Chapter 24 #2
Sloane listens intently as I continue.
"The war started in '78. The Callahans executed my father's older brother over a disputed gambling territory.
Three weeks of bloodshed followed. Twenty-seven dead across both families.
Finally, a truce was negotiated by the Commission—the old Italian families who still controlled most of the city back then. "
I flex my bare fingers in the firelight.
"My father became head of the family in '95.
He modernized everything. Legitimate businesses, political connections, international trade.
Made it harder for the feds to touch us.
The Callahans adapted too, but there's always been bad blood.
This fighting ring partnership was the first real collaboration in decades. "
Her phone buzzes again – a text this time. She pulls it out, reads it, then frowns.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"It's Lucas again," she says, confusion evident in her voice. "He wants to know exactly what Ethan told me. Says it's urgent."
I watch her reaction, noting the slight furrow of her brow. "He's pretty persistent."
"Yeah. I haven't told him everything yet. I've been meaning to, but..." She trails off, staring at the message. "I don't know why he's so insistent about it."
Her uncertainty strikes me as odd. It's natural for him to want updates, but something about her reaction suggests his behavior goes beyond normal concern.
"You trust him?" I ask, curious about her hesitation.
"Of course," she says immediately, but there's the faintest pause before she answers. "He's like family. Why wouldn't I trust him?"
I shrug, keeping it light. "No reason. Just seems like you're not sure about calling him back."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "It's complicated. I love Lucas, but sometimes... I don't know. It feels like we're not on the same page anymore."
The words hang in the air, revealing a strain in their friendship I hadn't fully noticed before. It makes me wonder what else is going on between them.
"Grief changes people," I say, giving her an easy out. "Sometimes in ways we don't expect."
She studies me for a moment.
"Just sort through your own grief before you worry about other people's. You can't tie up your guilt around your dog with guilt around your friend," I say. "Bear didn't die because of you. Maddy didn't die because of you."
"Didn't she?" she whispers.
"No. She died because someone made a choice. Not you."
And whoever it was, they'll pay for it. She doesn't see it because her eyes are all on the fire, but I mean every word.
"It's not your fault, Sloane."
She doesn't argue. Doesn't believe me either.
"Why do I feel like it is?"
She glances up, searching my face for something I don't know if I can give her. Reassurance, maybe. Or an answer. Something solid and real.
She lets out a long breath, a soft sound that tugs at me, makes me feel the things she doesn't say.
She can't say it, but I know what she means. What if she never finds out what happened? What if Maddy's death hangs over her like the dog's, like a sentence without parole?
I think of how determined she is, how this search for truth drives her. It's admirable and concerning all at once. She's diving deeper into dangers she doesn't fully understand, and I'm not sure if I can protect her from all of them.
I pull off one glove, then the other. The leather is soft and worn, like a second skin. She watches me, curious. No one ever sees them come off. No one sees me without them.
The significance of what I'm doing weighs on me like a physical pressure.
These gloves aren't just accessories. They're a barrier between me and the world, a constant reminder of the violence my hands are capable of.
They've been my shield and my prison for years, keeping me isolated, keeping me separate from normal human connection.
Taking them off now, with Sloane watching, feels like stepping out naked into a blizzard. I'm exposed, vulnerable in a way I haven't allowed myself to be since I first put them on. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I wonder if she can hear it, if she knows what this means.
"You never take those off," she says, her eyes on my bare hands, surprised.
"They're not for warmth."
My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Raw. Honest.
"Then what?"
I stare at my hands, my past an echo in every line. Knuckles still bruised. Fingers that broke a man's jaw last week and shook the first time I ever ended a life. The memory burns like the fire in front of us.
"My first job for the family… I was nineteen," I say, hearing the chill in my own voice. "The guy wasn't much older. He fought back. I had to finish it with my hands. Cold."
The memory floods back, vivid and sharp. The narrow alley, the scent of rain on concrete, the look of dawning horror in the man's eyes as he realized what was about to happen. The way my hands trembled afterward, not from fear, but from the shock of how easy it had been.
I flex my fingers, remembering. I hold my hands out, feeling the heat of the fire, remembering the cold that night.
A hit in December. Against a guy who owed stacks of money and thought he was king enough not to pay up.
I stare at my fingers, the same fingers that cracked in the cold, the same fingers that cracked his skin.
The crack of the fire echoes in the room, and the silence booms louder than her questions did before.
She doesn't flinch. That alone undoes something in me.
Like maybe she could take all the ugly history, the worst parts of me, and hold them close, cradle them in those unflinching hands.
She absorbs my story like she absorbs the warmth from the fire, like she might even expect something worse.
Maybe she should. But she stays steady, and the wild, hopeful part of me thinks I could get used to her being here, to her not looking away.
Her calm is a challenge, and I meet it with all the things I've never told.
No one has seen me this exposed since Alisa, and that ended in flames. Alisa had thought she wanted the bad boy, the danger, until she actually saw what that meant. She'd looked at my hands, these same hands, with horror, with disgust, when she realized what they'd done.
But Sloane is looking at them like they're just hands. Imperfect, scarred, but not monstrous. Not beyond redemption.
"They shook after. Not from fear. From adrenaline. From how… alive it made me feel."
I look up. She's still watching.
"I started wearing gloves so I wouldn't forget what I'm capable of."
"Are you scared of your hands?" she asks softly.
"No."
Yes.
"I'm scared of what I'll do if I stop pretending they're clean."
She leans in. Gentle. Stupid. Brave.
"They don't look dirty to me," she says.
Her fingers slide over mine. Slow. Careful. I let her.
She's the only person alive I'd let touch me like this. The only one who might not burn from it.
"Don't look at me like that," I say.
"Like what?" she asks, edging closer.
Soft, stupid, brave.
"Like I'm not a monster."
Her fingers lace through mine. They are warm. Steady. Unafraid.
"I don't think monsters stay up all night to protect people who've already lost too much."
The words hit harder than they should.
I've lived in shadows. I've killed in silence. I've worn the gloves, the mask, the role. But tonight, wrapped in firelight and her goddamn kindness, I feel human. And it terrifies me.
Sloane isn't looking at me like I'm something to be afraid of. She's looking at me like I might be worth saving. The thought is both terrifying and intoxicating. No one's ever looked at me like that before, like they see the darkness and aren't running away.
I feel naked under her gaze, stripped of all my defenses. And the strangest part is, I don't want to put them back on. I don't want to go back to being untouchable, unreachable. Not with her.
"I've never..." I start, then stop, the words catching in my throat. "No one sees me without them."
Her hand tightens around mine, a gentle pressure that anchors me to this moment, to her.
I've spent years making sure no one could see me, the real me, beneath the Rosetti name, beneath the violence and the fear. And here she is, this slip of a woman, with her nightmares and her guilt and her unrelenting kindness, looking right through all my defenses like they're made of glass.
It should make me want to run. It should make me pull away, put the gloves back on, rebuild all the walls I've spent years reinforcing. But instead, I find myself holding her hand tighter, letting her warmth seep into skin that hasn't felt another's touch in too long.
This is dangerous. More dangerous than any job I've ever done, any fight I've ever fought. Because if I let her in, if I let myself believe she could accept all of me, and then she leaves...
I'm not sure I could put the gloves back on again.