Chapter Twenty-Six - Simon
The city never really sleeps, not in my world. Danger mutters at the edges of every night, threats flicker in every unguarded moment.
I move through it now with a singular purpose, every step more calculated, every risk more tightly controlled.
My marriage to Eden—her trust, her presence, the life growing inside her—has crystallized something in me. I’ve always been ruthless, always willing to burn what needed burning to survive. Now, that ruthlessness is harnessed for one cause: my family’s safety. There is nothing I won’t do.
I spend my mornings on the phone, hushed calls with old allies and colder adversaries. Every safe house in New York City and beyond is checked, reinforced, redeployed under new protocols. I send men I trust to the borders, to the docks, to the shadowy places where threats breed and fester.
Old rivalries are smothered beneath new alliances. I buy loyalty, demand silence, and leave quiet reminders for anyone tempted to look twice at what’s mine.
My reputation—always sharp, always bloody—becomes a shield now, not just a weapon. I want it known: anyone who comes for Eden, or our child, will not leave this city alive.
Power has always been my currency, but for the first time, I understand what it means to wield it for someone else.
Not to conquer, not to dominate, but to protect.
Every choice I make, every brutal calculation, bends around a single truth: I will never allow Eden or our child to be vulnerable again.
I will not have my family haunted by the ghosts that shaped me. I will not pass down the violence of my childhood. This, I swear.
Yet with the worst of the danger settling—for now—a strange softness threads its way into my life. I find myself slowing down, if only for moments at a time, just to watch my wife move through the apartment.
She’s so at home here now—barefoot in the kitchen, robe tied loosely, her hair tangled and beautiful in the morning sun.
Sometimes she catches me watching and smiles, the kind that makes my chest ache with something I barely know how to name.
Every day she grows a little more radiant, her belly rounding, her eyes brighter.
I’m obsessed, and I don’t care who knows it. Marriage has changed nothing and everything; my hunger for her is steadier, deeper, rooted in a promise no one can break.
There are days I follow her from room to room, not out of suspicion but out of awe. She fusses over bookshelves, opens windows to let in the spring air, pauses to rest with a hand at her back.
Sometimes she calls me to feel the baby move—her fingers guiding mine, her voice soft with wonder. It is a slow, perfect undoing.
The walls inside me, the ones built by decades of violence and betrayal, begin to shift. I speak to her more openly now.
Over tea, after dinner, when we’re curled on the couch and the city glows at our windows. I tell her things I’ve never told another soul—the games my father played to keep us afraid, the lessons I learned with blood on my hands, the dreams I had of running away and never looking back.
Eden listens, truly listens, never judging, never recoiling. Sometimes she cries for me, silent tears she tries to hide, but I see them anyway.
More often, she touches my face, cups my jaw, her thumb tracing the line of my cheek. That simple gesture can unravel me faster than any threat. I lean into her touch, letting her anchor me, letting the bond between us tighten in ways I never thought possible.
She gives me honesty in return. She tells me about her own childhood—lonely, rootless, always on the outside looking in.
About the people who let her down, the times she had to fight for herself, the cost of never feeling safe.
She tells me how that all changed when I let her into my world, when I showed her what devotion looks like.
One night, I find her in the nursery. She’s sorting tiny clothes, folding each piece with a care that makes my throat tighten. I stand in the doorway, just watching her, unable to move. She looks up, catching me in the act, and smiles.
“Are you going to hover over me until the baby’s born?” she teases, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s all warmth.
“Probably longer,” I admit. I cross the room, slip my arms around her from behind, and press my face into her shoulder. I breathe her in, letting the scent of her—clean skin, something floral and soft—calm whatever remains of my old rage.
“Does it scare you?” she asks quietly, her hands coming to rest over mine.
“Not anymore,” I tell her. “You’re the only thing that doesn’t scare me.”
She turns, searching my eyes for the truth. I let her see it all: the hope, the hunger, the vow that nothing will ever touch her again. She rises up on her toes, kisses me, and for a moment, I let myself want the softness she offers. I let myself hope.
At night, after the apartment falls silent, I hold her close, my hand over her stomach, her heartbeat a steady drum against my chest. She falls asleep before I do, always trusting, always safe. I stay awake, keeping watch, letting the new shape of my life settle in.
