Chapter 9
KATIE
I never should have agreed to that dinner. It was a catastrophic mistake.
Sitting there while Roan picked me apart over delicious lamb chops and chicken soup, me with my lone glass of water while they enjoyed whiskey—because I needed to keep my wits sharp. Because one slip, one unguarded moment, and he’d have me.
A bite of guilt pierces through me as I remember Afrim coming to my defense. He shouldn’t have done that. Roan is right to be suspicious of me. Everything he suspects is true—I am lying, I am hiding something, I am exactly the kind of threat he thinks I am.
But Afrim doesn’t know that.
My guilt presses heavier with every reminder of how kind he’s been. How he’s made the past few weeks at the estate almost bearable with his light banter and our chess games. He thinks I’m just some poor girl whose shitty luck in life forced her into domestic work in the fucking 21st century.
A sharp twist in my stomach threatens to surface, but I push it down ruthlessly. There’s no other choice. My sister—her wellbeing—is all that matters. It has to. I can’t get attached to the Albanians the same way I did to Emilia. I can’t.
This has always been my problem; this desperate need to love and be loved unconditionally.
“That’s never going to happen, dumbass. Get with the program,” I mutter bitterly, pushing the manhole cover aside with a low grunt as I climb out of the sewer line by the now-familiar shores of the East River.
The cool night air slaps my face and cuts through my clothes, dragging out the smell of rot that clings stubbornly to me.
I brush at my jeans, but what’s the point?
It’s stuck—just like the fucking lies I keep telling.
I hate it. Hate all of this. Hate lying to kind old men who treat me like I’m worth something.
And hate even more that the man I can’t seem to fool happens to be stupidly hot and way too intense for my sanity.
I push all thoughts of the Permetis out of my head and jog towards my rental, leaving the manhole open as usual. Without looking back, I slide into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel as I start the engine and pull onto the road, my mind already racing ahead to tonight’s plan.
Searching through Queens has been a complete waste of my time. Weeks chasing leads that go nowhere, talking to people who either know nothing or won’t talk to me. I need a new approach.
Brooklyn.
Maybe someone there would know something—or know someone who does.
It’s not much different from my previous plan, just a new area to try.
But I don’t have a better option. Other than maybe reaching out to the Nightshades.
Hell, they should've been the first on my list. With all their connections, I’m almost sure they could find Kayla if given the chance.
But it would be shameless of me to ask Emily for help. Not after everything I’ve done.
I sigh heavily as I pull into the city, the Brooklyn Bridge stretched out ahead, the lights spilling through my windshield like accusatory spotlights.
I pretended to be her friend and shared everything she told me with Stacey. All of it—every secret, every vulnerability.
It doesn’t matter that I eventually came to genuinely care for her, and that in the end, I broke free from Stacey’s control. The fact remains: our friendship was orchestrated. Fake.
At least in the beginning.
My chest tightens painfully as I recall Emily’s face when she walked into the restaurant I’d invited her to a few months ago and saw Stacey there with me. The betrayal in her eyes. But most of all—the hurt.
I could never forgive myself for that.
So, I’m not going to show my face around her or try to use her again.
I’ll find Kayla myself. I have to. I can’t let myself lose hope.
This is all moot anyway. Emily probably hates me now and is likely hunting for me so she can say it to my face while Rafael decides on a fitting punishment or something equally horrible.
I ignore the ache in my chest that thought triggers and focus on the road instead, on the task at hand.
Even at eleven PM, Brooklyn’s streets are bustling, teeming with cars and people who couldn’t care less about who I am. I drive towards a row of closed shops and park in a free spot. After a brief hesitation, wondering if coming here might be a mistake, I shut off the engine and step out.
It’s no more—or less—dangerous than going around Queens was. As long as I avoid Manhattan, which is Rafael’s territory, I should be fine.
I start walking, watching the faces around me carefully.
I have no idea who I’m looking for—just someone rough around the edges, someone who looks like they might know the underworld better than I do.
Someone who might know someone who specializes in finding missing people.
I keep moving, my trained eyes scanning every interaction, every telling detail, but no one fits the profile.
After thirty solid minutes of relentless searching, my ankles start aching, my neck itching like someone’s on my tail. I look around furtively for the tenth time, but nothing seems out of place. I push the paranoia aside, focusing on why I’m here and the fact that I’ve found nothing.
