Chapter 29
29
ARIA
The midday sun casts a golden glow over the crowded playground. Laughter fills the air, echoing against the worn walls of the old community center as children race across the yard, their energy boundless.
I stand behind a table near the entrance, handing out steaming bowls of soup and freshly baked bread. Today marks the official opening of my foundation—a dream I’ve nurtured for years. A place where children, especially those who have lost parents to violence, can find safety, warmth, and a moment of peace.
A small boy, no older than five, steps forward, his cheeks smudged with dirt. He clutches a piece of bread to his chest, his eyes wide with something between hunger and gratitude.
“Can I share with my sister?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
I crouch to meet his gaze, offering him another piece. “You can share as much as you want.”
A girl, timid and quiet, peeks out from behind him. She clings to his shirt as though it’s the only thing keeping her steady. When he turns to her, offering half of what he holds, her face softens with relief,
Hand in hand, they dart away, their bond unbreakable.
I swallow against the lump in my throat. I wish my brother had cared about me like that.
But you had someone who cared about you even more.
I spend the next hour making sure every child gets enough to eat. My volunteers move through the crowd with tired but determined faces, following the plan we carefully laid out for today. There’s a bit of chaos—the kind that comes with excited kids—but everything runs smoothly.
Still, my mind drifts elsewhere. To another place. Another face. Another life.
Nicolas.
No matter how much I try to focus on the children, the foundation, the moment in front of me—he lingers. I can almost picture him standing at the crowd's edge, arms crossed, scanning for threats. The quiet power he carries, the way his presence commands a room. I swear, if I close my eyes for just a second, I can feel the brush of his jacket sleeve against my skin.
I exhale sharply, shaking off the thought. Instead, I focus on the small hands reaching for comfort, nourishment, and something safe.
Later, when I return home, I step into my modest living room, switch on the overhead light, and set my keys on the worn coffee table. The space is small, and the furniture simple—nothing like the sprawling mansion I shared with Nicolas.
But it’s mine.
It’s quiet. Uncomplicated. Free of the ghosts that lurked in every corner of his world.
I sink onto the couch, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. But even as fatigue pulls at me, my mind drifts where it always does— to him .
Nicolas .
I press my fists into my lap, squeezing my eyes shut. He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. His presence lingers in my thoughts, in the quiet moments between heartbeats, in the spaces where I once found comfort.
The ache swells inside me, tangled with guilt and something sharper— anger . Anger at the choices he’s made. At the world he refuses to leave behind. And the fact that despite everything, I still miss him.
And tonight, it’s worse.
Maybe it’s because of the little boy and his sister at the foundation. Perhaps because they reminded me that even when my own family turned their back on me, Nicolas never did .
The thought unsettles me. I push off the couch and grab my jacket, craving fresh air and needing space from the war raging in my head.
I walk.
Farther than usual.
My thoughts spiral with every step. Should I go back? Should I hold my ground? Did I sign those divorce papers too quickly?
The questions press in relentlessly, and for the first time, I don’t know if I have an answer.
I barely register when the streetlights grow fewer, or when the steady hum of passing pedestrians fades into silence. My feet slow as I glance up, realizing I’ve wandered into unfamiliar territory. To my left, an old warehouse looms, its broken windows gaping like empty eyes. Rust streaks the metal siding, and the air carries the damp, decayed scent of rotting wood.
A sudden clatter behind me.
My heart jumps.
I whip around, scanning the dim alley. Shadows stretch long across the pavement, shifting over stacked crates and discarded trash. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. But the air feels different now.
Charged.
Like I’m not alone.
I turn to retrace my steps, heart pounding, telling myself I just need to walk fast and get back to familiar streets.
Then—movement.
A shadow shifts at the edge of my vision.
A man steps forward, his gait unsteady, the reek of alcohol clinging to him. His clothes hang loose, stained and tattered. The hair on my arms rises.
“You lost, sweetheart?” His voice is a low, rough growl.
My throat tightens. A cold wave of fear curls in my stomach.
I take a step back.
He takes two forward.
The sour stench of sweat and beer makes my stomach churn. Then I catch the glint of something metallic in his hand. A knife? A bottle? I can’t tell, but I don’t need to.
