Chapter 13 – Morgan #2
"I'm so sorry?—"
"Stop," she cut me off. "We've been over this. Not your fault. The only people to blame are the assholes who broke in."
I winced, thinking about everything she didn't know. "Yeah. About that... there's a lot going on."
"Wait," she said, her voice suddenly concerned. "Where are you calling from? That doesn't sound like there is a baby in the background."
"I'm in a car," I said. "With security."
"Security?" The alarm in her voice was clear. "Since when do you have security? Is this because of what happened at the co-op? Are you okay?"
I hesitated, unsure how much to tell her. "Yeah, it's related to that. Atticus insisted, after what happened."
"Well, I guess that makes sense," she said, though she still sounded suspicious. "But there's something else, isn't there? You've got that tone in your voice."
I sighed. She knew me too well. "I'm staying at Lance's."
"What?" The word exploded from her so loudly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "After everything? After how heartbroken you were? Morgan, what the hell?"
"It's not what you think," I said quickly. "It's complicated. I can't really explain right now, but... things have changed."
"Changed how? The guy broke your heart, and now you're living with him? Just like that?"
I could practically see her throwing her hands up in frustration.
"What am I missing here?"
"A lot, actually," I admitted. "I promise I'll explain everything later."
"You'd better," she warned. "Because this sounds crazy. Just... be careful, okay? And call me. Every day. Multiple times a day."
"I will," I promised, my throat tight.
"And if that man hurts you again, I'm coming after him with my pointy umbrella."
I laughed, the sound catching on something raw in my chest. "I'll let him know."
After hanging up, I noticed Rowan watching me with mild amusement.
"So," he said, breaking the awkward silence. "Fabric shopping on a Saturday. Must be important."
I took another sip of my smoothie. "Adele arranged for her people to get there early. Normally, I'd use what's in the studio, but I want to pick my own swatches for this collection."
"Any specific reason?" he asked, genuine interest in his voice.
I nodded. "I need to feel the fabric. To see it next to others.
There's a difference between what something looks like in a catalog and how it drapes, how it moves.
" I traced a pattern on my knee, remembering the way my mother used to do the same thing when explaining textiles to me.
"Being hands-on with the fabric tells you what it can become. "
Rowan was sweet, mildly flirtatious in that harmless way that told me he did it with everyone. It was... nice. Normal .
A reminder that outside the bizarre bubble of assassin families and forced marriages, regular life still existed.
Michael, on the other hand, hadn't said more than three words since we'd left the loft. His eyes constantly scanned our surroundings, one hand always near what I assumed was a concealed weapon.
The garment district was packed, as expected for a Saturday. Vendors lined the streets, fabric displays spilling onto the sidewalks in a riot of color and texture. Normally, this was my happy place. Today, with two hulking men flanking me, it felt claustrophobic.
"I just need to check a few stalls," I told them, weaving through the crowd toward my destination. "Shouldn't take long."
I spotted what I was looking for almost immediately—an emerald silk satin with just the right drape for the gown I'd designed. Perfect for the centerpiece of my collection. I reached for it just as a tiny, ancient woman grabbed the other end.
"Excuse me," I said, tugging gently. "I was just about to buy this."
The woman—easily in her eighties, with tinted blue hair and glasses thick as a bottle—glared up at me. "I had it first, young lady."
"I literally just watched you grab it after I did," I said, trying to keep my voice level. I really didn't have time for this. Not today.
"Are you calling me a liar?" she demanded, her voice rising.
People were starting to look. Great.
"No, I'm just saying?—"
Whack !
Pain exploded across my shoulder as her umbrella connected with unexpected force. For someone who looked like she'd blow away in a strong breeze, she packed a mean hit.
"Jesus!" I stumbled back, dropping the fabric. "Did you just hit me?"
Rowan stepped forward, placing himself between me and the umbrella-wielding granny. "Ma'am, please calm down."
"She's trying to steal my fabric!" the woman shrieked, drawing more attention. She swung her umbrella again, this time at Rowan, who dodged with surprising agility.
Michael moved in, his expression never changing as he reached for the woman's arm.
That's when the tears started.
"Help!" she wailed, giant crocodile tears streaming down her wrinkled face. "They're attacking an old woman! Help me!"
And just like that, we were surrounded.
Angry New Yorkers closed in, shouting and jostling.
Someone shoved Rowan from behind. Michael lost his grip on the woman as the crowd surged between us, separating me from both my guards.
Panic flared, hot and sharp in my chest. The faces around me blurred together, too many, too close. The air felt thin, insufficient.
I backed away, trying to get to the edge of the crowd, trying to find space to breathe. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. My lungs burned. The edges of my vision darkened.
Not now. Not here.
But the panic attack didn't care about convenient timing.
I stumbled away from the crowd, gasping for air, my legs carrying me blindly toward what I hoped was the street. I needed to get out, needed to find space, needed to breathe.
