23. Audra
Vegas looks different at this hour. Not the glittering, larger-than-life version they sell you.
Not the one from postcards or movies. The other one.
The real one. The one filled with drunken tourists stumbling along the sidewalks, arms slung around each other, heels in hand, ties loosened, voices too loud for the hour.
Some are laughing. Some are arguing. Most are just trying to find their way back to rooms they barely remember booking.
Gabe is on the phone beside me, keeping his voice low, controlled. Telling someone he's going to be late. Men like him don't explain. They inform. Outside, the party is ending. Or maybe just shifting. The city's guests are heading to bed. The city itself is waking up.
Plastic yard-long cups litter the sidewalks. Neon-colored leftovers—half-melted daiquiris, watered-down margaritas. Cheap beer still sloshing inside something someone paid twenty dollars for an hour ago. Now it's just trash. In between it all, people.
A man sprawled across a bench, unmoving.
Too drunk to stand. Or maybe he has nowhere to go.
A woman with smeared mascara and tangled hair walks past, barefoot, one hand clutching her dress like it might fall apart if she lets go.
Walk of shame, maybe. Or just… survival.
Hard to tell the difference out here. Taxis glide by, one after another, but it's quieter now.
The chaos has thinned. What's left feels…
exposed. Like an old whore without her makeup.
I press my forehead lightly against the cool glass.
I feel numb. Just… numb. My stomach twists again.
Everything feels wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too normal.
I can still feel it. The resistance of bone under metal.
The sound. Shit, that awful sound. I swallow hard, pressing my lips together as if that will help to hold it in, as if that will stop it from crawling back up my throat.
My fingers tighten instinctively, and that's when I realize Gabe is holding my hand.
And I'm letting him. I don't pull away. I should.
I know I should. But right now… I don't have the strength.
Or maybe I just don't want to be alone in my own head.
Because the second I am, I see it again. Pete. Tied to that chair. Blood everywhere. His fingers—fingers?—
My stomach lurches. I squeeze my eyes shut. That wasn't me. It couldn't have been. I don't do things like that. I don't hurt people. I don't?—
A shaky breath leaves me. But I did. Didn't I? And that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that for a second… I didn't hesitate. There was no pause. No horror. No me stepping in to stop it. Just action. Just violence.
Like it had always been there. Waiting.
That thought hits me like a slap. My eyes snap open.
No. No, that's not true. That was grief.
Shock. Rage. Anyone would have done the same.
Wouldn't they? I don't know anymore. I just don't know.
All I know is that when I looked at that man, I didn't see him.
I saw Pete. Broken. Mutilated. Begging. And something inside me just… took over.
My free hand curls into my lap. I stare at it. Half-expecting to still see blood there. Half-expecting it to want to do it again. God… what if that's who I am now? What if I can't go back?
"I think I'm going to be sick," I murmur.
Gabe's thumb moves slightly over my hand. Slow. Grounding.
"You won't," he pronounces quietly. Like it's a fact. Like he's decided it for me.
For some unfathomable reason, that helps. A little. I lean my head back against the seat. Breathe. In. Out. Focus. On the things I need to do. Real things. Normal things.
"I need to call the bank," my voice sounds steadier now. "And the vet. Mom's cats?—"
My throat tightens. Pete was the one who always reminded me of these things. Handled things. Grounded me. A sharp ache cuts through my chest.
"And…" I swallow. "The funeral."
The word feels foreign. Wrong. Like it doesn't belong in my life.
"I need to call Kelly," I add quietly. "She'll know what to do."
Silence settles for a beat. Then I turn my head. Look at Gabe. He's calm. Focused. Like none of this touches him. Like death is just… part of the day.
"Have you heard anything from the cops?" I ask. My voice wavers slightly. "I need to… to get Pete's funeral arranged."
Saying it out loud makes it real. Too real. My fingers tighten in his again. And this time, I don't even pretend it's an accident.
"You don't need to worry about any of that," Gabe assures me, calm as ever. "It'll be handled."
Handled. Like Pete's life. Like his death. Like everything can just be… taken care of. Before I can respond, my phone rings. Mom. I answer immediately.
"Mom?"
"Where are you?" she demands. No hello. No hesitation. "They're letting me go. Come and get me. I need to see my cats."
I close my eyes for a second, then I glance at Gabe. He's already watching me. Already listening. He nods at me, having overheard Mom. It's hard not to, even when the phone isn't on speaker. He leans forward and murmurs something to the driver. The car shifts direction.
"We're on our way," I tell her.
I hear a sharp inhale. "So it's we now?" her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Pete's body isn't even cold."
The words hit like a slap. Sharp, mean, and unfair.
My hand rips out of Gabe's without me even realizing I'm doing it.
His fingers tighten for half a second—like he might hold on—then he lets me go.
I don't look at him. I can't. My head is pounding.
I don't have space for this. Not now. Not from her.
"Mom—"
"Whoever killed Pete is after me now," she cuts in, her voice rising, frantic, but still edged with accusation. "What kind of trouble did you get us all into?"
My stomach drops. That familiar twist. Guilt. Anger. Exhaustion. All crashing together.
"Wasn't it enough that Pete was killed?" she continues. "Now you want me dead too?"
Something in my chest cracks. Not clean. Jagged. Painful.
"I didn't do anything," I defend myself, but even to my own ears it sounds weak. Hollow. Like I'm trying to convince myself more than her. Because what did I do? What didn't I see? Pete?—
God, Pete?—
My throat tightens. I force the words out anyway. "I'm coming to get you," I say, firmer now. "Just… wait there."
She huffs something under her breath. Something about cats.
About how no one listens. Then hangs up.
Silence fills the car. Heavy. Thick. I stare at the phone in my hand.
My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen.
Gabe doesn't say anything. But I can feel it.
