Chapter 27-Benji
My head whips around the second I hear the waiter’s voice.
“That’s gonna be your last mistake, Benny.”
Only one asshole ever called me that.
One guy I gave a pass to on it because he was supposed to be my best fucking friend.
So yeah. The second he speaks—my world tilts.
Something in my chest recognizes him before my brain catches up.
That voice.
Familiar.
Wrong.
Impossible.
Too fucking real.
I go still.
Not frozen—never that—but controlled.
Every instinct I’ve got slams into place at once.
Assess.
Distance.
Weapon.
Threat.
My eyes lock on him.
Really lock.
And there it is.
That goddamn face I buried three years ago.
“Paul? What the—”
The words barely make it out before the gun’s in his hand.
Up.
Steady.
Pointed straight at my chest.
Everything sharpens.
The room.
The angles.
The distance between us.
The sound of my own breathing.
“That’s right,” he says, smiling like this is some kind of reunion. “Don’t you fucking move, Benny.”
It is Paul. Alive. Here. Now.
Fucking Paul.
My stomach drops, but my mind doesn’t.
My mind goes cold.
Focused.
Dead calm.
“What are you doing here, Paul?” I breathe, because I need to hear it.
Need to confirm it. Need to anchor this insanity in something real.
He grins wider.
“You miss me, friend?”
My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
“You’re dead,” I say.
Because you were.
Because I mourned you.
Because I carried that shit around like a weight in my gut while everything else fell apart.
He laughs.
Actually fucking laughs.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what they told you, huh?”
Rage spikes.
Hot.
Violent.
But I lock it down.
Not now.
Not with a gun pointed at my chest.
My body shifts subtly, just enough to widen my stance, just enough to prepare.
Calculate.
Distance.
Time.
Angle.
He’s pacing.
Talking.
Always talking.
Same as before.
Same smug, twisted bullshit.
“They lied,” he goes on. “Or more like they hid me.”
“Who?” I snap, keeping him engaged, keeping him focused on me.
“My mommy,” he says, like it’s a joke. “Money. Influence. You remember.”
Yeah.
I remember.
Paul was a rich kid.
Connected.
Untouchable.
My teeth grind.
“Didn’t want her poor, troubled son ruining the family name,” he continues. “So when they found my little collection—”
My gut goes cold.
“Collection?” I repeat.
“Plans,” he corrects, tapping his head. “Ideas. A future.”
Something ugly crawls up my spine.
Because I know what he means.
I know the kind of shit he’s talking about.
“You were going to kill me,” I say flatly.
His grin widens.
“Was?” he echoes. “Oh, Benny, I still might.”
Yeah. I know.
I can see it in his eyes.
He’s not bluffing.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
I don’t move.
Not yet.
Because one wrong move—and this ends bad.
Real bad.
“They found everything,” he says, almost conversational. “The notes. The maps. The schedule. My shrine to her.”
My pulse hammers.
“How I was going to wait until you got back from your little war, then take you out if you didn’t stay away.”
My vision narrows.
I hear it.
See it.
The way he planned it.
Thought it through.
Obsessed over it.
“Clean. Efficient. Personal.”
My stomach churns.
“And Esme?” I grind out, because that’s the only thing that matters right now.
Not me.
Never me.
Her.
My focus snaps back to him.
Sharp.
Deadly.
He goes soft when he says her name.
And that—that’s worse than the gun.
“Esme,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred.
Something he owns.
“She was always coming with me.”
My entire body goes rigid.
Every muscle.
Every nerve.
“Like she was always supposed to,” he spits.
Rage explodes inside me.
White-hot.
Blinding.
“You’re fucking insane,” I growl.
“Am I?” he snaps back, something cracking through that fake calm of his. “Or am I the only one who saw her for what she really is?”
“She’s not yours,” I fire back, my voice low, dangerous.
He thinks it’s the wrong answer.
I see it the second I say it.
His expression shifts.
Twists.
Ugly.
But it is the ONLY answer.
“She is,” he hisses. “She just forgot.”
No.
“No, she didn’t forget. She never belonged to you, Paul.”
Movement behind me.
The bathroom door.
My heart slams.
Esme.
Fuck.
I shift instantly.
Step back.
Position.
Put myself between her and him without even thinking about it.
Because that’s instinct.
That’s mine.
“Benji?” she says, confused.
Then she sees the gun.
Sees him.
And everything in her face changes.
Fear.
Shock.
Recognition.
“Paul?” she whispers.
And something inside me snaps.
Because the way she says his name—it’s not love.
It’s not longing.
It’s fear.
And that’s enough.
That’s all I need.
“Hey, Esme,” he says to her, his voice going soft in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I step fully in front of her.
Block her.
Shield her.
Every inch of me locked on him.
“I came back for you. Like I said I would. You don’t have to be scared,” he tells her.
The fuck she doesn’t.
“I’m here now. I found you.”
My fists clench.
My pulse roars.
“Paul, you need to leave. I’m with Benji. We’re married,” she whispers, and I can hear the tears in her voice.
“NOOOO!” he roars. “That’s wrong! You can’t be with him!”
She whimpers, and I growl.
I want to kill him.
Right now.
Right fucking now.
But I don’t move.
Not yet.
Because he’s got the gun.
Because she’s behind me and he’s looking at her.
But I need him focused on me.
Not her. Never her.
“I wasn’t hiding from you,” she says, her voice shaking.
Okay. Pivot.
Keep him talking.
Keep him engaged.
“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps.
“I’m not—”
“You whore,” he cuts her off. “You chose him.”
My jaw tightens.
“You did,” he insists, stepping forward.
I shift with him.
Matching.
Blocking.
“I sent him videos. Showing him what we could have! I thought when you saw them you were supposed to pick me!”
“But I-I don’t love you,” she says.
“YES YOU DO OR I’LL SHOOT!” Paul screams like a maniac.
“Hey Paul, over here,” I snap. “You don’t get to rewrite shit,” I growl.
His eyes flick to me.
Cold.
Hateful.
“Esme is mine,” he pouts like a fucking baby.
“Like hell she is,” I shoot back, my voice dropping low enough to promise violence.
“You don’t get it, Benny! I have the gun! I get the girl!”
Okay, now he’s really starting to piss me off. And I know I have to make a move.
I’ve taken down men with less.
With worse odds.
With more on the line.
And I’ll do it again.
For her?
I’ll risk it all.
Everything.
My life.
His life.
This entire fucking room.
Because she’s not his.
She never was.
“I’ll die before I let you touch her,” I promise.
He smiles.
Slow.
Twisted.
Raises the gun just a fraction higher.
“Oh,” he says. “We’ll see about that.”
Yeah.
We will.
Because one way or another—this ends with him on the ground.
And with her safe with me.
Right where she belongs.