Chapter 14
MARCO
Dr. Savannah Carter was good at her job. Too good. The kind of good that meant she didn’t let things slide. She saw things she shouldn’t. She asked questions I didn’t want to answer.
She flipped through my file, the familiar creak of her office chair filling the silence. “Your shoulder is still stiff, but that’s not news. Your range of motion is about the same as last time.”
“Good to know,” I muttered.
She sighed. “Marco.”
I didn’t respond, just looked past her out the window, where the sun was bleeding through the blinds in broken lines.
“You’re still overcompensating with your right side,” she continued, crossing one leg over the other. “And don’t even get me started on your leg.”
She flipped the page, scanning whatever notes she’d scribbled last time. If I had to guess, it was the same shit she always wrote.
“Old news,” I finally murmured. And it was. Even though I’d put in the work, there was still no change. I wasn’t going back to the field.
Her mouth twitched subtly, but I caught it. “Your Chief of Operations told me you resigned.”
I looked up at her.
“Six months ago,” she continued. “You didn’t tell me that during your last visit.”
“Didn’t seem relevant.”
Her eyebrow lifted slightly, the barest sign of amusement. “You don’t think your entire career shift is relevant? You spent almost fifteen years in the military, Marco. Intelligence, high-risk operations—that’s not exactly something you just walk away from.”
Fifteen years.
It was a long time. I’d built myself around it. It shaped who I was, what I did, how I saw the world. The military had defined me for so long that without it I wasn’t sure what was left. Some lawyer in an overpriced suit handling other people’s messes instead of creating them.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Savannah sighed, leaning forward. Her voice softened just enough to grate on my nerves.
“You don’t think leaving all that behind might have something to do with why you’re not healing?
Your body follows your mind. If you’re still mentally stuck in a place you’re no longer physically in, how do you expect to move forward? ”
I looked away again, jaw tight. I hated that she was right. I hated even more that admitting it made me feel weak.
Truth was, I wasn’t good at leaving things behind. Never had been. Not my career. Not the missions that replayed themselves in my head. Not the anger simmering beneath my skin—at myself, at my body for betraying me, at the life I thought I had control over but didn’t.
I had this habit of sticking around far too long, showing up for everyone else even when I should be focused on myself.
It was a vicious cycle—one I couldn’t seem to break.
I’d step in to clean up someone else’s mess, carry someone else’s burden, only to realize too late they wouldn’t do the same for me.
They never did.
It went back as far as I could remember. Parents who didn’t keep me long enough to even matter, surrendering me to a fire-station doorstep before they even knew who I was. Foster parents who saw me as a paycheck rather than a person, discarding me the moment I became more trouble than profit.
Then Remy, who I’d called a brother, who’d promised loyalty right up until the moment it mattered.
Gone. Just like everyone else. Even the military—the place I’d finally convinced myself was home, the one thing I’d let define me—had turned its back.
One injury, one fuckup, and suddenly, fifteen years of sacrifice didn’t mean shit.
Every time, the pattern was the same.
I showed up, I stayed loyal, and eventually, inevitably, I was the one left standing there betrayed by the people and the things I’d let myself believe in.
I didn’t care to continue the conversation.
“I’ll see you in six weeks,” I said, standing up.
“You know,” she said as I was about to step out, “you could stop running at some point. There’s nothing left to chase.”
She was wrong about that. There was always something left to chase.
There was always some loose end, some unanswered question, something lingering in my mind refusing to fade.
I’d spent my life running after things even when I knew better.
Missions, approval, redemption. Hell, peace of mind.
Things I never quite caught but always convinced myself I was getting close to.
And lately, that thing, whatever it was, had started taking shape. Started having a face, a voice, a name I didn’t want to keep thinking about but found myself returning to anyway.
Valentina.
It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t something I’d chosen.
It wasn’t like I’d woken up one morning and decided she’d be the newest puzzle piece in my head, the latest distraction I didn’t ask for.
She’d just started showing up there on her own, completely uninvited, stubbornly persistent.
At first, it was irritation. Annoyance at her recklessness, her carelessness, her self-destructive chaos that should’ve made me steer clear, not pull me closer.
But somewhere along the way, irritation had turned into something else.
Curiosity, maybe, or some reluctant fascination.
