Chapter 9
Knox
Knox lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling while the building settled around him. Traffic droned beyond the window, the city carrying on like nothing had changed, completely indifferent to the fact that his entire world felt like it had tilted off its axis.
Every time he tried to close his eyes, his body locked up like it was bracing for impact.
He could still see the warehouse with awful clarity—the blood spreading dark across gray concrete, the crack of fingers breaking, the floor manager’s face twisting in pain.
And Dominic.
Always Dominic.
Standing in the center of it all with that impossible calm.
Knox should’ve been horrified. He should’ve run. Instead, he’d stood there and watched, breathing through the stench of blood and gunpowder.
He rolled onto his side, curling inward until his knees pressed tight against his chest. He pressed his fist hard against his mouth, like he could shove the memories back by force.
At the club, he’d tried to let the noise and music drown everything out. What disturbed him was how well it had almost worked. How much easier it had felt in their company, surrounded by Cassian’s relentless nonsense and Dominic’s presence looming nearby.
It made no sense. How could a man who’d just put a bullet in someone’s head make him feel steadier? The logic was broken; it was twisted and backwards. Yet lying here in the silence, he hated how much he missed it anyway.
Then, inevitably, his thoughts dragged him somewhere worse. The champagne room came back all at once—red velvet, the smell of perfume and expensive liquor. The soft weight of the dancer in his lap and the practiced ease of her touch.
None of that was what stuck, though. It was Dominic’s gaze, locked on him through all of it. He’d wanted to focus on the girl, to lose himself in sensation, to disappear into something mindless enough to drown out everything else clawing through him.
But every time he looked up, Dominic was there. Seeing far too much. He hated what that had done to him, how his body had responded. If he was honest—and the thought made his stomach turn—it hadn’t been the dancer who pushed him over the edge.
It had been Dominic.
He remembered the unbearable feeling of being stripped down under that gaze, like Dominic was peeling him apart layer by layer just to see how he’d break.
And when he finally came…
God.
It had hit him hard, heat tearing through him so fast he hadn’t even had time to think.
There had been nothing to hold onto except Dominic’s stare.
Even as his body shook and humiliation and pleasure tangled into something impossible to separate, he hadn’t been able to look away.
It had felt like a confession, like giving something away he could never get back.
He turned his face into the pillow and bit down hard. As if summoned by the self-disgust, his father’s voice came roaring back: old and ugly and impossible to shake.
You see those boys on the street? The ones who walk funny? Disgusting. Don’t ever let anyone think you’re one of those little faggots. You hear me? No son of mine. You keep that kinda shit out of your head, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.
He pressed the heel of his hand hard over his eyes until stars burst behind them.
Breathe.
Just fucking breathe.
The memories and the shame wouldn’t fade. Everything in him felt exposed, raw, like some hidden, unforgivable part of him had been dragged into the light where anyone could see it.
This wasn’t who he was. It couldn’t be. He was the guy who worked double shifts and counted grocery money twice. The guy who knew how to survive, even if it meant grinding himself down to nothing.
Though if he was being honest, he’d never exactly been easy to manage, either.
Teachers had figured that out early enough.
He was smart—smart enough that people expected things from him—which only made it worse when he didn’t deliver.
He got bored too easily, pushed too hard, mouthed off when he should’ve kept quiet, and had a talent for finding trouble.
He’d never been some golden kid, but there were still lines he hadn’t crossed. He didn’t run packages for criminals. He didn’t stand in rooms where men decided who lived and who died. And he sure as shit didn’t come apart while staring into another man’s eyes.
So why, even now, did his pulse still kick at the memory?
* * *
Quitting his job wasn’t a dramatic scene.
He just handed over his keys, mumbled something vague about family stuff, and stood there awkwardly while the owner tried to talk him out of it.
He declined as politely as he could, said thanks, and left before the conversation could turn into long goodbyes.
He took the bus, then walked for a while, not ready to go home and face what waited for him there. By the time he finally stopped moving, he’d been wandering long enough to lose track of where he was. He stared at his phone for a long time before texting Tara.
Me: You around?
She was. She somehow always was.
Ten minutes later, her beat-up Honda pulled to the curb.
Knox slid into the passenger seat, and Tara took one look at him before pulling back into traffic.
She didn’t ask why he needed rescuing, or why he was so quiet.
She just drove, one hand on the wheel, music low, letting him stare out at the city sliding past.
They ended up in the parking lot of an In-N-Out, fries balanced on the dash, windows down, the smell of grease filling the car. Tara had ordered for both of them, his usual plus an extra milkshake he hadn’t asked for.
She tossed a fry at him. “You look like absolute shit.”
Knox snorted. “Thanks. That’s exactly the look I was going for.”
“Glad to help. So. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer, just stared out at the sky.
Tara took a sip of her milkshake. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you have that look you get right before you do something really stupid.”
“Do I?”
“Absolutely.” She pointed her straw at him. “Last time you looked like this, you shaved your head at two in the morning.”
