in this city.”
She leaned forward, incredulous. “You still think I’m a spy?”
“I think you’re a liability.”
Her mouth curved—not amused. Sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
I tilted my head. “Meaning?”
“You draw the moral line at drugs,” she spat. “But you deal in arms and explosives.”
The words struck a nerve I hadn’t meant to expose.
I went still. “Careful, Izzy.”
“Why?” she challenged. “Because it’s uncomfortable for you? Because you don’t like your own ethics examined?”
“You shouldn’t know what I deal in.”
She shrugged. “You put someone in your home, Raze. They’re bound to learn things you don’t want them to.”
The fact she said my name without hesitation didn’t help.
“You’re very observant.”
“I’m not a spy,” she shot back. “There’s a difference.”
Silence stretched. Tight. Alive.
She broke it first. “You think I’m some kind of operative? Then explain this to me—why would you hand me the keys to the goddamn fucking kingdom if I were?”
That was the question, wasn’t it?
I stood, paced once—more to bleed off the pressure than to intimidate—then stopped directly in front of her.
Close enough that the space between us vanished.
Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin, to catch the subtle hitch in her breathing before she forced it steady.
I saw the pulse at her throat jump, fast and traitorous, even as her face stayed composed.
She noticed the distance. And instead of shrinking back, instead of sinking deeper into the chair like most people did when they realized how close they were to the edge, she rose. Slow. Deliberate. She stood to meet me eye level, spine straight, chin lifted—not defiant exactly, but unyielding.
She refused to cower.
The movement changed everything. It wasn’t just a reaction; it was a choice. A subtle one, but loaded. She was scared—I could see that—but she wasn’t letting fear decide the shape of her body or the space she occupied.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The tension sat between us, thick and alive, humming with things neither of us was willing to explore.
“You don’t get to punish me for trusting the wrong man,” she whispered. “Whatever sins you’re carrying? They’re not mine.”
The room seemed to contract around us, air thickening until every breath sounded intrusive.
I held her gaze. Didn’t soften. “Where’s your boyfriend now?”
She hesitated just long enough for honesty to win. “I don’t know. I told you—I was looking for him the night you brought me here.”
“And you have no idea where I can find him?”
Her mouth curved, sharp and unimpressed. “Why? So you can blow him up?”
I huffed a short laugh before I could stop myself. “You really think that’s my go-to?”
“Given your résumé?” she shot back. “Yes.”
I stepped closer—not enough to touch, just enough to remind her I could. “If I wanted him dead, you wouldn’t be standing here wondering about it.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine, something hot and indignant sparking there. “You wouldn’t.”
“You’re welcome.”
She folded her arms, mirroring me again without realizing it. “You act like I’m supposed to be relieved he’s missing.”
“The guy is a drug dealing low life scum. I’d be doing you a favor.”
“That’s not your choice!” she said flatly.
That stopped me.
I studied her then—really looked. The fire in her.
The stubborn refusal to let go of things she believed were worth saving.
That was the truth of it. Nathan hadn’t been a great love to her; he’d been a project.
Something broken she thought she could mend.
Less a loss, more an inconvenience that had finally reached its limit.
“How,” I dragged out slowly, “did a woman like you end up with a man like him?”
Her jaw tightened. “Because not everyone announces who they are right away.”
Fair.
Still, the thought irritated me more than it should have. That she’d wasted time—her time—on a rat like Nathan Azzopardi. That she’d fed him, covered his rent, defended him, while he ran drugs for my enemies and vanished the moment things got complicated.
She deserved better.
I didn’t say it. The space between us was enough.
Her gaze lingered on my face, searching. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re really planning, are you?”
“No.”
She smiled faintly. “Didn’t think so.”
Silence stretched again, electric this time. Not hostile. Not safe either.
“Just so we’re clear,” she added, voice softer but no less steady, “if you hurt him to make a point, that’s on you. Not me.”
I leaned in just enough that she felt it. “And if I find him, it won’t be about making a point.”
Her breath hitched. Just once.
Then she straightened, refusing to give me the satisfaction of noticing.
“Good,” she countered. “Because I’m done cleaning up his messes.”
The mouth on this woman.
God help me—I was starting to admire it.