Chapter 5
I drive with my hands clenched around the wheel, the gears of my mind spinning just as fast as the wheels on my car. My thoughts are a chaotic jumble of bullets, mafia wars, and—God help me—my father’s legacy.
Of course, I’m headed straight to Stacie’s.
I’ve known her for four years now, ever since I moved to Seattle. We hit it off instantly, both escaping the pressures of the world by getting lost in coffee shops and the pages of a book. I was there, plugging away at my next manuscript, and she was there, reading one of my previous books—unaware that the woman she was reading was sitting right across from her.
I still haven’t told her my real name. Four years of friendship, and I’ve let it go on like this. She only knows me as Dela Montgomery.
I’ve felt bad about it, honestly. I planned on telling her after I knew she was trustworthy, but the timing just never felt right. Then, after so long, it seemed weird. So, I just let it go. And now, here I am, driving to her place without a clue how to explain my real life. The one I left behind.
I call her as soon as I clear my street, my hands trembling as I pull up her contact.
“Stacie,” I say, trying to keep the edge of panic out of my voice.
“Oh my God, what’s happening over there? Where are you? The neighborhood app says there are gunshots near you,” she practically shouts through the phone. “Are you okay?”
My heavy sigh fills the car. “It’s... it’s just so bizarre. You’re never going to believe this.”
I begin running through everything, starting with Mr. Mediocre Marty. (I know that is not right. We’re moving on.)
I’m still in shock, but I know I need someone to process all this with, and Stacie is the only person I’ve trusted to be real with me—no matter how much I’ve kept from her.
By the time I pull into her driveway, I’ve just finished the part about the delivery guy getting a smoking hole in his head because my ex-fiancé shot him.
I can’t shake the images of blood, gunfire, and chaos, no matter how hard I blink.
Stacie greets me at the door, eyes wide with concern. “What the hell, Delaney?” she asks before pulling me inside and yanking the curtains shut.
“So, this whole time, you had no idea your dad was a crime lord? That’s so fucked up.”
“You’re telling me. And now I’m the head of his mafia empire.” I barely register the words as I say them, but somehow, they sound so much worse coming out loud. “Like, go eat shit, dude.”
Stacie looks at me, unblinking, before she pulls me into a hug. “This is insane. This is… unbelievable.”
“I know,” I mutter into her shoulder. “I’m still processing all of it.”
She pulls back and looks me up and down, her eyes assessing. “And you’re still here...in one piece?”
“For now,” I say, trying to hold my own, though I’m secretly shaking inside.
“You’re not doing this alone,” she says fiercely, her voice sharp. “We’re going to figure this out.”
Stacie’s kitchen feels strangely calm, like the world outside doesn’t exist—even though everything inside my head is a fucking dumpster fire. She’s standing at the counter, the kettle whistling as she prepares tea like we don’t have an entire mafia conspiracy unfolding just blocks away.
I’m so lucky to have a friend like her. There’s a literal gunfight going on because of me, and as soon as I get here, she just says, “What the hell, De…laney?”
Delaney.
The way my real name rolls off her tongue is like a pinball ricocheting around my brain. Not Dela. Delaney.
I freeze, setting my spoon down with a soft clink.
“So,” Stacie says casually, pouring tea like it’s nothing, “what’s it like being the Caputo heiress?”
Another name she shouldn’t know.
The walls of the kitchen suddenly feel too small, the air too thick. My mind starts to race—what else does she know? How long has she known? Why didn’t she say anything?
A wave of heat runs down my body. A bead of sweat follows it down my back.
Oh my god, what if she is some kind of mafia spy, hired by my father to keep a secret eye on me. Or worse, what if she’s here to kill me?
My father’s words echo in my head, speaking to me as if he were here, a voice I’ve tried hard not to think about for a long time: Trust no one.
I glance at the tea she made. The creamy surface has settled now, but a thin, oily sheen floats on top.
Um, that looks suspicious. Especially when I see Stacie has no tea.
“Dela, are you okay?” she asks, using my pen name this time.
The curtains are drawn. I can’t see out, and no one can see in. The music is playing too loud, muffling everything. Like the sounds of a struggle.
Suddenly, the walls of the kitchen feel too small, the air too thick.
Am I overreacting? Probably not. Something deep inside me screams, Get out. Now .
“I just need to use the bathroom,” I say, forcing a laugh. “You know, splash some water on my face. Scream into a towel or something.” My throat is suddenly dry but I’m pretty certain there is poison in the tea… at minimum, some kind of drug to knock me out.
