Chapter 9 – Elara
Some nights, quiet feels earned.
This isn’t one of them.
I lean against the rooftop rail, letting the cold chew at my forearms. I didn’t bother with a jacket—my skin’s still hot from earlier. Still too aware. Still remembering his mouth, his hand, the press of my body against his.
But that isn’t why I’m up here.
I’m up here because downstairs there’s a body cooling under crates and a game still hanging in the air like unfinished breath.
I’m up here because I don’t know how to sleep anymore.
Wind pushes hard off the water. It stings, fast and biting. My chain hits my chest with every gust.
The club hums below, a beast with too many hearts.
Nico stands a few feet away, just out of reach. He’s watching the city like it owes him something. One hand in his jacket pocket, the other flexing at his side like he hasn’t quite come down from the kill either.
He hasn’t said much since we left the storage room.
Neither have I.
But the tension between us is still alive.
My scar doesn’t ache tonight.
It should feel like relief.
It doesn’t.
I turn to speak—to say something, anything—but footsteps cut the moment.
Sharp shoes on metal stairs.
Then the rooftop door creaks open.
Vince.
Fucking Vince.
He’s dressed like he came from a dinner party, not a club that smells like sweat and crushed dreams. Hair neat. Shirt crisp. That smug tilt to his mouth like he owns the next five minutes of my life.
I don’t move.
Just roll my eyes. “Wrong party.”
Vince steps toward us, slow and sure, hands in his coat pockets.
“Thought you might want to see what your new friend missed,” he says.
He pulls out a folder. Slim. Sealed.
I don’t reach for it.
He tosses it at my feet.
It lands with a light slap.
No one moves.
“Go ahead,” Vince says, voice syrupy. “It’s all in there. Text logs. Photos. Timelines. Clean work.”
I kick the folder aside with my boot.
“You’re full of shit.”
He shrugs. “Looks real enough to a man looking for someone to blame.”
Nico doesn’t move.
I step forward. Grab the folder. Flip it open.
Fake documents. Black and white prints. Screenshots that are too perfect. Photos of me in public places—talking to people I don’t know, standing near cars that could belong to anyone.
Then one printout of a supposed message thread.
My name at the top.
Marco’s at the bottom.
It’s trash.
“Nice work,” I mutter. “Photoshop’s really come a long way.”
“You’d know,” Vince says smoothly. “Didn’t you used to forge flower licenses for off-books shipments?”
I take two steps forward and grab his lapel.
Hard.
He doesn’t flinch, but his smirk falters.
“Try that line again,” I say, “and I’ll throw you off this fucking roof.”
His eyes flick to Nico.
Nico doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Vince swallows.
“Relax,” he says. “Just bringing it to the surface. Better now than when Marco uses it.”
I shove him back.
He stumbles against the ledge, catches himself with one hand.
“You always were good at stirring shit and walking away,” I snap.
He adjusts his jacket. “Just calling it like it is. Every empire falls through its soft spots.” He glances at Nico now. “This one just happens to wear a chain and lace.”
Nico steps forward then.
Finally.
Voice flat. “We’re done here.”
Vince lifts both hands like he’s the victim.
Then walks toward the stairs, slow and smug.
At the door, he pauses.
“Careful who you trust, Drago. History repeats itself.”
He disappears down the steps.
I’m left staring at the city again.
My hands shake.
Not with fear.
With fury.
Nico walks toward the ledge.
Doesn’t speak.
I round on him. “You believe this?”
His eyes meet mine.
“No,” he says.
But the pause is too long.
My chest tightens. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I don’t believe it,” he repeats.
“But…”
“But I know Vince. He wouldn’t bring that unless he planned to use it.”
I stare at him.
Hard.
“You think I’m the weak link?”
“No.”
“You think I’m being played?”
“I think we both are.”
My mouth opens.
Then closes.
Because I want to believe him.
But I know poison when I taste it—and Vince left enough behind to make me wonder if Nico’s started sipping too.
I step back.
Hands on my hips.
“Why bring it to me?” I ask. “Why not just plant it with the others?”
“Because he wants you to react. To break pattern.”
I laugh once. Cold.
“Well. Congrats. I’m fucking reacting.”
He looks at me.
Really looks.
Then closes the space.
Hands up.
Not touching.
Just… open.
