Chapter 12
twelve
Zach
The image won’t leave me.
It sits behind my eyes like it’s been burned there, replaying without warning no matter where I look, no matter what I try to focus on, like everything else has been pushed aside to make room for it.
Lia on her knees.
The gag pulled tight across her mouth.
The blood on her lip.
The way she looked terrified.
It hits me again, sharp enough that my stomach turns, and I have to swallow it down as I stand beside the car, keys clenched in my hand, my hip throbbing in that deep, familiar way that’s starting to bleed into everything else.
I shouldn’t be here.
I know that.
I know exactly what this is.
I didn’t come here because this helps.
I came because I don’t know what else to do with myself.
Because standing in that apartment, watching Elijah unravel into something darker every hour, watching Jackson pull that video apart like he can force it to give him something if he stares hard enough.
I can’t stand there and do nothing.
The car pulls up like it always does.
Same place.
Same distance.
Same quiet stop like nothing has changed.
The window lowers halfway.
I step closer.
He looks at me longer than usual this time, his eyes dragging over my face like he’s taking stock of something.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice rough. “Been a long couple of days.”
“You’re not handling things well.”
It’s not a question.
“Something happen?”
The way he says it makes something shift in the back of my mind, something that’s been there before, something I’ve ignored because I didn’t have the space to care about it.
He always knows more than he should. It flickers.
Then the image of her pushes forward again and drowns it out.
I hold his gaze anyway.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
It comes out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t react.
Doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t smile.
“No one you need to worry about,” he says.
That answer does nothing.
If anything, it makes the feeling worse.
But I don’t push it.
I don’t have anything left to push with.
He hands me the pills.
“Things are gonna get tight,” he says. “Real tight.”
My hand closes around them automatically.
“What does that mean?”
He leans back slightly.
“Streets are getting quiet,” he says. “People aren’t moving like they usually do.”
A pause.
“Something’s building.”
War.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. The window rolls up. The car pulls away.
I stand there for a second, watching it go, that same uneasy feeling sitting just under everything else.
He knows something.
Or at least, he knows enough to say it like that.
I don’t follow it.
I can’t.
Instead, I pull my phone out and take a quick photo of the number plate before the car disappears completely.
Just in case.
Something to give them.
Something that might actually matter.
I get into my car and sit there for a second, the pills still in my hand, my grip tightening as her face pushes forward again.
I don’t hesitate. I take more. Too many. I know it. I just don’t stop. The drive back barely registers.
Everything blurs.
The road.
The turns.
The city.
None of it sticks.
The pain dulls, but nothing touches what’s sitting in my head.
Her.
That look in her eyes.
By the time I get back to the apartment, everything feels wrong.
Like I’m holding myself together badly.
I push the door open and step inside.
Elijah barely looks at me.
Jackson is still at the table, still freezing frames, still staring at that same moment over and over like he’s trying to force it to change.
I catch it as I pass.
Her face.
Paused.
That fear.
It hits all over again.
Harder this time.
I don’t stop.
I go straight down the hall and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me harder than I mean to.
I grip the sink, leaning over it, breathing uneven as the room tilts slightly, the pills hitting harder now, deeper, heavier.
Cold water.
I turn the tap on and splash my face.
It doesn’t help.
I reach into my pocket again. More pills. I take them. Because I can’t sit in this. I can’t keep seeing that.
The number plate flashes through my head.
I need to tell them. I push away from the sink.
The movement is wrong.
Too fast.
The room spins hard enough that I have to grab the counter again, my vision blurring, my chest tightening in a way that feels off.
Not just the pills.
Something else.
Something worse.
I try to step forward.
My legs don’t follow.
And then everything drops.
Something hits my face. Hard.
“Zach, hey, what’s wrong with you?”
Jackson.
Close.
Too loud.
I try to open my eyes. They don’t stay open. Everything comes in pieces.
“Move.”
Lucian’s voice cuts through it. Not loud. Not panicked. Sharp enough that it lands anyway.
Hands are on me, dragging me back, pulling me out of the bathroom, my body heavy and uncooperative as they lower me onto the floor.
“What did you take?” Lucian asks, already going through my pockets before I can answer.
“Pills,” I manage. “In my pocket—”
He pulls them out, checks them, and something shifts in his expression.
“He’s taken too many,” he says. “This isn’t just a slip, this is deliberate.”
“Fuck!” Elijah snaps. “You fucking idiot!”
“I can’t...” My voice breaks. “I can’t handle it...”
The words fall apart as I try to hold onto them.
“I need her...I need her back...”
“He’s overdosing,” Lucian says, already pulling his phone out. “And he’s crashing.”
“He’s diabetic too,” Elijah adds quickly. “That’s not just the pills.”
Lucian is already making the call.
“I need you here now,” he says, his voice controlled, precise. “Yes. Immediately.”
Everything around me feels too loud and too far away at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t know what to do. She’s gone...I don’t know how to help.”
“You’re not helping by doing this,” Elijah snaps.
“Give him a break,” Jackson fires back. “Not everyone handles this the way you do.”
“He’s killing himself!”
“And you’re out there beating people to death, don’t act like that’s better!”
“Enough.”
Christian’s voice cuts through both of them, sharp and final.
“Both of you, out. Now. Give me his phone.”
Movement.
Footsteps.
The room shifts.
Lucian stays.
He leans over me, one hand steady on my shoulder, grounding without force, his voice lower now but far more deliberate.
“You don’t get to check out,” he says.
Not angry. Not soft. Just certain.
I try to focus on him. It doesn’t hold.
“I don’t deserve to stay,” I mumble.
“That’s not your decision,” he replies. “That’s hers.”
The words land differently.
Not comfort. Not permission. Something else.
“You want her back,” he continues, his voice even, “you stay in this. You don’t get to disappear when it hurts.”
“I don’t know how,” I admit.
The words feel weak.
Useless.
He studies me for a second.
“If you stay with us,” he says, “I’ll show you.”
Something in me catches on that.
Barely.
“You’re a Bellandi,” I mumble. “You make people bleed.”
A quiet hum.
“Only when I’m really mad,” he says. “Most of the time, I don’t need to.”
The words sit there.
Strange.
Unfamiliar.
“You don’t have to become him,” he adds, not looking toward where Elijah was, but the meaning lands anyway. “You just have to stop losing control of yourself.”
The room tilts again.
Heavier.
Darker.
I’m slipping.
“My phone,” I mumble. “The plate… the dealer… he was acting weird… I got it…”
His attention sharpens slightly.
“Good,” he says. “That’s something we can use.”
Everything is fading.
I force the words out anyway.
“Fine,” I manage. “I’ll stay.”
My chest tightens.
“For her.”
Lucian nods once.
“Good choice.”
His hand stays steady on me.
“Stay with me,” he says.
And this time I try.