I am a weapon, sharpened by years of violence, but now I am a shield as well.
And every breath I take, every plan I make, is for her—my wife, my home, my future.
Eden grounds me. She softens me in the ways I need and steels me where it matters most. Our child will never know the fear that haunted me. That is my promise.
For the first time in my life, I let myself believe that peace might last.
If it doesn’t—if the world tries to take what I love again—I’ll be ready. This time, I fight not for power, but for love.
***
Evening seeps into the apartment in shades of amber and rose, washing the living room with a warmth that makes everything feel softer, safer.
Eden sits cross-legged on the rug, sorting through a stack of baby books, her brow furrowed in concentration and amusement.
The sight tugs at something deep inside me—a part of myself that never had any use for softness, but now craves it almost desperately.
I watch her from the doorway, letting the domestic scene sink into my bones. Every sound is familiar: the low murmur of her voice when she finds something funny, the rustle of pages, the distant clink of dishes from the kitchen.
My world, once all sharp edges and shadows, has found its center in this space, in this woman. Eden—my wife. The word settles inside me with a gravity that nothing else has ever held.
I cross the room quietly, drawn to her the way a moth is drawn to a flame. As I pass behind her, I let my fingers trail lightly across her shoulder, savoring the shiver that races through her body.
She tilts her head, exposing the pale line of her neck in a silent invitation. I bend down, letting my lips brush the skin there, slow and deliberate. She laughs—a sound that is half delight, half warning.
“Careful,” she says, glancing up at me through dark lashes. “You’ll distract me.”
“That’s the point.” My voice is rougher than I intend, thick with longing and something deeper. I press a kiss to the soft spot just below her ear, linger there until she sighs, her whole body melting against me for a moment before she pulls away, teasing.
She stands, smoothing her skirt, and gives me a look that’s all challenge. “You’re hovering again, Simon.”
“I like watching you,” I admit without shame. “Especially when you’re happy.”
She steps closer, crowding into my space until I have no choice but to wrap my arms around her. She presses her hands to my chest, feeling the rapid beat of my heart. “I am happy,” she says, voice low, the words meant just for me. “You make it easy.”
The spark between us, always lurking just below the surface, flares bright.
Her hands slide up to my shoulders, fingers slipping into my hair, pulling me down for a kiss.
It’s gentle at first, a question more than a demand.
I answer her with a slow, deep kiss, letting myself savor the taste of her, the way she fits perfectly against me.
When we finally break apart, she’s breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. I brush my thumb along her jaw, holding her gaze. “You’re my world, Eden. My home.”
Her eyes soften. “You’re mine too.”
We drift through the rest of the evening in a quiet orbit around each other—soft touches exchanged as we move through the rooms, little glances that say everything words can’t.
She cooks while I hover nearby, chopping vegetables under her direction, letting myself be bossed around with mock severity.
Every now and then, she slips behind me, arms circling my waist, lips pressing to my back or my shoulder. The ordinary intimacy of it all is almost overwhelming.
Later, as we settle onto the couch, she curls into my side, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand finding mine beneath the blanket.
We talk about nothing and everything—baby names, favorite colors, the music she wants our child to hear.
She teases me about my accent, laughs when I try to mimic hers.
I pretend to grumble, but every sound she makes burrows deeper into my heart.
I can feel the old instincts—watchfulness, suspicion—trying to surface, but Eden banishes them with every smile, every laugh, every gentle touch.
Even in a world built on violence, she brings out a gentleness in me I never knew existed. I want to give her more of it, want to show her that my love isn’t just a shield, but a place where she can rest, where she can be safe, always.
As the night deepens, I pull her into my lap, cradling her carefully. My hands spread over her belly, feeling the faint movements beneath her skin—a reminder of the life we’ve made together. I press a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips, slow and thorough.
She sighs, content, and looks at me as if she can see straight through every mask I’ve ever worn.
“Simon, you don’t have to protect me from everything,” she murmurs, fingers threading through mine.
I shake my head, brushing my nose against hers. “It’s not just protection. It’s devotion.”