“I don’t care what’s on that paper,” he says. “I care that you didn’t flinch when a gun came in the room. I care that you stayed when you had every reason to run.” He breathes out. “I care that I wanted to finish what we started—and I still do.”
That last line hits low.
Below skin.
Below scar.
Below whatever I built to stay safe.
I stare at him.
Then lean against the rail again, looking out.
“Vince is poison,” I say. “He doesn’t kill with knives. He waits for you to turn them on yourself.”
Nico doesn’t respond.
Just comes up beside me.
We stand there.
Shoulders touching.
His hand finds mine.
No pressure.
Just presence.
The city below doesn’t stop moving.
But for the first time tonight—I do.
Then the stairwell door bangs open again.
Fast this time.
No pretense. No slow entrance.
Just impact.
A guy I don’t recognize stumbles forward—big frame, short, buzzed hair, busted lip. Shirt untucked, gun already in his hand. His chest is heaving like he sprinted up every floor to get here.
He’s not subtle.
But his voice cuts clear.
“You lying bitch!” The gun lifts. “You think you’re one of them?”
My body moves before my mind does.
I drop into a crouch. My left foot kicks out, knocks his stance wide. I slide under the barrel as it swings down. His trigger finger doesn’t have time to tighten before I come up inside his guard.
My fist connects with his jaw.
Hard.
The snap is loud. Wrong.
His head whips sideways. Blood sprays. Teeth go flying, clattering across the rooftop like coins spilled in the dark.
He stumbles. Groans.
I don’t stop.
I go for the throat.
But I don’t have to finish it.
Nico’s already moving.
He’s a ghost when he’s like this—clean, quiet, fatal.
The blade’s in his hand before the thug hits the ground.
It doesn’t go for the neck.
It goes for the gut.
Steel sinks deep—angled just right. When Nico pulls it sideways, flesh opens in a line too fast to register.
Entrails spill out across the rooftop like wet ropes.
The man makes a noise, gurgled and sharp, then goes limp.
The gun clatters away. I kick it toward the edge of the roof without thinking.
The rooftop settles.
The city below keeps humming. Neon pulses off slick metal. The beat from the club doesn’t even skip.
Like nothing just happened.
My breath comes heavy. Not panicked. Just catching up.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Not blood—just sweat.
Nico wipes his blade on the guy’s shirt, steps away, eyes scanning the shadows.
No one else follows.
I stand straighter. Stretch my neck.
Then meet his eyes.
“You alright?” he asks, voice low.
“You really have to ask?”
He doesn’t answer.
Because we both know what I mean.
He nods once.
“It matters if you say no.”
I take that in. Let it settle.
People used to leave me bleeding.
Nico steps in, blade first.
That matters.
I won’t say it.
But it matters.
I glance down at the body. Still twitching. But only barely.
“He was waiting,” I say. “Vince knew what he was doing.”
“Marco’s dog,” Nico replies. “Sent to see if the poison stuck.”
I exhale sharply. “Did it?”
“No.”
I study him.
Nico doesn’t look away.
I nod once. Step toward the edge of the roof. Look down at the lot where cars keep pulling in and out like the city doesn’t care who lives or dies upstairs.
It doesn’t.
I turn back to him.
“We keep doing this, you and me—” I gesture to the body, to the trail of blood stretching back to the stairs, “—better not be for nothing.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“It’s not.”
He says it too fast to be anything but real.
The wind catches my hair, whips it across my cheek. I don’t push it back. I want the sting.
Nico steps forward. Stands in front of me.
Close.
Close like before, but sharper now. Less heat. More edge.
I lean into it anyway.
“What do we call this?” I ask.
He doesn’t blink.
“Ours.”
The word lands with weight. Not like possession.
Like declaration.
My mouth parts slightly.
I could laugh.
But I don’t.
Instead, I echo it.
“Ours.”
He reaches up. Brushes his thumb under my chin. It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s just present.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he says.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Good.”
We stand there, blood pooling at our feet, the city pushing on behind us.
And for once, I’m not scanning for exits.
For once, I don’t feel like prey.
His hand finds mine again.
No pressure.
Just presence.
We stay like that.
Long enough for the moment to shift.
For the breath to steady.
For the trap Vince set to dissolve between us like sugar in dark water.
Whatever he tried to twist, it didn’t take.
Not tonight.
That’s a start.