Through the blur of faces and bodies, a familiar profile caught my eye across the market—dark hair, strong jaw, confident stride. My heart stuttered. It couldn't be...
I blinked, and the man disappeared behind a stall of brightly colored fabrics.
Hector? Here?
No. My mind was playing tricks on me. The stress, the lack of sleep, the constant fear—they were making me see things. It had to be a coincidence, just someone who looked similar. The odds of Lance's brother actually being here, at this exact moment...
But when the man passed by another stall, I caught another glimpse. The resemblance was uncanny—the same predatory grace, the same calculated confidence.
My blood turned to ice in my veins.
I turned, trying to get back to Rowan and Michael, but the crowd had shifted, blocking my path. Panic clawed at my throat, making it impossible to call out.
Just breathe. Find the street. Get to the SUV.
I pushed through the throng, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst from my chest. Everything was too loud, too bright, too close. I couldn't focus. Couldn't think straight.
Somehow, I ended up in an unfamiliar alley between buildings, the sounds of the market muffled now. I leaned against the brick wall, trying to slow my breathing, trying to remember Lance's stupid breathing exercises.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Count to four.
When my head cleared enough for rational thought, I pulled out my phone.
No service. Of fucking course.
I pushed off the wall, determined to find my way back to the street. This wasn't a big deal. Just a wrong turn. Just a panic attack. Just my mind playing tricks on me.
Just another Saturday in my new reality.
The alley curved, leading to what appeared to be another street. Relief flooded me until I realized it was just another, narrower passage. I tried to retrace my steps, but everything looked different now. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows deepening despite the midday sun.
I was officially lost.
Trying to orient myself, I shoved my way through a steel door of the building directly to my right. Surely I’d either make my way through to the street or find someone to help me.
As I rounded another corner, voices drifted from somewhere ahead. Hope flared—maybe someone who could direct me back to the main street.
"I've been patient, Dominic." The cold, measured tone sent a chill down my spine.
I pressed myself against the wall, heart in my throat, and peered around the corner.
There they were. An old man and Hector, standing over a kneeling figure—a man with blood streaming from his nose, his face a mess of cuts and bruises.
"Please," the man whimpered. "I can explain."
"You had three months," the old man said, his voice eerily calm as he delivered a vicious kick to Dominic's ribs. The sickening crack of bone echoed in the narrow space. "Three months to deliver what was promised."
I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. This was happening. In broad daylight. In the middle of Manhattan.
Hector stood to the side, arms crossed, expression bored. Like this was routine. Like the brutal beating of a man was just business as usual.
The old man grabbed Dominic by the hair, yanking his head back with savage force. He placed a small silver knife against the man's throat, pressing just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
"Every minute you wasted," he hissed, "every dollar you cost me, will be repaid in pain."
He dragged the knife slowly down Dominic's cheek, carving a shallow line that immediately welled with blood. Dominic's scream was choked off as the old man shoved a handkerchief into his mouth.
"Grandfather," Hector said, checking his watch, "I have that meeting with the Koreans in twenty minutes."
The old man didn't look up from his work. "Go. I'll finish this myself."
Hector hesitated for only a second before nodding. "I'll see you later."
He walked away, passing so close to my hiding spot that I could smell his cologne—similar to Lance's but sharper, more metallic. I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, holding my breath until he disappeared around a corner.
The old man continued, methodically cutting shallow lines across Dominic's face like an artist working on canvas. "Now," he said, voice chillingly calm, "let's discuss what happens to people who betray my trust."
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The old man delivered another kick. Dominic fell forward, coughing blood onto the concrete. "One more chance," he begged when the gag fell away. "Please, just one more chance."
"We don't do second chances," the old man replied, pulling a gun from his jacket. The sunlight glinted off the metal as he pressed it against Dominic's forehead. "Say hello to my son for me."
Dominic's eyes went wide with terror. "No, please?—"
The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder, the sound reverberating off the alley walls. Dominic's body crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around his head.
Oh god.
I just witnessed a murder.
I backed away slowly, heart hammering so loud I was sure the old man could hear it. I had to get out of here. Had to find help. Had to?—
The old man glanced in my direction, as if sensing movement. I froze, praying the shadows would hide me.
He seemed to stare right at me for a heart-stopping moment before turning away, wiping the gun with a handkerchief and tucking it back into his jacket.
My legs trembled beneath me, threatening to give out. Sweat trickled down my back. Every nerve ending screamed at me to run, to hide, to do something.
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind, an arm like steel wrapping around my waist, pulling me back against a hard chest.
I screamed against the palm, the sound muffled and useless. Panic exploded through me as I was dragged backward into darkness.
This was it. This was how I died. In a dirty alley after witnessing something I shouldn't have.
Lance , I silently screamed his name.
"Hello, Morgan," a voice whispered in my ear, smooth and terrifyingly familiar. "What a pleasant surprise."
Hector .