Chapter 7 #2
She was there when I lost my mom. Again when I lost my dad.
The kind of unwavering presence most people only dream of.
We both chose the law because it’s our purpose.
Lexie’s father was a cop, and my mom was one of the most prestigious lawyers in the city.
It made sense, brought me closer to my mom.
Lexie, though… She’s a hammer in a city full of glass houses. She’s coming for the people who think they’re untouchable.
And if Axel is one of them… I don’t know if I can even stop her.
T he shrill cry of my phone slashes through the quiet, shattering what little peace I had left.
It’s the kind of silence that settles after a night of tossing, turning, and begging your brain to shut up.
My skin prickles with unease as I glance down at the number glowing on the screen.
Unknown, but I don’t need a name to know it’s him.
My chest tightens, breath snagging.
“Hello?” My voice scrapes out, raw and reluctant.
“Outside.” Colombo’s voice is gravel and menace, just two syllables and I’m already sweating.
I blink. “Now?” I stammer, even as I’m already moving, kicking the blanket off my legs .
“Yes.”
He hangs up without another word. Such a gentleman.
It’s Sunday morning. Supposedly the day of rest, but I guess there’s no rest for the wicked and I’m pretty sure Colombo falls under that category.
I dart to my closet, to find a pair of jeans and a hoodie, something to fight the chill that’s settled in my bones. But also something that doesn’t scream “I spent the whole night spiraling on my couch.”
Cooper doesn’t so much as glance up from his phone when I knock the coat stand over in my rush for the door, or when I shout a clipped “laters”.
“You’re late.” Colombo’s eyes cut to his watch as I step out of my apartment building, then back to my face.
“It’s Sunday,” I retort.
He doesn’t bother replying—just opens the car door with that same stone-faced silence. A warning, not a courtesy.
I slide in and my stomach flips when I realize the back seat is empty.
“Where’s Axel?” The question escapes in a whisper, brittle and unsure.
“We’re going to him.” Colombo’s tone is full of steel and threat.
That’s my cue to shut up. The rest of the ride is smothered in silence, thick and suffocating. Every bump in the road sends my nerves rattling against my ribcage.
Half an hour later, we’re pulling up to a sleek building wrapped in black glass, towering and anonymous. No visible entrance. Colombo is already out, yanking open my door with a grunt.
“Out,” he growls, irritation crackling off him like static.
I follow, dragged forward by a mix of fear and something darker—something I don't want to name. He vanishes through a hidden door and holds it open, not looking back. My body hesitates, but my name crashes through the silence like a gunshot.
“Cassidy.”
That voice . Low, commanding, yet laced with warmth.
Colombo’s smirk widens. He saw the way I flinched—saw the way my body betrayed me.
I step inside, into a pristine, clinical room where art clings to white walls like ghosts. It’s all wrong. Too clean. Too cold.
Then I see him.
Axel.
He’s leaning against the far wall, a figure carved from shadow and control. A black shirt clings to the sharp cut of his chest, silver-grey trousers tailored to perfection. Not a hair out of place. That same stubble graces his jaw, but it doesn’t soften him—it only sharpens the edges.
I shift under the weight of his stare. It’s not curiosity; it’s calculation.
Footsteps echo. I turn to find four more men entering. Solid. Silent. Dangerous.
The Notorious Five.
Their presence is a warning. Their beauty is a weapon. Each one cut from the same brutal cloth, each stare pinning me in place like a butterfly under glass. My stomach knots, not from fear, but from the undeniable heat crawling beneath my skin.
I spin back toward Axel just as he clears his throat.
“This way.” The order is velvet wrapped around steel.
I trail after him, arms wound tightly around myself, like that’ll shield me from whatever’s coming.
The hallway feels colder than it should, sterile and echoing with the sound of our footsteps.
My fingers dig into my sides, nails biting through the cotton as if I can anchor myself to this moment, to my body, before it spins out again.
Axel doesn’t slow down. His strides eat up the corridor like he owns it, like the building itself was constructed for his pace. I’m forced to jog just to keep up, the soles of my sneakers slapping awkwardly against the tile.
