Chapter 15
Roxy
The sun is lowering when I finally work up the nerve to leave the house. It’s mostly empty; our things are still back in Cambridge being packed up, but Andi has taken to the room that will be hers. She’s obsessed with the purple walls and deciding where to put her bed.
Late afternoon light glints off the hood of my SUV as I pull away from the driveway, but all I can feel is my grip tightening on the steering wheel.
My palms are damp. I roll my shoulders once, twice, trying to loosen the knot of tension lodged under my collarbone.
My phone pings, and a text from Dima comes through.
Andi is with him for a few hours, as a favor, even though he’s off the clock.
She calls him “Uncle D,” which seems to confuse and delight him all at once.
As I drive the short ten minutes into town, Mak’s face keeps flashing through my mind.
Not the anger, though that’s there too, sharp and bright and terrifying. It’s the moment after.
When the fury cracked, and for half a second, something like hurt flashed across his face. It was something I hadn’t expected. It made him more human than I’ve ever seen him before.
I wish I hadn’t seen it.
No, that’s a lie. I wish I didn’t feel anything because of it.
“That’s what you get for telling him,” I mutter under my breath, taking the turn into town a little too quickly.
The tires squeal faintly against the asphalt, and I ease off the gas.
I just got the brakes changed along with the seized caliber that apparently gave up after the drive back from Cambridge. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”
But the truth sits bitter on my tongue: I couldn’t keep it from him. The moment he demanded answers, the moment Andrea’s name left his mouth—my instincts, my nerves, whatever it was told me to tell him the truth. Lying to Mak feels like stepping off a cliff.
Maybe a part of me wanted him to know.
I hate that.
“Get it together, Roxy,” I whisper, forcing a breath out.
The small downtown appears through the windshield, all quaint storefronts and weathered wooden signs.
Tourists drift along the sidewalks with their ice cream and shopping bags.
A couple of fishermen laugh beside their trucks, loading gear.
Ordinary life goes on, completely unaware that a Bratva boss’s temper is circulating through my bloodstream like adrenaline.
I park outside the little cafe, the one with the mismatched patio furniture and hand-painted menu board.
The bell above the door jingles when I push inside.
Cool air washes over me—coffee, vanilla, something baked recently.
The girl behind the counter smiles with the uncomplicated friendliness of someone who doesn’t know what I’ve stepped out of.
I envy her.
“Just a small iced coffee,” I say, my voice raspier than usual.
“No problem!” she chirps.
I take a seat by the window, sliding into a corner booth. My pulse is still too high, and I place my phone face down on the table to stop myself from obsessively checking it. Andi is fine. If she’s safe with anyone, it’s Dima.
Mak would likely kill for her. The thought sneaks in, unbidden, and along with it a sense of relief and pride.
I take another sip of the cold coffee, chastising myself; I should not find it reassuring that the father of my child would go on a killing spree if need be. Or maybe all mothers feel that way?
My phone buzzes. I flinch so hard the straw in my coffee trembles.
The message preview glows on the screen. Just Mak’s name. Just that word—Makari, bold like a dare.
My fingers hesitate a moment before I flip it open.
Mak: We’ll talk about this later. Keep Andrea close. I don’t care that she’s a girl, as long as she’s mine.
My breath catches.
God, he’s infuriating.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. Who says that? Who phrases things like that? Possessive. Arrogant. Commanding. And yet—
And yet the protectiveness in it hits somewhere I don’t want to acknowledge. It aches deep in my chest. Does he mean it? In the woods earlier today, it sounded like he did care that she was a girl, a daughter.
He doesn’t text like a boss. He texts like… like something else. Something that scares me in a different way.
I stare at the message for too long. My heart tightens, softens, and flips. I’ve spent years training myself not to feel like this.
“Nope,” I whisper. “We are not doing this.”
I flip the phone face down again.
A part of me wants to text back something biting, something sarcastic. Another part wants to say thank you. Another part—god help me—wants to call him. Hear his voice. Hear whatever tone comes after that hurt I saw in his eyes.
Instead, I sip my iced coffee mechanically and try to breathe. The cafe is easy noise around me. Cups clinking, laughter, a barista calling out drinks. All the normalcy I should feel safe in. But inside I’m fracturing.
Mak is my boss. And he’s dangerous. He shouldn’t be texting me at all, much less texting me things that make my stomach twist.
He shouldn’t look at me the way he does. Or make me feel the way I feel.
So why do I feel like I want more?
“Oh God,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead with my palms. “This is a disaster.”