I lift my hands, forcing my voice to stay calm. “I don’t want any trouble.”
He snorts. “Too late.”
His hand shoots out, clamping around my wrist. My heart slams against my ribs as a grin spreads across his face.
He shoves me hard, my shoulder scraping against the rough concrete wall. The sting jolts me into action. I thrash, pushing at his chest with both hands. My knee jerks up, striking his thigh—just shy of where I aimed. He grunts, his face twisting with fury.
“Little bitch,” he spits, his breath hot and sour. He presses in closer, his weight crushing against me and I can feel his growing erection.
Panic surges through me, white-hot and blinding. My mind flashes with terror—then instinct. Survival. I snap my head back before slamming it forward, colliding with his skull.
Pain explodes behind my eyes, but he stumbles, cursing. His grip slackens for half a second.
I bolt.
My feet pound against the pavement as I tear down the alley, his shouts chasing me into the night. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can hear him, his breath ragged, his footsteps closing in.
I just run.
My lungs burn. My arms tremble. I risk a glance over my shoulder—he’s still there, his face twisted with rage, closing the distance. Panic surges through me, pushing me forward.
I burst onto a busier street, shoving past startled bystanders. A few mutter in confusion, stepping aside, but I don’t stop. My heart pounds like it might explode.
Then—silence.
I turn sharply, breath ragged, searching. He was right behind me. I swear he was. But now… nothing. No footsteps. No curses. No shadows lurking in the dim glow of streetlights. Just emptiness.
Sweat drips from my temple, stinging my eyes. My pulse still races, but a new thought slithers into my mind, coiling tight around my gut.
Nicolas.
Or maybe his men.
The idea seems absurd. But I know how he operates. I know how he protects what’s his.
A chill runs through me, but it isn’t fear. It’s something else—something harder to name. Relief, maybe. Or something even more dangerous.
I stumble to a concrete step near the sidewalk and collapse onto it, my body trembling. My hands throb from where they slammed against the wall, my shoulder aches, and my throat is raw from gasping for air.
A passerby slows, concern flickering across their face. I shake my head, waving them off. I can’t explain this—not to them. Maybe not even to myself.
I sit there for a long moment, forcing my breath to steady, until finally, I push myself upright. My legs feel weak, but I make them move, one step at a time.
Eventually, I reach a main road, flag down a cab, and sink into the back seat. The driver asks where to, and I barely mumble my address.
My pulse hasn’t settled. My thoughts are still tangled in the alley—the rough hands, the crushing fear… and the way he vanished.
Nicolas.
It has to be him. Or his men. Someone watching. Someone stepping in before it was too late.
Or maybe it was just luck. Perhaps the man ran on his own.
I don’t know which possibility unsettles me more.
As the cab pulls away, I cradle my throbbing shoulder, blinking back tears that threaten to spill. I miss Nicolas. Even if he had nothing to do with saving me—even if it’s just my own paranoia or desperate hope—I want him here. I want his arms around me, the steadiness of his voice telling me I’m safe, the familiar scent of his cologne grounding me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the ache in my chest to stay contained.
When I get home, I lock the door. Once. Twice. A third time. Then I crawl into bed, exhaustion dragging me under before I can think too much.
* * *
Morning comes, but the tension in my body doesn’t fade. My shoulder throbs as I push myself out of bed, my legs unsteady beneath me.
In the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee, watching the water heat as my thoughts circle back to last night. I suspected someone had intervened. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the man simply ran off.
A part of me wants to believe Nicolas had a hand in saving me. Another part feels uneasy at that thought. He once told me he keeps an eye on what belongs to him.
A quiet, bitter laugh escapes me. I left him for a reason. But my heart doesn’t seem to care. I miss him. Every hour.
A sharp ring shatters the quiet. My mug nearly slips from my fingers.
The doorbell.
My pulse jumps. For a second, I consider ignoring it—letting whoever it is give up and walk away. But the bell rings again, more insistent this time.
My mind leaps to the only possibility that makes sense . Nicolas.
I set my coffee aside, standing frozen and staring at the door. My chest tightens, anticipation and uncertainty tangling together.