He rolled his eyes. “That was your idea.”
“True,” she admitted cheerfully. “And I still maintain it was a strong look.”
He managed half a smile, but stayed quiet.
Eventually Tara’s tone shifted. “Okay. Seriously. Talk.”
He exhaled slowly. “I quit.”
Her head turned immediately. “You quit?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s…” She set her shake down. “That’s not exactly small, Knox.”
“I know.” He rubbed his thumb against his palm.
“What happened?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. What exactly was he supposed to say?
Hey Tara, so apparently I’m tangled up in organized crime now. I watched people get murdered, got my head thoroughly fucked with by a terrifying mob boss, and now I’m not entirely sure what the hell is wrong with me.
He stared at his hands. “I saw something.”
Tara went still.
“Just…” He shook his head. “Something that made me realize how fast life can go sideways. How easy it is to end up somewhere you never meant to be.”
Her voice softened. “That sounds scary.”
“Yes.” The answer came too fast. He swallowed. “And no.”
Tara leaned back, giving him her full attention now.
“I should’ve walked away,” he went on.
“From what?”
“I can’t tell you.” His lips pressed together. “Any normal person would’ve run. But instead I just…” He dragged a hand over his face. “I turned toward it. I think I might be more messed up than I realized.”
Tara was quiet for a long moment. “Are you in trouble?”
He just stared at her, exhausted in ways he couldn’t explain.
“Shit,” she said.
“I just…” He scrubbed his face. “I don’t know how to go home right now and act like everything’s normal.”
Tara nodded slowly. “So you texted me.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad.”
* * *
That evening they ended up at O’Malley’s without ever really deciding to. It was muscle memory at this point. Whenever life got too loud, too boring, or someone got dumped, fired, punched, or just needed an excuse to drink, the four of them always ended up here.
It smelled like fryer oil and old wood soaked with a thousand spilled beers. The lights were low enough to hide the cracks in the booths and the bartenders had stopped checking IDs years ago. It was a dive, but it was theirs.
Logan and Miguel were already there when they walked in, halfway through a basket of fries and arguing about something sports-related.
“Tell him he’s an idiot,” Logan said the second he spotted them. Logan was blond, solidly built, with a crooked nose and the kind of voice that never seemed capable of indoor volume.
Miguel sat beside him, leaner and quieter, dark-haired, sharp features. His attention was fixed on the TV over the bar like the game actually mattered.
Tara slid into the booth and stole a fry. “What are we pretending to care about tonight?”
“Football,” Miguel said.
“Then I definitely don’t care,” Tara laughed.
Knox shrugged off his jacket and slid in beside her, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.
Miguel glanced over. “You look tired,” he said.
“Wow,” Knox muttered. “Everyone’s really committed to making me feel beautiful tonight.”
Logan grinned. “Don’t listen to him. You always look tired.”
Tara reached for another fry. “Did you guys already order actual food?”
“Some,” Logan said. “Not enough for everyone.”
Knox grabbed a menu. “Rude.”
They ordered another round of food and settled into the kind of conversation that never really had a beginning or end.
They drifted into stories about high school, about Tara’s disastrous attempt to bartend one summer, about the time Logan tried to beat the out-of-towners at pool and ended up owing half the bar a drink.
They bickered about wings versus nachos and argued which song to play on the jukebox.
The same familiar arguments looping around until it became its own kind of comfort.
They’d all grown up together—same schools, same neighborhood, enough shared trouble to fill a lifetime.
Tara was the only one who’d made it to college, grinding through classes in Stockton with the same stubborn determination she brought to everything else.
Knox should have been there too. People had assumed he’d figure something out. That intelligence would somehow outweigh everything else. Then life happened. And somehow one year became two, then more, until college became one of those things people stopped mentioning.
“So,” Logan drawled, nudging Knox with an elbow, “you really quit the graveyard shift? Who’s gonna sell me Red Bulls at three a.m. now?”
Knox made a face. “You’ll live. Maybe even sleep for once.”
He relaxed back into the seat, and for a while, everything was almost normal. He liked these moments, the ones that didn’t demand anything from him. The laughter came easier than he expected, and for a little while, he forgot to stay tense.
Tara nudged his thigh under the table in a silent check-in. “You okay?” she mouthed.
He nodded, not trusting himself to answer out loud.
He knew it wouldn’t last. And sure enough, only a few minutes later, his phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up.
Dominic: Tomorrow. 09:00. Ironclad Gym, 214 Harlow St. Come dressed to train.
Just like that, the air left his lungs.
His friends were still talking, laughing about something he’d already lost the thread of.
Logan was mid-story, gesturing with a fry.
Tara was rolling her eyes at him. All of it painfully normal.
Knox turned the phone face-down on the table, forced a smile, and nodded at something Logan said as though he’d heard any of it.
No one at the table seemed to notice the shift. But for him, everything had tilted. He could already feel himself pulling away.
Part of him was already preparing to go whenever Dominic called.