I swear I catch the ghost of a smirk curling his lips.
He’s enjoying this.
The power. The control. The way I have to scramble just to stay a few feet behind him, out of breath and out of my depth. Maybe this is all part of the game, to rattle me before we even get to the main event.
I hate how it’s working.
Every step stretches the knot in my stomach tighter. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, flickering like they might burn out at any moment. Part of me wishes they would. That we’d get swallowed in darkness and I could just stop moving, stop pretending I’m not scared out of my mind.
But I keep going. Because I don’t have a choice.
We stop at a white door—of course it’s white. Everything about this place is clean, too clean for a man like Axel. It makes me wonder why he chose a place like this to have a meeting; a bespoke art gallery without a single soul visiting, aside from the men already here.
Axel pushes through the door and waits.
My first instinct is to back away, but I’ve never been a coward and I sure as hell won’t let Axel intimidate me.
He’s spent all of his life making men bow to him, and I refuse to be just another name on that list, another spine he’s broken with a glare.
My legs want to tremble, but I lock my knees and lift my chin instead.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there like a storm contained in human form—broad shoulders blocking out the light behind him, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
I hate that I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. Hate it more that some part of me cares.
My fingers twitch at my sides, aching for something—anything—to hold on to. I force them to still. If I show weakness now, he’ll devour it. He’ll twist it into leverage. I’ve played that game before, and I lost .
So I take a step forward. Then another. Until I’m right in front of him, close enough to smell the heat of his skin and whatever cologne he wears that smells like expensive woodsmoke and violence. My knees almost buckle. A storm of emotions floods me: fear, curiosity, desire, defiance.
I pretend I don’t know where it’s all coming from. But I do. I can’t stop my gaze from trailing over him—how the fabric strains against his muscles, how his tattoos twitch when he swallows.
He sinks into the chair behind a sleek desk, saying nothing, just watching me. Then he gestures to the chair across from him.
“Why am I here?” My voice trembles, my body resolute.
“You wanted time,” he says evenly. “You’ve had time.”
A day. That’s what he calls time .
“I only had time to trace the calls,” I mutter, finally sinking into the chair. My skin prickles as he leans forward, arms braced on the desk. His tattoos snake up his neck, coiling like secrets.
“And?” he presses.
“They came from the D.A. 's office,” I reply, locking eyes with him. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
His lips twitch. That cold, infuriating smirk appears.
I rise, frustration bubbling up. “You wasted my time.”
“Sit.” His voice is a whip, and then I feel the weight on my shoulder. I turn to find Colombo behind me, his grip firm, unyielding.
When I meet Axel’s eyes again, he looks almost bored.
“Detective Lopez,” he utters her name like a death sentence.
“What about her?”
“You told her?”
I shake my head. “No. She just traced one of the numbers for me.”
Axel rises, smooth and swift, then rounds the desk in four long strides. He leans against it, motioning to Trigger who silently exits the room.
Now it’s just me. And him. And the silence .
He braces his hands on either side of my chair, caging me in. His scent engulfs me. Whiskey and sin.
“I asked if I could trust you,” he growls.
“You can.”
He cups my chin, his fingers warm, rough, terrifying. He tilts my face toward his and breathes me in like I’m something he already owns. “Good,” he whispers, his lips a breath from mine. “Don’t make me regret it.”
My heart’s a war drum in my chest. I close my eyes. Not out of expectation—but shame. Shame that I want him. Shame that I don’t want to leave.
“I have a boyfriend,” I whisper.
A long silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken. Then, slowly, his mouth curves into a smile—sharp as a blade, dangerous in its calm.
“Do you think that would stop me from taking what I want?” he asks, voice low and quiet, like the hum of a storm on the edge of breaking.
He doesn’t say it to provoke. He says it because he means it. Because in his world, hesitation is weakness, and want is just another word for inevitability.
And it works.
My breath catches, heart thudding like a warning I know I’ll ignore. There's no threat in his tone, just truth. Cold, hard, inevitable truth.