Then the ringing stops. Heavy silence follows.
A second later, I hear the doorknob rattle. My breath catches. My stomach twists.
I forgot—the lock is old, easy to force open.
I hurry forward, expecting to see him, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
But it’s not Nicolas.
Teresa steps into the living room.
Her dark hair is braided tightly, accentuating the age lines on her face. She wears a plain skirt and blouse, both neat but simple. Her expression is calm, unreadable, as she meets my gaze.
She says nothing at first. Instead, she steps inside and closes the door gently behind her.
I swallow the disappointment tightening my chest and fold my arms.
“You’re hurt,” she observes, her gaze flicking to the bruises on my arms.
I tense. “I’m fine.”
“Boss sent me.” She doesn’t use Nicolas —but I know who she means.
My heart twists. “Why?”
She holds herself with quiet poise, hands resting at her sides, shoulders squared. “He’s worried. He heard something happened.”
Her eyes drift to the bruises again.
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “He cares from a distance, it seems.”
Teresa shakes her head. “You left him, child.”
The word child rubs me the wrong way, but I don’t argue. There’s no condescension in her tone—just quiet understanding.
She glances around, taking in the mismatched furniture, the dishes in the sink, the half-empty coffee mug on the counter. My jaw tightens. She’s assessing my life now, comparing it to the one I had with Nicolas .
Images of him in that dark room flash through my mind—his hands steady, his expression unreadable as he inflicted pain, as he ended a life without hesitation.
“He tortures and kills,” I say, my voice tight. “I’ve seen him do it.”
Teresa lifts her chin slightly. “Sometimes it takes evil to clear out worse evil.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. I flinch. “That’s what you call it?”
She exhales slowly. “Yes. I’ve seen men who take pleasure in hurting the innocent. Men who kill for no reason but their own twisted joy. Nicolas isn’t one of them.”
I shake my head, not wanting to believe it, but the doubt creeps in.
“He doesn’t kill for fun,” she continues. “He does it to keep order. To protect what’s his.”
A shiver runs through me. He once told me I belonged to him. I hated those words . Or at least, I thought I did.
Now I’m unsure if I hated the idea of being his—or if I hated how safe it made me feel.
She steps closer, her voice steady. “He saved me once.”
I frown, caught off guard.
“My father was a monster,” she continues. “I was too young to run, too weak to fight. He would beat me, starve me… worse.” Her expression doesn’t change, but the weight of her words settles heavy in the air.
“Nicolas found out when my father tried to extort him. One night, he came to our house, and…” Her eyes darken with something old, something buried but never forgotten. “He put a bullet in my father’s skull.”
I swallow, my mind painting the scene—Nicolas, calm and deliberate, stepping in when no one else would. It sounds exactly like him.
Teresa’s voice softens. “I saw it happen. I watched my father drop. One second, he was alive. The next, gone. Nicolas didn’t hesitate.”
A shiver runs through me. “And you… you’re okay with that?”
She nods once. “I mourned what could have been—maybe a father who could change. But the truth is, he never would have. That man was evil.” She lifts her hands, the scars across her knuckles visible even in the dim light.
“Nicolas is the reason I’m standing here. People may call him a murderer. But to me? He’s a hero.”
Silence lingers between us. Teresa's gaze flickers to my bruises once more. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I know.”
She exhales, her expression unreadable. “He wants you safe. I want you safe too.” With that, she turns toward the door, leaving behind the faint scent of soap and herbs.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the empty space she left behind. My mind drifts back—to the night I saw Nicolas pull the trigger without hesitation. The cold, lethal precision. The way he told me, without remorse, that the man had been a rapist. I remember how steady his hands were, how certain he was that justice had been served.
Now, after hearing Teresa’s story, I understand a little more. Evil doesn’t bargain. It doesn’t change. Nicolas believes there’s only one way to deal with it.
And the worst part?
I’m starting to wonder if he’s right.
I close the door softly and rest my forehead against the cool wood, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.
My world feels more uncertain than ever. The feelings I have for Nicolas haven’t faded. They’ve only deepened, tangled with regret, longing, and confusion.
He is who he is. He insists he won’t change. But the real question is—can I live with his world? Can I handle it?