When the coffee is half gone, I force myself to get up and leave before I can spiral anymore. The hardware store is only a block away, and I need a few things—nails, screws, maybe a small toolbox. The new house needs some touch-ups, and working with my hands always helps clear my mind.
The bell chimes as I enter, and I’m comforted by the dusty smell, the quiet aisles, the simple certainty of things like bolts and paint samples. I move toward the back of the store, picking up a basket. The cashier introduces himself.
“Bruce Romero, nice to meet you, miss.” He points me in the direction of some basic tool kits, and I turn.
Then something catches my eye.
Movement across the street.
Eric.
My throat goes tight. He’s in the alley behind a row of shops, his posture tense.
And he’s not alone. A man stands with him—a man in an immaculate dark suit that doesn’t belong in this small town.
Tall. Sharp. Predatory. He looks almost like Mak’s counterpart, but city-slick and lean where Mak is broad and rugged.
My heartbeat stutters.
Eric’s hands move as he talks—no, argues. His face is flushed, maybe from the warm afternoon. But I remember back when we’d argue, when he’d go in on me for having an extra mouthful of dessert or another beer with friends.
Then the man removes his suit jacket with a slow, deliberate motion.
The next moment happens too fast and too slow all at once: The man grabs Eric by the throat. Eric’s back slams against the brick wall. His boots scrape against the pavement. His hands claw at the fingers around his throat, but the man doesn’t budge.
I freeze. My breath lodges in my chest.
Oh God. Oh God.
This can’t be happening. Eric is law enforcement. He walks around town like he owns it. And yet—
He’s being manhandled like he’s nothing.
Panic prickles up my spine. I half-turn back toward the counter. Bruce is watching me with worried eyes.
“Do you need something else, miss?” he asks, and for a heartbeat I almost point to what’s happening across the street. But something deep inside, something that wriggles at the wrongness of the sight, makes me stop.
“No—I—I’m fine,” I stammer, glancing back toward the window.
Outside, the man lifts Eric even higher, forcing him onto his toes. He’s disturbingly strong for looking so tall and thin. Words are exchanged—quiet, but clearly venomous from the way the stranger bares his teeth. Eric’s face is turning red, then purple around the edges.
“Call someone,” I whisper to myself. “Should I call someone?”
But who?
Eric is the someone you call in Bar Harbor. Eric is the police. If he’s the one getting threatened, if he is the one being handled like a problem. What the hell is going on?
My fingers hover over my phone, trembling. I should call Mak. All it would take is double-tapping on the last text he sent me.
No. No, absolutely not. That’s crossing a boundary I can’t afford to cross right now.
And yet…is this something he should know about? Would he want to know? Would he expect me to tell him, the way everyone else who works for him vomits information the moment they see him?
The man finally releases Eric.
Eric doubles over, coughing violently, grasping his throat with both hands. The suited man puts his jacket back on with eerie calm. No haste. No guilt. Just smooth, practiced movements.
He says one more thing—something unmistakably threatening—before turning and walking away like he didn’t nearly strangle a cop in broad daylight.
Eric stays hunched over for several long seconds. Then, he slowly looks up.
And sees me.
His eyes lock onto mine through the hardware store window. It hits me like a physical blow—the hatred and shame.
My breath catches, and I step backward instinctively, colliding with a display of bird feeders. They clatter, and the Bruce calls out again, but I’m already turning, ducking into the nearest aisle, heart pounding so hard I can taste metal.
I need to get out.
I abandon the basket on a shelf and walk briskly toward the exit, swallowing down panic, swallowing down the guilt that isn’t mine to carry. Outside, the air feels heavy and oppressive against my lungs. My hands shake as I dig my keys out of my purse.
Should I tell Mak?
The question churns through me like something acidic.
He told me to keep Andrea close. He told me we’d talk later. He told me—
No.
I stop at the door of my SUV, my hand frozen on the handle.
Boundaries.
I need boundaries with him. Need to hold something of myself back before he takes everything. Before I give everything.
I won’t tell him, not yet. Not until we talk about Andrea and what this means, and what she needs. That’s the most important thing.
Taking a deep breath, I get into the car, shut the door, and let the silence envelop me like a too-tight blanket.
Eric is in trouble. Mak is furious. Andrea is depending on me. And I am sitting here, gripping the steering wheel again, wondering how my life became so tangled. Coming here was supposed to fix things.
Sadness floods through me, sudden and heavy. For Eric, for myself, for the life I thought I’d be building. For the man I shouldn’t want and can’t ignore. For the truth that is slowly strangling my sense of normal.
I pull out of the parking spot and drive, the sunset bleeding across the sky like something wounded.
And for the first time in years, I feel hollow.
Small.
And very, very alone.