Chapter 4 Sierra
SIERRA
The rooftop bar is already humming when I clock in, and I’m grateful for the distraction. String lights sway overhead in the warm breeze, casting soft golden pools across the polished counter. I tie my apron, roll my shoulders, and step behind the bar.
Then I see him.
End of the bar. Same seat as last night. Same intense stillness, like a predator waiting in tall grass.
The man from outside the coffee shop.
My stomach does something complicated. Part dread, part curiosity, part something else I refuse to name.
So much for coincidence.
I’m glad I wore this shirt tonight. Three-quarter sleeves that cover the bruises Viktor left on my arm, which have darkened overnight into ugly purple-green shadows. The last thing I need is questions. From customers. From this stranger who watches me like he’s filing away details for later use.
I paste on my bartender smile and approach him. “Welcome back.”
His eyes find mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s not checking me out. This is something else.
“Should I get you another Coke?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
One word. Practically a grunt.
Okay, then.
I glance at him as I fill his glass. “So, are you thinking about becoming a regular? Because if you are, I should probably catch your name.”
I’m not sure why I ask. Maybe because information feels like power, and right now, I have none.
“Matteo.”
I smile, secretly wondering if I’m going to have to remember that name while filing a police report.
Still, I default to friendly. It’s my armor, my autopilot, the thing I do when I don’t know what else to do. Over the next hour, I swap out empty glasses for full ones and attempt conversation.
“Where are you from?”
Nothing.
“Meeting anyone tonight?”
A grunt that could mean anything.
“Nice weather, right?”
That one’s actually a lie. It’s brutal tonight. The desert usually cools down after sunset, but the heat is sticking around like an uninvited guest. Of course this happens the one night I decided to cover up.
Sweat prickles at the back of my neck. I ignore it.
Matteo doesn’t engage. Doesn’t offer anything. Just sits there, all brooding silence and coiled tension, those blue eyes tracking my every move.
It should creep me out. It does creep me out.
But there’s something else, too. Something my survival instincts are screaming at me to ignore.
Because the man is unfairly attractive. Black hair swept back from his face, not styled with product but like he has a habit of running his fingers through it.
All hard angles from cheekbone to chin. Eyes the color of winter sky, intense and fringed with dark lashes.
His shoulders stretch his black T-shirt in ways that suggest he spends serious time in a gym.
He looks like a problem I don’t need. Which is probably why I can’t stop noticing him.
I didn’t fully appreciate it yesterday. I was too frazzled from Viktor cornering me outside the coffee shop, too busy being suspicious of this stranger who appeared out of nowhere right after.
Now I’m still suspicious. Just... slightly less frazzled.
At least here, I’m safe. Viktor tried to cause problems at the bar twice before, and my boss banned him. The bouncers know his face. They’ll never let him through those doors.
Small mercies.
“Another soda?” I ask when Matteo empties his glass.
“Water.”
I fill a glass and start to set it down. He reaches for it at the same moment.
Our fingers brush.
Heat shoots up my arm. Not the uncomfortable Vegas-summer kind. Something deeper. Electric. The noise of the bar fades for a heartbeat, maybe two, and I’m suddenly aware of how close he is. The faint scent of soap and something woodsy. The roughness of his fingertips against mine.
My breath catches.
Then my phone dings in my pocket, and the moment shatters.
I step back, pulling the device out before I can think better of it. The preview shows a text from an unknown number.
This is Viktor...
My shoulders tense. I should absolutely delete it without reading because nothing good has ever come from Viktor’s messages.
But I can’t stop myself. Some sick part of me needs to know what he’s saying. Maybe it’s the need to confirm he’s as unhinged as I think. Maybe it’s hoping I’ll find something specific enough to actually do something about.
I open it.
This is Viktor. Stop blocking me, you ungrateful bitch. You think you’re too good to answer? You belong to me. You’ve always belonged to me. I’m the only one who would ever put up with your bullshit, and deep down, you know it. Stop playing games before I lose my patience.
I feel myself shrinking, and I hate him for it. Hate myself more.
Eight months ago, I thought I was falling in love. Viktor seemed charming, interested, different from the string of losers I usually dated. He said he worked in “import-export.” Vague, but I didn’t push.
The more attached I got, the less he bothered to hide. Phone calls he used to take in another room started happening right in front of me. Men with hard eyes nodded to him when we walked into restaurants. Cash appeared in thick rolls instead of credit cards.
By the time I understood what he really was, I was already in deep.
A few months in, he asked my dad about using the shipping company to move product across the Mexican border. Dad refused without hesitation.
Some small, quiet part of me whispered that the timing wasn’t coincidence. That maybe I’d been a means to an end all along.
I buried that voice. Told myself the business thing was separate from us. That what we had was real, even if he’d made a bad judgment call.
I kept clinging to the man he pretended to be.
Then he stopped pretending entirely.
The psychological games came first. Little comments about my appearance, my job, my family. How I was lucky he put up with me. How no one else would want damaged goods like me.