The shift in him. The tension. The judgment he's not voicing.
It hangs there, thick and heavy between us. Unspoken.
"She's not always like that," I defend her quietly.
I don't even know why I say it. Maybe because I need him to understand. Maybe because I need someone to.
"Uh-huh." That's all he says.
Flat. Unconvinced. I swallow. Look back out the window.
Pete would have said something. Something light.
Something that made it easier. He always did.
He had a way of… diffusing her. Calming her when she got like this.
And when he couldn't, he'd look at me. Just a glance.
A tiny shift of his mouth. And I'd know.
We're in this together. My heart lurches painfully in my chest. Shit.
I miss him. Not just the big things. But the small things.
The teamwork. The quiet understanding. The way we handled her together.
Now it's just me. And I don't feel like enough.
The car pulls up to the hospital. We don't even have to get out. The doors slide open, and there she is. Two men, Mario and Jack, I assume, on either side of her. Like bodyguards. Like she's someone important. Which, to her, she is. She beams at them. Actually beams.
"Oh, you two are just wonderful," she gushes, patting one of their arms. "Such nice young men."
She hugs them. Like they're old friends. Like she didn't just tear me apart over the phone five minutes ago. No good morning. No, are you okay? Nothing when she slides into the car. Settles in and looks around.
"How are my cats?"
Of course, that's the first thing. I close my eyes for a second.
Just one. Because there it is. That look.
That tight, pursed expression around her lips.
The one I know too well. The one that means she's already decided how this is going to go.
Her presence fills the car. Consumes it.
Suddenly, there's less oxygen. Like everything has to make room for her.
I feel myself shrink just a little. Instinct.
Old habit. I hate that. I straighten slightly. Force myself not to fold.
"They're fine," I tell her, keeping my voice even. "They have food. Water."
She nods, but I can tell she's already dissatisfied. Already finding fault.
Beside me, Gabe says nothing. But I can feel him. Watching. Taking it all in. Every word. Every shift. Every crack.
Mom talks the entire way back. She always does that, unable to stand the silence, making me wonder if she's trying to escape her own head.
Sometimes at night, I can hear her talking to herself, and good grief, it's like a sieve with leaks.
Totally random and all over the place. Her mind has to be a tornado of unfinished thoughts.
Or maybe she's just trying to avoid being forced to think about anything but herself and her cats.
"My kidneys hurt," she complains for what feels like the tenth time. "I told those idiots to only give me half of that contrast concoction. Now it's all in my system. It'll take weeks before I feel normal again."
I nod, having heard it all before. "Mm-hm."
"I have no energy left," she continues. "None. Completely drained. And that food, don't even get me started. Disgusting. I barely touched it."
"Okay."
"They don't know what they're doing. None of them. Just pushing pills and tests like they get paid per procedure."
"Maybe—"
"I told them?—"
Her voice keeps going. And going. And going.
A steady stream of I and my and me that fills every inch of the car.
There's no space left. Not for me. Not for Pete.
Not for anything real. I answer where expected.
Little things. Automatic. Because no one else is.
Because someone has to. Gabe says nothing.
I don't dare look at him. I don't want to see it.
The regret. The second thoughts. Why the hell did I bring these two into my life?
I swallow hard. Because honestly? I wouldn't blame him if he stopped the car right here and kicked us out.
My mind starts running again. Faster now.
Louder. We can't go home. Not with the cartel.
Not with what happened. But I've got to go back to work.
I have to. Bills don't just… disappear. The hospital…
oh God. A private room. Tests. Doctors. Machines.
How much is that going to cost? More than I make in a year?
Two? I feel it then. The pressure. Closing in from all sides.
Money. Pete. Mom. The cartel. Everything. All at once. Too much. Way too much?—
I press my lips together. Try to breathe. But it's like the air is getting thinner. Like the car is shrinking. Like… A hand closes around mine. Warm. Strong. Certain. I freeze. Look down. Gabe.
His fingers engulf my hand fully. He's not asking.
A slow squeeze. Not tight. Just… there. Solid.
Grounding. And just like that, something inside me cracks.
My vision blurs. Tears burn behind my eyes.
I blink hard. Once. Twice. But they don't go away.
I don't pull my hand back. I can't. Right now, that hand is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
By the time we reach the casino, I feel like I'm held together by threads.
Thin ones. The kind that snaps if you pull too hard.
Gabe doesn't let go of my hand until we're inside.
All through the casino, Mom huffs beside me.
I keep supporting her elbow, stopping every so often to give her a break.
Past people who stare at him, at us. At whatever it is we must look like right now.
A broken woman. A man who looks like he owns the world.
Or could burn it down. We don't stop until we're upstairs.
Safe. Or at least… safer. He turns to me.
"I have to go to a meeting," he explains, back to his controlled, distant tone.
The one that doesn't belong to the man who held my hand a few seconds ago.
"But I have men here. You'll be safe." His hand rests on my lower back.
The contact is warm and electric in a way it shouldn't be.
In a way I shouldn't be aware of the hand of another man on me.
"Mauro is here. If you need anything, you tell him." I nod. Because what else is there to do? "Call the kitchen," he adds. "They'll bring up whatever you want."
Mom is already moving past us, talking about tea, about blankets, about how cold she still is.
I barely hear her. Because Gabe hasn't moved.
He's still standing in front of me. Watching me.
Trying to read my expression, which I'm sure is that of utter exhaustion.
My breath stops when his hand lifts. His knuckles brush under my chin.
Tilting my face up. His thumb moves against my cheek.
Soft. Too soft for a man like him. Too intimate for a man I barely know.
"It'll be okay," he promises quietly.
I don't know where he draws his confidence from, but I wish I had some of it. I take a slow breath and watch him return to the elevator.