Tone
I slipped my heels off and retraced my steps down the corridor. I lowered myself onto the staircase just outside the office. The door was slightly ajar—not enough to see, but enough to hear.
I tried to convince myself I was just being cautious. That it was nothing to do with the fact that every instinct in me still refused to trust him. Because something about Archie Popovich didn’t sit right. And I needed to know why. What was it about him that I found so dishonest?
I leaned forward slightly, breath slow, controlled, letting their voices filter through.
“…he’s been trying to remove the problem.”
Atlas.
“…not aiming for you first anymore. He’s aiming for me.”
Archie.
My brows pulled together.
What?
I shifted slightly, closer now, my shoulder brushing the wall as I strained to catch every word.
“He gets a clean shot at you.”
Silence.
“Why not just kill us both, then?”
A beat. Long enough that something in my chest tightened.
Then Archie spoke.
“Because Vilevski knows exactly who I am.”
I frowned.
That didn’t—
“And he knows he’s a dead man walking if he kills me.”
The words landed the wrong way. Too heavy. Too certain. I stilled completely, my breath catching.
There was a shift in the room—I couldn’t see it, but I felt it. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but loaded. Like something had just been dropped between them that changed everything.
My pulse picked up.
What the hell?
Raze spoke again, quieter this time.
“Who are you, really, Popovich?”
The question slid through the crack in the door. I felt like a guilty interloper, as though I were stealing classified information not meant for my ears.
For a second—there was nothing. Archie didn’t answer. There was no movement. Then someone exhaled—Archie, I presumed. It was slow, resigned. Like whatever he was about to say required more effort than he was willing to give.
“In Italy, I’m just Archie Popovich,” he said.
He paused.
“But in my home country, I’m known as the Pope.”
Everything inside me went still. Not physically. Something deeper, colder. Visceral.
No. No.
My fingers curled against my knees, breath catching in my throat as the words replayed in my head.
The Pope.
The Pope.
The Pope.
I’d heard the name before. I’d heard the stories. The Pope was a ghost whose reputation had outgrown reality—because no one could confirm what was true and what wasn’t. Only that wherever he went—chaos followed.
And there was nothing holy about him.
I shook my head slightly, like that would dislodge it. Like it would make it make sense.
“…heir to the Popovich Bratva.”
It was Archie’s voice again. Calm. Controlled. Like he wasn’t dismantling everything I thought I knew about him.
My heart slammed once. Hard.
The Popovich Bratva wasn’t just powerful. It was—untouchable. An Eastern European syndicate of old money and bloody violence. A dynasty with the kind of power that didn’t need to prove itself because it had already erased anyone who dared to question it.
And he had been walking amongst us like he was just another man.
My stomach twisted. Because suddenly—everything shifted. Every interaction. Every moment. Every time I’d dismissed him, snapped at him, treated him like he was something beneath the line we’d drawn between us and them.
He wasn’t beneath anything. He was above it. Above all of it. If he wanted to be.
I pressed my lips together, trying to steady the sudden rush of thoughts.
He could crush us. Not easily, and not without consequence. But he could make it hurt. He had the reach. The resources. The kind of backing that could destroy empires.
And yet—he hadn’t. Not once, even when he had reason to.
That was the part that didn’t make sense.
Which meant—maybe—he wasn’t the enemy I’d made him out to be.
The thought sat wrong in my chest. Unwelcome. But it didn’t leave.
Inside the office, the conversation shifted—lower now, more controlled as they moved into strategy. Movement. Plans forming.
I didn’t need to hear the rest. I had heard enough. Too much.
I pushed to my feet carefully, my body moving on instinct as I stepped back from the door, my mind still racing, struggling to keep up with the shift that had just taken place.
Archie Popovich. The Pope.
He was underworld royalty. And he was standing in our house like he belonged there.
I turned before I could think about it too much, moving quickly now, quietly, slipping down the hall and out through the front door without drawing attention.
The night air hit me cool and sharp. Grounding.
I exhaled, longer this time, like I could push the thoughts out with it.
It didn’t work, because they clung. They followed me. Sat heavy in my chest as I slid into my car and started the engine.
I needed space. Distance. Something familiar.
My old apartment.
I’d collect some clothes. Sit in the silence. Have a few moments to myself in a version of my life that made more sense than the one I’d just stepped into.
I pulled out of the driveway without looking back.
The city lights blurred past in long streaks of gold and white.
I exhaled slowly and veered off the main road.
The city fell away quicker than expected—streetlights thinning, traffic fading until it was just me, the hum of the engine, and the long stretch of road cutting through an industrial strip that emptied out after dark.
Headlights followed me down the quiet street.
It was a car I had noticed a few turns back.
I didn’t think much of it then, but now that it had forked behind me, I paid attention.
I changed lanes. The car remained behind me.
I took a turn I didn’t need. It followed.
That was when I knew this was no coincidence. I was definitely being followed.
I had been raised around men who hunted for a living. I knew what it looked like to be tracked.
My hands remained steady on the wheel, but something inside me sharpened—quiet, instinctive. And I knew better than to panic.
I checked the mirror again.
It was a dark car with no distinguishing features. Trying to blend in and failing just enough to make it obvious.
My jaw tightened.
“Fantastic.”
I should have agreed to the guards that Atlas tried to foist upon me after I argued with Raze about my privacy. Now it made that much more sense. I wouldn’t have any privacy if I was a dead woman.
Instead, I’d waved him off like I always did—too stubborn to be watched, too used to handling my own problems. So I would handle this one, too.
I drove deeper into the quiet. Past shuttered warehouses. Empty loading docks. A stretch of road where no one would hear anything if things went wrong. This could work either in my favor, or against.
My eyes slid to the glovebox where I kept my gun, loaded and ready. I’d learned from a young age how to use it, and I wouldn’t hesitate if I needed to use it now.
If they wanted something from me, they were going to have a problem on their hands. A mechanical one.
I slowed slightly. The car behind me also slowed.
I tapped the console, bringing the car’s system to life.
“Call Raze,” I said, my voice steady despite the tension tightening in my chest.
The line began to connect—then headlights flared suddenly behind the other car, flooding my rear windshield with light.
The screech of a car came out of nowhere, engine roaring as it closed the distance in seconds, cutting hard across the road in front of the tailing vehicle, putting distance between me and my trailers.
The second car was fast. Aggressive.
The driver behind me slammed on the brakes. Tires screamed against asphalt as his car fishtailed and came to a sudden halt.
I heard gunfire. Loud. Violent. Contained.
The sound didn’t echo across the city. It stayed here—trapped between empty buildings and dead space.
I braked instinctively, my car jerking to a stop a safe distance away.
My heart slammed once—hard enough to hurt—then steadied as I grabbed my gun and switched the safety off.
The second car idled at an angle, cutting off any escape.
The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out like this was nothing more than a scheduled appointment.
Archie.
What the fuck!
He walked straight to the driver’s side of the other car and fired through the window. Once. Then a second shot.
The glass collapsed inward, the man inside snapping back before he even understood what was happening.
The passenger tried to move, but he was too slow.
Archie adjusted his stance and fired again. The body slumped halfway out of the car, hitting the pavement with a dull, final sound.
Silence followed, heavy and final. Archie lowered the gun.
He didn’t rush as he turned and looked at me. The look on his face told me he thought this had all been mildly inconvenient.