“Yeah, of course.” Her neck is flushed red, and I can see her pulse banging against her skin. She’s nervous. Fucking perfect, Delaney. You pick the best friends.
The second I’m out of sight, I head upstairs instead of using the downstairs bathroom. I skip the fifth stair—it squeaks—and slip into the bathroom.
This is stupid. You should’ve known better. You’ve been played.
But how could I have known? I realize just how dark the hole I’ve been kept in has really been. A whole other world has been existing around me on the other side of a veil that I can’t see through.
I need to think. And fast.
I slide quietly into the attached bedroom, glancing around quickly for something I can use as a weapon as I feel for my phone in my pocket. There is a faint squeak on the fifth stair. I freeze. Stacie freezes. Hell, the world freezes.
Shit.
Don’t panic, maybe I’m overreacting. I’m just jumpy and obviously my nerves are fried from the guy’s harassment and everything else. I’m sure she’s just coming to make sure I’m okay. Or to see if I need some toilet paper, or something. That makes sense, right?
…Right?
Stacie’s silhouette moves slowly up the stairs, but something about her posture—the shape of her shadow in the dim light—makes my stomach drop. It looks like she’s holding something, something–
No, that can’t be right. She can’t possibly...
Yep, she sure is. She is screwing a silencer to the end of a fucking gun.
Fuck.
Well, apparently she is not worried about the toilet paper.
Okay. This is happening. My best friend—who’s known me for four years—is about to kill me. No biggie. I got this.
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. Panic surges through me as I back away from the door and ducking into the closet. The cool wood scraping against my arm as I quietly slide inside. I can’t see anything in the dark, so I grab the nearest thing—a tennis racket? Really?
She has a silencer and I have…sports equipment. My heart is pounding in my ears as I clutch it tightly, both hands shaking as I wait, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching.
The silence stretches, and it feels like the air itself is holding its breath. Then I hear the knob turning. Just a fraction of an inch. She’s preparing herself. She knows I’m in here.
I imagine her on the other side of the door. Gun raised to the ceiling, hand on the knob getting ready to fling the door open.
I steady myself, every muscle in my body tensed and ready. The only sound I hear now is my own breath, shallow and fast, but I’m waiting. I’m ready for this bitch.
This is the moment. When she opens that door, it’s either me or her.
The door is wrenched open, light floods the small dark space and I don’t waste a second.
The racket connects with her throat in an uppercut. She stumbles back, choking, her gun flying out of her hand.
“Another point for me,” I mutter under my breath, adrenaline surging as I jump over her and stomp on her hand.
“Oh, sorry!” I call out without thinking.
Shut the fuck up, you dumbass. She’s trying to kill you, remember?
We’re not polite to people trying to kill us.
I make a break for the stairs, taking them too fast. My foot slips on the last one, and I barely catch myself on the banister. My phone, naturally, decides this is the perfect moment to shoot across the floor like it’s the main character at Disney On Ice.
I dive for it, but just as my hand wraps around the phone, I hear the unmistakable hiss of a bullet cutting through the air. It whizzes past my ear, so close that I can feel its heat.
At least she’s a lousy shot.
Clutching my phone, I glance around like a woman who definitely does not have a plan. My choices are limited: kitchen utensils or my questionable survival instincts. I grab the first thing I see—a whisk—and hurl it at her.
It misses. Barely.
“Shit!” I hiss, grabbing a set of tongs next. They make a satisfying clang as they sail past her head, but Stacie dodges again, then barely has time to avoid the butcher knife I sent flying end over end. Her face twisting into something feral.
The sound of a bullet splintering the kitchen island snaps me back to reality. She’s circling it, trying to corner me. I spot her reflection in the stainless-steel fridge. My options are dwindling fast.
Think, Delaney, think.
My eyes land on the pantry door, and I bolt for it. If I can make it through to the laundry room, I might have a chance to get to the garage.
“Please, please, please let me survive this,” I mutter under my breath like a mantra as I throw myself into the pantry and slam the door behind me.
I hear her footsteps pounding down the hall. She’s close—too close—and I can almost feel her hand reaching for me.
Just as I make it to the laundry room door, she grabs a fistful of my messy bun.
“Oh, fuck no,” I snap, twisting around and swinging the spatula I don’t remember grabbing.
The slap lands squarely on her cheek, leaving a red mark that’s equal parts ridiculous and satisfying.
