Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
A s soon as the door closes behind me, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. I don’t even have time to take a full step into the room before…
“You okay?”
I jump, startled by the sound of Cooper’s voice coming from the kitchen.
“Yeah.” I wince, trying to mask the way my nerves still hum under my skin. “Long day.”
He doesn’t ask more, just hands me a glass of wine, like we do this all the time. Like he’s still the person I want to come home to.
“Here.”
The moment I take it, I catch the smell. Garlic, rosemary, something sweet—vanilla maybe. My gaze sweeps over the dining table, and I freeze.
“What’s all this?” I whisper.
The table’s dressed like a scene from a rom-com.
Containers filled with steaming food, plates neatly arranged; almost too perfect.
Candles flicker in the center, their soft glow making the room look warmer than it’s felt in months.
But what really catches me is the familiarity of it all.
This isn’t Cooper’s doing. Cooper doesn’t cook.
And this spread, it’s from Olive that I don’t feel guilty at all.
I thought I’d managed one Axel-free day. But the second I step outside to grab lunch, that illusion shatters.
Colombo is leaning against the familiar sleek black SUV, arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracking me like a predator waiting for a twitch.
There’s a glint of amusement in his gaze; he’s enjoying this.
Enjoying me seeing him. And judging by the slow curl of a smirk on his lips, he hears the reluctance in every breath, even from ten meters away.
I freeze.
Just for a moment. Like a deer too smart to run, but too dumb to disappear. But we both know I’m not going back inside. Not without drawing attention. Not without consequences. So I exhale the curse caught in my throat and stalk toward him.
“Miss Caruthers.” He dips his chin in mock respect, then swings the passenger door open like he’s inviting me into something holy.
I hesitate.
Colombo is smiling . And that, more than anything, unsettles me. He’s usually stone-faced, professional. Brutal in his silence. But now? He’s practically glowing. Whatever this is, it’s off—and I don’t like it.
“Let me guess,” I mutter once I’m inside the vehicle. “Axel wants to see me.”
The door shuts with a dull thunk before Colombo climbs into the other side and starts the engine. “Knew you were smarter than you looked.”
I bite my tongue at his remark, resisting the urge to lash out. I could, if I wanted to. If I had a death wish. “Why can’t he come himself?” I ask.
“You can ask him that,” he grumbles, turning us into the traffic.
I avert my gaze, focusing on something else—anything but the way Colombo keeps looking at me like he’s dissecting me piece by piece and enjoying every second of it. My attention flicks to the dashboard, to the steady tick of the turn signal, to the blur of movement outside the window.
None of it holds.
Because I can still feel his eyes on me.
Heavy. Intent. Like he knows exactly how uncomfortable I am and is savoring the power in it.
It crawls along my spine, slow and deliberate, and I press my lips together to keep from showing just how much it’s getting to me.
I focus on breathing, on pretending like I’m unbothered, like his gaze doesn’t feel like a threat wrapped in a smile.
But it does. And we both know it.
“Relax,” he chuckles. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You really need to lighten up.”
The words are too easy, too practiced. They’re designed to lull you into a false sense of safety, but I’m not fooled.
“Can you stop looking at me like that?” I snap. “It’s disturbing.”
“This is my natural face.”
“So you naturally look like you’re about to snap someone’s neck?”
He laughs. “Only if I want them dead.”
The traffic light ahead of us turns red; the car glides to a smooth stop. But my pulse doesn’t. It spikes, hard and fast, like it’s trying to outrun something. I know it’s a coincidence—Colombo’s timing isn’t that perfect—but for a split second, I wonder. I doubt .
Then he catches my eye in the rearview mirror and smiles.
“I don’t want you dead.”
I swallow hard, my voice dry. “Well, that’s comforting.”
“At least not until Axel’s in the clear.” He laughs again—loud and full-bodied, like he just told a good joke. But all I feel is the icy press of dread winding around my ribs.
“You don’t get tired of this?” I ask, my voice edged like glass. “Running around after him?”
He bristles. It’s small, but I catch it.
“I don’t run after Axel,” he grumbles. “I help him.”
“Right. And why is that?” I press. “What do you get out of it?”
His jaw ticks, but he keeps his eyes on the road. For a moment, the silence is thick enough to choke on.
“It’s not something you’d understand.”
I scoff, folding my arms. “Because I’m not in the mafia?”
“No,” he says, quieter this time. “Because you’re not us .”
That shuts me up.
It hits harder than I expected. Because for all the rumors, all the whispered stories about The Five, he’s right—I wouldn’t understand. I don’t know what it’s like to be them . To bleed for it. To be bound by it.
Colombo drives for another block before speaking again. “You want him to come to you? Ask him. Say it to his face. ”
I laugh under my breath, the sound bitter and humorless. “Sure. Let me just write out my suicide note first.”
“He won’t hurt you,” Colombo tells me, voice low and steady. But there’s a strange weight behind it, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.
“How do you know that?” I ask, and this time I don’t hide the shake in my voice.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just parks up and steps out of the car, circling to my side. He opens the door and extends his hand.
“Trust me,” he assures as he pulls me to my feet and grabs my bag from the seat, handing it over like a peace offering.
I stare at him. “I’m trusting the mafia now. That’s where I’m at.”
He grins in response. “Better get used to it.”
I turn with an exhale, noticing the neighborhood we’ve stopped in is almost laughably normal.
Three-story brownstone homes with trimmed hedges and cracked sidewalks line the street.
It looks like a place where people barbecue on weekends and argue over parking spots.
Not the kind of area where someone like Axel should exist.
Colombo walks ahead, stepping up to a black wooden door. He punches a code into a keypad beside it while I trail behind, my heels crunching over brittle leaves, breaking the quiet of the street.
The door clocks and Colombo holds it open, eyes gleaming. “Give him hell,” he says with a wink as I step inside.
I don’t respond. I already know hell might be the only place this path leads to.