Is tonight going to be yet another wasted night?
I’m starting to resign myself to that depressing reality when a guy’s shoulder slams into mine as he passes. I spin around to glare at him just as he turns back to look at me, and something happens. Recognition flits across his face.
“Katie? Katherine Pierce?”
No.
I freeze, my heart suddenly pounding as I scan his face, searching for any hint of familiarity. But I don’t recognize this thin man standing under the flickering streetlight with a square, rugged face only a mother could love.
Who the hell is he?
His smile widens, his eyes gleaming with something that sets off every alarm bell in my head as he takes my measure. I know bad news when I see it—and I really don’t like that he seems to know me when I don’t know him.
No one here should know me.
“Guess it’s my lucky night,” he says, rubbing his palms together like he’s just hit the jackpot.
“What the hell did you call me?” I ask, needing to confirm I heard him right.
My mind races, thoughts whirling, but I keep my expression blank as I calculate the distance to my car, the weight of my knife in my pocket, possible escape tactics, and how to play this without it turning violent.
I’m not in the mood to fight anyone right now.
The man wiggles his eyebrows. “Katie Pierce. That’s you, right? Blonde hair, blue eyes... yeah, I saw your picture this morning. Do you know how much you’re worth?”
Worth?
I blink, struggling to keep my expression blank as I process his words. Worth? I’m not worth anything. I’m just an orphaned nobody trying to find the sister I lost over a decade ago.
“You’ve got the wrong person,” I say, forcing calm into my voice even as panic starts clawing at my throat. I turn away from him, ready to walk away, but his hand shoots out and grabs my elbow.
“Oh no, I’m pretty sure I have the right girl.” His grip tightens, and I don’t miss the way his voice sharpens. “Lombardi’s men were thorough in their description of you—and I have a picture right here.”
Lombardi’s men. He means Romero Lombardi. Criminal lawyer and Nightshades member who controls Brooklyn. They’re sharing my picture? Offering a reward? Fuck. Does Emily hate me that much now?
He pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and holds it up triumphantly. It’s a small, grainy poster, but I recognize my own face staring back at me. My pulse spikes, a cold rush rocketing up my spine.
I glance around quickly, assessing the situation with my training kicking in. We’re in a deserted alley. No one would see us. No one would help.
Good.
That means no witnesses.
“You have about thirty grand on your head,” he continues, sounding almost cheerful in his greed. “And that money is now mine. So you’re coming with me, sweetheart.”
His hand dips into his pocket, and I don’t need psychic powers to know what’s coming next. Gun, knife, taser—something he can use to make me follow him docilely to whatever collection point the Nightshades have set.
They must have left out a crucial detail in their brief: that I’m a trained FBI agent. He would have been more careful if he had known.
Too bad for him.
Before he can grab his weapon, I slam my fist into his exposed throat, straight into his Adam's apple—the most vulnerable and accessible part of a man’s neck. He chokes, doubling over with both hands flying up to protect his damaged windpipe, and I don’t waste a second.
My other hand buries into my pocket and pulls out my knife, the cold metal smooth and familiar against my palm.
I aim for his chest, going for a quick kill, but he reacts—grabbing my wrist and shoving me off balance.
I catch myself on the balls of my feet before I can fall.
Damn it, I didn’t expect him to fight back.
He lunges at me with a wild, desperate swing, but he’s too sloppy. Not professionally trained like I am. Roan was right about that—nobody stands a chance against me except someone equally trained. I’m a lethal weapon when I want to be.
And right now, I need to be.
I sidestep his attack smoothly, ducking under his arm, and slash upward in one fluid motion.
The blade rakes across the forearm he’s holding up, and he staggers back with a howl.
I don’t stop. I snatch his other wrist before he can throw another punch, wrench it until a clean snap cracks the air, then drive my knee into his gut.
He reels, gasping for air that won’t come, but I’m not done. Not until he can’t tell anyone he found me.
Dead men tell no tales.
Closing in, I force the knife up under his ribs at the perfect angle and twist. He makes a wet, gurgling sound, his eyes going wide as his body twitches. Then his knees give out and he crumples to the ground, hands clutching uselessly at his chest as blood pools beneath him.
There. Now it’s done.