Chapter 1 #2
I nod but don't take my eyes off Vivian Russo. She's staring at me like I'm a hostile witness she's about to cross-examine. Like she's already cataloging my weaknesses and planning her attack.
It's working. And I hate that it's working.
"Marshal." I finally break eye contact and extend my hand. "I'll check in through secure channels if there are developments."
"Protect her, Cross." Taylor's grip is firm, his eyes serious. "She's the only one who can identify Dominic Castellano at the scene. Without her testimony, he walks. And if he walks, twenty years of building cases against that family goes up in smoke."
"Understood."
Taylor nods to Vivian, something almost paternal in his expression. "You're in good hands, Ms. Russo. Cross's reputation is well-earned."
"I'm sure it is." She doesn't sound convinced.
After Taylor leaves, the silence grows heavy. I'm aware of her presence, the way she's moved to the window to watch the SUV disappear down the mountain. Her silhouette against the dying light.
"Ground rules." I force myself into operational mode. "You don't leave this cabin without me. Ever. You don't approach windows without confirming sight lines. You don't make any communications without my knowledge. No phones, no email, no exceptions."
She turns from the window, one eyebrow raised. "And if there's an emergency with my mother? She's in assisted living. Early-onset dementia. She may not remember my name, but she knows my voice, and her caregivers have my number for a reason."
"Emergencies get routed through me. I'll assess the threat level before any communication."
"You'll assess." Her laugh is short and sharp. "So, you'll decide if I can speak to my dying mother."
"I'm telling you that the Castellanos have resources. Sophisticated resources. They can clone phone signals, intercept satellite communications, run voice recognition software. One call at the wrong moment could bring a hit squad to this mountain."
"I'm aware of their capabilities. I've been prosecuting organized crime for eight years."
"Then you should know better than to argue with the man trying to keep you alive."
We stare at each other. That charge from earlier still stubbornly present.
Vivian Russo is here because people want her dead. She's my responsibility. My mission. I don't get distracted on missions.
Not anymore.
"The bathroom is through that door." I point without looking. "Dinner's in an hour. Tomorrow we establish routines and I show you the security protocols. Tonight, you rest."
"Rest." Dry humor, like I've suggested something absurd. "My career is in ruins, my apartment is a crime scene, and the last man who tried to kill me got close enough that I could smell his breath. But sure. I'll rest."
"You will. Because tomorrow I start training you. If you're going to be on my mountain, you're going to learn to survive on it. That means you need to not be exhausted."
"Train me?" Interest flickers across her face, quickly suppressed. "In what?"
"Everything. Shooting. Tracking. Hand-to-hand. How to read terrain and use it defensively. You survived twice on instinct and luck. I'm going to teach you to survive on skill."
She's quiet for a long moment. When I glance over my shoulder, she's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Why? I thought you were here to protect me. Not turn me into some kind of wilderness warrior."
"Because protection fails." The words come out harder than intended. "People I'm supposed to protect die. It's happened before. It could happen again."
I don't explain further. Don't tell her about the six lives that ended because I wasn't fast enough, good enough. But the combativeness in her expression drains away, replaced by something that looks almost like understanding.
"I'm sorry." Just above a whisper. "I don't know what happened to you. But I'm sorry you carry it."
The apology catches me off guard. I'm not used to people reading me. Definitely not used to them responding with compassion instead of judgment.
"Get settled," I say roughly. "Dinner in an hour."
I turn back to the stove and focus on the mechanical act of cooking. Behind me, I hear her gather her bags and head down the hall. The door to the second bedroom opens, then closes.
I release a breath.
Vivian Russo is going to be a problem. Not because she's difficult or stubborn, though she clearly is. But because she makes me want to crack open the walls I've spent years building.
And those walls are the only thing keeping me functional.
I survived Kandahar. Survived the guilt that nearly drove me to eat my own sidearm in the months after. I built this life out of the wreckage of the man I used to be, and I did it by refusing to let anyone get close enough to hurt me again.
Twenty minutes ago, Vivian Russo looked at me like she could see straight through to my damage.
Twenty minutes ago, my chest did something it hasn't done in years.
I chop vegetables with more force than necessary and focus on the mission. Guard the witness. Keep her alive until she can testify. Get her out of my cabin and back to her life.
That's the job.
Everything else is noise.