42. Kate
Kate
The door creaked open just past midnight. I didn’t hear the bike—I never do—but I felt the shift in the air. Brett stepped inside, dark circles under his eyes, dust on his boots, and tension rolling off him like heat.
“I can’t stay,” he said before I could even offer him coffee. “It’d be too suspicious. The house is yours now.”
He tossed the keys on the counter. I caught the worry in his eyes before he looked away.
“Sit,” he said. And I did.
“You need to listen, Kate. There’s one more card in play we didn’t talk about. They’re keeping Michael in Vegas with Krystal. They're using it as a distraction while they hunt for you.”
I felt the world spin under me. My heart stumbled. “So that’s it? I'm married... and alone?”
He nodded once. “For now.”
“And Amber?”
“She’s with Drew,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “He promised to keep her safe. Guerrero's territory is tight. No one gets in or out without his say-so.”
A bitter taste crawled up my throat. “This is insane. How much longer are we supposed to live like this?”
“I don’t know.” His voice cracked. “But you need to stay underground. Stay in the panic room when you sleep. Never answer the front door. Don’t use the Wi-Fi. No phone calls. No cameras.”
I leaned back in the creaking chair and stared at the pine-beamed ceiling, trying to breathe.
“Food and packages get delivered five blocks over,” he said. “Mailbox 2207. Locked drop. Amazon orders, groceries—use the aliases I left. I’ve got it linked to my card under three different names. Ride the dirt bike. No headlights. Stick to the tree line. Trails are marked. No traffic cams.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I gotta go back to Vegas. Michael needs someone to watch his six. And they’ll get suspicious if I hang around here too long.”
I swallowed hard. “Brett... this can’t go on.”
He looked at me like he wanted to say something he couldn’t afford to speak aloud. Then his mouth pressed into a thin, tired line. “I know.”
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
“I’ll tell the Feds to keep their eyes on you,” he offered.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t trust them. Not completely.”
He blew out a long breath. “Then trust me. Trust Michael.”
“I do,” I whispered. “But I’m still here. Alone.”
“I gotta keep Gertie safe, too,” he said, softer now.
“She’s staying with Drew for a while. You've already given them the plans. Let Drew and Gertie execute. Stay clear of the site. No visits. No peeks. I had to hire security on your fiends. Mindy and Sara. Claire is with Remi… he hired someone to run her shop.”
I bit down on my bottom lip, the truth slicing clean through my chest.
“You can’t be seen,” he said. “The hit is real now, Kate. They won’t let Michael come back until they see proof. Proof that you're dead.”
“I’ll stay a week,” Brett muttered, slumping onto the edge of the beat-up leather sofa like it might swallow him whole.
“Maybe two, if I can swing it. Michael needs to sell the ‘honeymoon’… long enough to double security, get you anything you need, and wrap things up under the excuse of helping Roman transition to power.”
I raised a brow. “You sure they’ll buy that?”
He snorted. “They already think I’m the casino babysitter. Now they’ll just assume I’m the hired help training the new management.”
I sipped from the chipped mug in my hand, still lukewarm, still bitter.
“And Michael?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.
“He’s doing what he has to do. Playing house with the Wicked Witch of Vegas.” His jaw flexed. “You know he only did it for you.”
I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
Brett stood and started pacing, agitated. “ Guerrero said something yesterday. Almost made me draw my damn gun.”
“Oh?”
He stopped, turned toward me, hands clenched into fists. “He said—and I quote—‘The Guerra men don’t mind looking after the females others couldn’t protect.’”
The words hung in the air like smoke, foul and taunting.
I rolled my eyes and set my mug down too hard. “You’re both idiots, you know that?”
Brett blinked.
“She’s playing you both,” I said, not unkindly. “Claire doesn’t love him. You know it. But you? You never staked your claim. You told her to just have fun, roll with it. You made it casual. So now? She’s keeping it casual.”
Brett sat back down, raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It mattered,” I said quietly. “Maybe not to you at the time. But to her? It always mattered.”
The silence between us thickened, but it wasn’t angry. It was tired. Honest. Safe.
“You think I fucked it up?” he asked.
I smirked. “I think you’re still in the game. But if you want to win, you better stop letting Remi score unchallenged.”
He huffed a laugh, then stood and grabbed his jacket. “Fine. Message received.”
“Where are you going?”
“To pick up surveillance equipment, reinforce the perimeter, and maybe buy a flamethrower. Something tells me you’re not going to make this easy.”
“I never do,” I said, smiling just enough to remind him who he was dealing with.
I was back in familiar territory, the kind that smelled like salt, secrets, and smoke. Hiding out wasn’t new to me—it was practically a learned survival skill. But this time, the isolation gnawed at me in a way it never had before.
The days blurred. Time slipped. My sanity frayed.
I needed something—movement, freedom, control. Something to remind me I was still alive.
So I did what I did best. I disappeared in plain sight.
Brett's motorcycle was tucked exactly where he said it would be, with plates so off-grid they'd confuse a satellite.
I ordered myself a matte black helmet so dark it swallowed reflections, along with a men's leather jacket two sizes too big, and boots built for the long road.
The disguise worked. Under the shield of tinted glass and horsepower, I was no one.
Just another tourist. Just another rider looking to forget.
I rode through the town I used to own with nothing but the wind at my back and my pulse in my throat. Cut through side streets, passed familiar corners, stopped long enough at my grandmother’s old house to breathe in the memory of a life I missed more than I wanted to admit.
Amber, I missed her.
I missed my life. My name. My normal.
Some nights, I even questioned whether loving Michael was worth losing all of it. The answer always came back in silence. In ache. In loyalty that hurt like hell.
Then my period didn’t come.
I told myself it was stress. Disruption. Adrenaline.
But I knew.
A quiet Amazon order arrived under one of Brett’s dummy aliases. I locked the door. Peeled off the packaging. Took the test.
The second pink line blinked back at me—clear, undeniable.
Our baby.
Michael’s child. My child. Ours.
And just like that, the entire game changed again and I couldn’t tell a soul.
This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t about revenge or territory or even empire.
This was about the future. About protecting something sacred. About building a world where our child could grow up free of blood contracts and fake marriages and men who thought they owned everything.
I stared down at the test until my hands went numb.
No one could know. Not yet. Not even Brett.
Not until I knew for sure we could make it out alive.
Because this child—our child—was the threat and the answer all in one.