“You fucking bitch,” she snarls, stumbling back.
“That’s right,” I sneer. “Don’t forget it.”
I make a run for the back door, praying I can escape this madness. My hand is stretching toward the doorknob when I’m yanked backward. Strong arms wrap around my waist, and a hand clamps over my mouth, silencing my scream.
Fucking Enzo.
“Let go of me,” I hiss, thrashing in his grip, but he’s got me pinned as he presses us both against the wall.
“Calm the fuck down,” he growls in my ear.
Calm down? There’s a fucking assassin in the room, and he wants me to calm down?
I’m about to shove my elbow into his ribs when Stacie stumbles into the kitchen, gun raised. Enzo sweeps his leg out, tripping her with the grace of a ballerina and the efficiency of a trained killer. She hits the floor hard, her gun clattering out of reach.
And then I notice Jax… on the fucking kitchen counter.
What in God’s name?
He’s standing on the counter like a man who has absolutely no business being there, hunched over as he pushes the fridge with all his weight.
I’m left frozen, watching the absurdity of it as Enzo keeps me in an iron hold.
The fridge tips, slow and deliberate, Jax rides it down until it crashes to the floor with a deafening bang.
There’s a sickening splatter of blood as the heavy appliance lands on Stacie’s head, cutting off her scream mid-shriek. The silence that follows is almost more horrifying than the chaos.
I stare at the scene, my mind blank. This cannot be real.
I may actually throw up.
Enzo’s hold is loosening. He thinks I’ve given up. Not a chance mother fucker! I was only stopping to be momentarily traumatized by seeing someone’s head get crushed and their brains ooze out.
Okay, that was too much. Let’s stop while we’re ahead.
I shove my head back into Enzo’s nose, the satisfying crunch of cartilage sending a jolt of adrenaline through me.
“Fuck!” he roars, releasing me, taken by surprise.
I spin around, driving my knee into his groin with all the force I can muster.
“And that’s for firing me,” I snap, a mixture of rage and satisfaction bubbling to the surface.
I sprint for the door, flinging it open and making a beeline for my car. Luca is leaning against a black SUV, arms crossed, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He wiggles his fingers at me in a lazy wave.
“Arrogant prick,” I mutter, flipping him the bird as I climb into my car. Huh, would you look at that. I still have the spatula.
I twist the key in the ignition. Nothing.
I try again. Nothing.
“Fucking Luca!” I slam my hands against the steering wheel, my frustration reaching its boiling point.
Enzo comes storming toward me, fuming. He might as well be a cartoon character—steam practically coming out of his ears.
“I don’t fucking think so,” I mutter, grabbing my bag and flinging the door open. I start to run, but I don’t make it two steps before Jax is in front of me, pushing me back against the car with his body. “Damn,” he drawls, his voice low and smooth. “I sure did miss you, Peaches.”
I shove my knee into his crotch. Hard.
“Miss this,” I snap, dropping my bag, I slap him across the face with the spatula. “Asshole!”
Slap.
“Ow!”
“Son of a bitch!” Slap.
“Mother—” Slap.
“Fucker!” Slap, slap, slap.
“Dammit, stop that!” he yells, throwing up his hands to shield himself. But I don’t stop. Not until my arm feels like it’s about to fall off.
Enzo grabs me around the waist, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing.
“Enough!” he barks, carrying me toward the SUV.
I kick, I scream, I thrash, but it’s no use. He throws me into the backseat like a rag doll. I lunge for the opposite door, but of course—child lock.
“Ugh! Really?” I mutter, rushing forward, trying to climb into the front seats.
Jax climbs in beside me, wrapping his thick arm around my waist and hauling me back. His face red and splotchy from my spatula assault and I grin with accomplishment. He tosses my bag into the back and yanks the spatula out of my hand.
“Give that back,” I snap, reaching for it.
“Not a chance in hell, Dels,” he says with a smirk. “That thing fucking hurts.”
“Good,” I mutter. “It’s the least you deserve.”
Jax grins like a kid who just got away with something. Luca and Enzo climb into the front, the SUV roaring to life as we peel out of the driveway.
I glance at Jax, who’s still smiling like an idiot.
“What are you so happy about?” I snap, my annoyance bubbling over.
His eyes meet mine, soft and teasing. “You’re still angry with me,” he says, his voice low.
“That means you still care.”
I pinch him hard, pushing him away. “It just means I still hate you.”
He chuckles softly, peeling the wrapper off a sucker, not believing a word I say.