Then came the isolation. The control. The way he made me feel grateful for scraps of affection.
I made excuses for weeks.
He was stressed.
He didn’t mean it.
He loved me in the only way he knew how.
Bullshit. All of it. Lies I told myself because admitting the truth meant admitting I’d been stupid enough to fall for someone capable of such cruelty.
When he put his hands on me the first time, I still didn’t leave.
That’s the part that makes me sick. The part I can’t tell anyone. How long I stayed. How hard I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that bad.
When I finally found the courage to end things a month ago, I thought the nightmare was over.
But Viktor doesn’t handle rejection well, and the stalking started immediately—showing up at my apartment, my work, anywhere he thought he could corner me. The texts came next, each one designed to crawl under my skin and remind me that he still had power over me.
Like this one.
You belong to me.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and grab a rag from the sanitizer bucket. I need to do something with my hands. Need to move. Need to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
I hate that reading his words can still transport me back to that dark place where I believed I deserved his treatment. My bottom lip trembles despite my best efforts to stay strong, and tears prick the corners of my eyes.
No. Absolutely not. I refuse to give that bastard one more tear.
“You okay?”
Matteo’s voice cuts through my spiral. My hands are shaking, so I focus on the repetitive motion, scrubbing at a spot on the bar that’s already clean.
“What’d that text say?” His eyes don’t leave my face. “You turned white as a sheet.”
“None of your business.”
“You’d be surprised.”
I look up sharply, something in his tone setting off alarm bells. “For someone who doesn’t like to talk, you sure are nosy.”
“So tell me.”
I should tell him to back off. Should remind him that customers don’t get to interrogate me about my personal life.
But I’m so tired. So goddamn tired of carrying this alone, of constantly looking over my shoulder.
“Let’s just say some guys don’t like taking no for an answer.”
Matteo’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of something hard.
“Are you talking about Viktor Ilyin?”
The rag slips from my numb fingers. Ice floods my veins, spreading from my chest outward until my entire body feels frozen. My lungs forget how to work.
“What did you just say?”
“I asked if you’re talking about Viktor Ilyin.”
He says it so casually. Like he didn’t just name the man who’s been terrorizing me for weeks. “Is he the one you’re scared of?”
Panic claws up my throat. How does he know that name? Why would he know that name? Unless...
Unless Viktor sent him.
It makes sense. Horrible, terrifying sense. Yesterday, Viktor cornered me outside the coffee shop. Told me I was nothing. That no one else would ever want me. Then just as I got away from him, Matteo appeared. Like he’d been waiting.
And now he’s here. In the one place Viktor can’t reach me.
“I just want to talk—”
“No.” I’m backing away from the bar, shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk to you, and when you see Viktor, you tell him to leave me alone. Do you understand? I’m sick of this shit!”
My voice carries across the rooftop. Several customers turn to stare. The bouncer straightens in my peripheral vision, hand moving toward his radio. I’m making a scene, exactly what I didn’t want to do at work.
But the idea of Matteo being connected to my psycho ex scares me enough to throw caution out the window.
“Leave.” I point toward the door, trying to keep my voice calm but firm. “I’m refusing you service.”
Matteo holds my gaze for a long moment. Something unreadable passes through his expression. Then he raises his hands slowly, palms out, and slides off the barstool.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’m not associated with that prick.”
He drops cash on the bar and walks out.
The words follow him as he walks away, disappearing through the crowd. I’m left staring after him, my heart thundering and questions spinning through my mind.
The moment he’s gone, Nell materializes beside me, her empty tray clutched against her chest.
“What the heck was that?”
I glance around. Half the rooftop is still watching. My face burns.
“Just another embarrassing situation,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Story of my life lately.”
Nell’s expression softens with understanding. She was here when Viktor showed up last month. Saw him screaming at me. Accusing me of flirting with customers. Trying to drag me out from behind the bar.
“That wasn’t nearly as bad as Viktor,” she offers.
“I guess.”
But it doesn’t feel like a win.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of forced smiles and automatic drink mixing. I try to be positive and friendly, but I know my energy is off. I can’t help it. I’m rattled by this new player in the drama my private life has become.
By closing time, my nerves are completely shot.
I check my phone as I clock out at two a.m. Another text from Viktor, sent hours ago while I was swamped with orders:
I won’t tolerate these games much longer. You keep testing me, and you’re not going to like what happens next. Remember, you belong to me.
Rage flares through my blood, hot and immediate. I delete the message and block the number, knowing it won’t matter. He’ll just get another one tomorrow.
My apartment is only a few blocks away, so I don’t usually drive. I like the exercise, and parking in this area is a nightmare anyway. I double-check that my mace is right on top in my purse and start walking, keeping my head up and eyes scanning the street.
Two blocks down. One to go.
I’m passing an alley between two buildings when I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
I stop. Spin.
Too late.
Strong arms wrap around me from behind and drag me into the dark.