She smiles, cupping my face in her hands. “I know. I feel it. I love you for it.”
The words settle around us, solid and sure. I let myself hold her tighter, as if the world might try to take her away if I ever let go. For once, there’s no fear. Only certainty.
I watch her until her eyes grow heavy, until she’s half asleep against my chest. My fingers trace slow circles on her back, grounding both of us in the here and now.
She is my wife. My center. My universe. Nothing—not even death—will break the vow I’ve already begun to live, every day, every hour, every breath.
Tonight, the world is quiet. There are no threats at the window, no danger lurking in the shadows. There is only this: her warmth, her trust, her love anchoring me more securely than any power or promise I’ve ever known.
I close my eyes, letting the peace of this moment settle in my bones. Tomorrow, I’ll be the shield again. Tomorrow, I’ll fight the battles that must be fought.
Tonight, I am only hers, and that is more than enough.
***
I watch the city slip past the window in a silent blur—neon, glass, steam rising from the grates, every detail sharp and urgent.
New York is never quiet, not really, but tonight the world outside our car is hushed by the rain. Cortez is somewhere out there, hiding in a safe house we’ve tracked for weeks, a snake gone to ground.
I want this finished clean. No headlines. No bodies in the street. Just gone.
I check the pistol in my lap, flick the safety, glance over at Nikola in the driver’s seat.
He’s as calm as always, eyes fixed on the road, hands easy on the wheel.
There’s tension in the air—purposeful, the kind I thrive on.
We’ve done worse things, but this feels heavier.
Maybe it’s the city. Maybe it’s the promise I made Leon. Maybe it’s just time.
“You ready?” Nikola murmurs, pulling to the curb across from a nondescript brownstone. The lights on the top floor are dark. We know the layout. We know the guards. There’s no margin for error.
I nod, tucking my pistol into the holster at my back. “Let’s make it quiet.”
We slip out into the rain, blending into the shadow of the stoop. The city noise muffles our footsteps, the thunder of a passing train disguising the click of my lock picks. The door opens without a sound. We move fast, up the stairs, soft on the runner. I feel the adrenaline in my blood.
We clear the first two rooms in seconds. Nikola signals—three fingers, then one. A guard slumped by the kitchen. I slip behind him, arm around his neck, a quick squeeze and he’s down. Nikola moves to the hallway, checks the corners, then waves me forward. We don’t speak. There’s no need.
Cortez’s door is locked, but not well. I listen, hear murmurs inside. He knows someone is coming. Maybe he hoped it wouldn’t be us.
I ease the door open. Cortez is on the bed, gun in hand, eyes wide in the gloom. For a moment, we just stare at each other. He opens his mouth, a question or a plea, I’ll never know.
I shake my head. “It’s over, Cortez.”
He starts to raise the gun, but Nikola is faster. A silenced round, just one, perfect and neat. Cortez slumps back, eyes wide but already gone. No sound but the rain against the glass.
Nikola checks the body, then nods to me. “It’s done.”
We move quickly, cleaning the room, making sure there’s nothing left that could lead back to us. I wipe my prints from the doorknob, tuck the pistol away, glance once more at the slack face on the bed.
For months, Cortez has haunted us—whispers of his alliances, his betrayals, the jobs he sold out from under Leon. And now, it’s over. No chase or firefight. It’s a relief.
We step back out into the hallway, into the rain. My heart is still pounding, but there’s a strange relief under the tension, a weight lifted, a promise kept. The city feels different now, less like a battlefield, more like home.
Nikola claps me on the shoulder as we reach the car. “You did good,” he says quietly.
I let out a long, shaky breath. “Wasn’t looking for glory.”
“Never are,” he answers, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’re the one they call when it needs to be finished.”
We pull away, the lights of the brownstone fading behind us. I watch the city roll by, each block a little brighter. I think about Eden, about the world we’re building—one problem, one threat at a time.
I sink back in the seat, letting the exhaustion settle.
“It’s done,” I whisper to myself, to the city, to the ghosts we leave behind. “We’re safe. For now.”
Nikola glances at me, a small smile ghosting his mouth. “For now.”
The rain blurs the windows, and for the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe. There’s no glory in this work, but there’s peace. That’s enough.