She was stubborn as hell, determined to sabotage herself at every turn, defiant even when it cost her.
And somehow, the more she pushed, the more I found myself quietly watching, wondering what the hell she thought she was proving.
It was inconvenient. It was distracting. It was annoying as hell, honestly, because she didn’t belong in my head.
I was supposed to be disciplined. I was supposed to have stayed in DC.
Instead I found myself back on a plane that night.
Max was hosting another event. Another excuse to bring out the suits and the aged whiskey. This time it was Mikhail’s win—some waterfront property he’d finally locked down. Good location. Good money. Didn’t matter to me. That wasn’t what I was there for.
It was pathetic, really. I’d faced every brand of hell imaginable, and yet here I was, flying halfway across the country just to maybe catch a glimpse of a woman I had no business thinking about.
I knew better. I’d always known better.
But knowing better didn’t stop me from stepping off the plane, adjusting my tie, and walking straight into another room full of people I couldn’t care less about, just to see if she might be there, standing somewhere on the outskirts, waiting to ruin me all over again.
I’d barely made it in before people started coming up to me. Half of them I recognized, half of them I didn’t. A few nods, a few firm handshakes, a few offhand remarks about cases I wasn’t at liberty to discuss.
It was all routine by now—the small talk, the smiles, the vague answers. They asked about Remy, about my work, about things they didn’t really care about. I gave the same generic responses, because I knew better than to say anything real. You didn’t get points for honesty at these events.
I ended up at the bar. Ordered a water.
Rosalie, Max’s wife, slid into the seat beside me, crossing her legs, her dress smooth against the leather stool. She waved two fingers at the bartender. “Martini.”
I watched her silently. Of all the people I’d met through Max, Rosalie was the hardest to read.
Not because she was particularly mysterious, but because she wasn’t.
She wore exactly who she was on her sleeve.
She’d married Max knowing exactly what she was getting herself into, and unlike most people who circled around him, she never acted like it was a chore.
Maybe that was why Max was so wrapped around her finger. He wasn’t the type to let people get close, yet Rosalie had somehow managed to make herself the exception.
“What, is Max keeping tabs on my liquor intake now too?”
“Not that I know of.”
When the bartender placed the martini in front of her, her eyes lit up. “Though I am curious. No whiskey? No scotch? For a dirty lawyer, I figured you’d have a better drink in your hand.”
I glared at her. “If I’m a dirty lawyer, what does that make your husband?”
Rosalie laughed, unimpressed. “Rich.”
I didn’t argue.
She watched me carefully, like she always did, as if she knew all my secrets. “You’ve been gone for a while.”
“Had business.”
“Business?” she questioned. “And how much longer are you planning to pretend this ‘business’ isn’t personal?”
I turned to her fully, one brow raised. “What do you mean?”
She smiled. “You know exactly what I mean.”
I didn’t answer, because I did know. And I didn’t like where this conversation was going.
“I think the rumors were right about you after all,” she said.
“Rumors are rarely worth entertaining.”
Rosalie smirked. “Except when they’re true.”
I knew what she was getting at—the whispers about why I’d stuck around New York longer than planned. Why I kept finding myself back in circles I’d sworn off.
I gave her a bored look, masking whatever else I felt beneath it. “And which rumors are we talking about, exactly? You’ve always been very creative.”
“The one where you put Cillian in the ground.”
That rumor was definitely true.
“You’ve already accused me of this,” I argued.
“You feel bad, don’t you?”
I let out an unamused laugh. “An interesting theory.”
She leaned in just slightly. “Is it wrong?”
“You think I feel bad?”
She smirked, resting her elbow against the bar. “Don’t you?”
Rosalie was guessing. Throwing out lines, waiting to see which one I’d bite.
She mistook my silence for guilt. Mistook my patience for hesitation. I wasn’t about to correct her.
“Tell me,” I said, giving her my full attention. “If you were on a jury, would you convict me based on speculation alone? Because that’s all you’ve got.”
“Maybe not. But people make decisions based on a lot less.”
“People like you? Do you think this is some kind of moral crisis?”
She tilted her head. “I think you’re a lot of things, Marco, but I don’t think you’re heartless.”
“I do my job,” I muttered. “The fallout never matters.”