Chapter 17
LOUIS
Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. — Jean-Jacques Rousseau
It was D-Day.
I wasn’t excited about it.
Tempest seemed even more nervous than I was and just as confused. We had a joint alliance and everything relied on me getting in and not getting killed on the spot.
“Try not to be yourself too much.” Tempest exhaled a shaky breath. “You talk a lot, it might get on their nerves.”
“Does it get on yours?”
“I hate the silence.”
“I know.”
“Being alone with your own thoughts is pure torture to me. The house will be quiet without you cursing and talking to yourself.”
I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, I’ll be back. If you want to greet me naked or with a silk robe on, I won’t be mad.”
She ignored me. “The meeting can last up to three hours. Make it through whatever weird testing process they have and come back to me.”
The car pulled to a stop.
It was right on the water, a warehouse, typical, stupid. “It’s like a bad mob movie.”
“Get out.” She grinned. “It’s not the warehouse, it’s the Chinese restaurant across the way. I parked farther down just in case.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I opened the door. “See you after school.”
TEMPEST
“Make good choices.” I tried to joke but I meant it.
I hoped he understood that I was at least mildly concerned about how all of this was going to go.
I wanted to have this completely dissociative like persona, but I cared.
I did care. Even if he cared about my sister more than he ever would me, he was still a human I was sending into a shitty situation and a human I genuinely didn’t hate, which was progress.
Plus, he saw through a lot of the pretense.
And I didn’t realize until Louis—how much it mattered that someone took the time to do exactly that.
“Never.” He winked over his shoulder. “Maybe they’ll let me have some extra credit, though, you think?”
“Fingers crossed.” I forced a smile even though I felt like I was going to puke.
Why was he doing this for me other than having something he wanted from them too. We were in this equally.
I wasn’t sending him to his death.
So why did those fourteen steps he took feel like they would be his last?
“Not him.” I didn’t know where the words came from or why they felt like they were being pried by some unseen force from my throat, but I was suddenly desperate to beg the universe.
I never begged.
But not Louis.
Keep him safe.
Please.
My life probably depended on his success as much as his did—we were, after all, married and the Vescovis didn’t like outsiders.
If he messed up, the only thing standing between my own death would be my family stepping up to protect me, but you can only stand behind the shield of the five families for so long, and one had to wonder, at what point did they finally turn their backs on you?
Would there be a time when my dad didn’t pick up the call?
When I’d taken things too far?
Was I already past that point the minute I hooked up with Cassian? Was he heartless enough to destroy me with one flash drive?
Probably.
But he knew what he was doing, and all of this came back to Louis.
He was the key here, not me. I wasn’t that stupid. Cassian needed it to be Louis, not me who infiltrated, he needed him—it was the only thing that made me think he would walk out of there alive.
That those fourteen steps wouldn’t be his last.
Was it a bad omen that I’d even counted them?
I ignored the feel of my stomach.
The restaurant’s overhead lights flickered.
Louis made it to the door before hesitating. He pulled his long black peacoat tighter across his body and glanced over his shoulder at me one more time.
Of course it had started to rain.
Not a gentle drizzle—real rain. Heavy. Sudden.
The kind that turned the world into smeared watercolor and blurred the line between us until he was more shadow than man.
Lake Michigan loomed behind the building, black and restless, waves slapping against the shore like they were impatient for something to surface.
How had we gone from complete strangers—each with our own agenda—to this?
This strange, fragile moment that felt like a goodbye dressed up as something temporary.
I nodded once. I wasn’t even sure he could see it through the rain and the steam rising off the pavement, but he nodded back like he had. Then he smiled. Not charming. Not flippant.
Pretty. Soft. Dangerous.
And he turned and walked into the restaurant.
The door shut behind him with a muted thud, red lantern light swallowing him whole.
The rain kept coming.
I kicked the SUV back into gear and pulled away, my chest tight, my hands shaking just enough to piss me off.
I didn’t know how long I drove. Long enough to pass our shared house without slowing.
Long enough for the roads to empty and the city to thin out until it felt like I was driving through the ribs of something hollow.
Eventually, I ended up at the cemetery.
I’d never talked to anyone about this. Not really.
Maybe because it felt ridiculous—confessing fear and desperation over someone who was gone.
But he was who I talked to even though he was gone.
If he were here he’d recognize the kind of desperation that makes people do unthinkable things.
The kind that convinces you there are worse options than insanity.
I parked.
The rain softened as I grabbed an umbrella and walked deeper onto the property, gravel crunching under my boots, the air thick with wet earth and old stone. The world felt hushed here, like even the storm knew to lower its voice.
I stopped in front of his gravestone.
And for the first time since Louis walked through that door, I let myself feel afraid.
And for the first time since his death.
I cried.
“Hey, Grandpa Frank.”
I barely got his name out before I broke. I always did when I came here. Always. The tears hit fast and humiliating, my chest tightening as if grief had been waiting patiently for me to show up.
He’d passed a few years ago. Everyone kept it quiet—or at least they thought they did. My dad took it the hardest. But I remember the night like it was yesterday.
A rock hit my window.
I bolted upright, heart pounding, already reaching for my gun—until I saw him standing in the yard like he owned the darkness.
Grandpa Frank.
He was dressed in full gear. And by gear, I mean a three-piece suit—because seeing him in shorts would’ve caused a family-wide medical emergency.
His black scarf was wrapped snug around his neck, his hat pulled low over his brow.
Cane in hand, he lifted it in warning, like get out here before I use this.
I changed fast and ran outside.
“Grandpa,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Looking at the moon. Thought you could use some company.”
I laughed. “It’s three in the morning.”
He turned toward the back porch and started walking. “I doubt you were sleeping. Too much going on in that head of yours. Always thinking. Always reacting like you don’t have a thought in your head when the problem is—you’ve got too many, Tempest.”
How did he know?
Sometimes I think he was the only one who really saw me. Even more than my sister.
He sat in one of the patio chairs, and I slumped into the chair beside him.
“I got straight A’s again.”
He grinned. “Good. You proud of yourself?”
Not really.
“I’m bored.”
He sat facing the unlit fire pit. I flicked it on, the flames jumping to life in front of us. “I mean, I know I’m lucky. Money. Power. Prestige. Blah, blah, blah. But I want something that’s mine. Something that isn’t tied to the family.”
He nodded slowly. “Mmm. And what would you do if you could do anything?”
I tilted my head. “No one’s ever asked me that.”
“I’m not no one.”
I smiled. “Okay. Take this to your grave.”
He chuckled. “Might be sooner than you think.”
I bit my lower lip. “I want to be made.”
His eyes widened.
“Hear me out,” I rushed on. “I’m just as good as the guys. Hand-to-hand. Grappling. I could be—like a black widow or something. I’d be good at it. If Dad would just—”
Grandpa burst out laughing.
“Oh, I have to be there when you tell him,” he said between cackles. “Might claim it’s my dying wish.” He slapped his knee. “Best day of my damn life. A black widow. Hell, what’s stopping you? Go out there and bite, little girl. Take a big ol’ bite out of life.”
He laughed harder, then softened. “Best decision I ever made was having kids. And grandkids.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m thirteen. I highly doubt he’s going to be thrilled with this career path.”
Grandpa shrugged. “Then he can take it up with me.”
He pulled me into a hug, warm and solid and safe.
“You could collect bugs for the rest of your life and I’d still be proud of you,” he said quietly. “Do what makes you feel alive, honey. Do what makes you brave.”