Chapter 9
NINE
brIAR
The subway ride blurs past in a haze of noise and fluorescent lights, the day’s weight pressing down on me until my bones ache.
My brain won’t shut off, cycling endlessly through my boss’s clipped voice, Matteo’s mocking smile, and the gnawing sense that I’m standing on the edge of something sharp that’s going to cut me if I get too close.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I missed lunch and all I want is food and to veg out in front of the TV and to forget the shit show of my life as it currently was.
I toss my bag onto the sofa when I finally walk through the door and lock it behind me, double-checking the deadbolt before I even take my shoes off. It’s become a habit — one I didn’t think I’d need again after divorcing Matteo.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I head into the kitchen, drag open the fridge, and pull out the leftover chicken I’d defrosted that morning and the bag of Caesar salad. I don’t even bother seasoning it beyond a splash of oil and salt before sliding it into the air fryer. Something simple, which is exactly what I need right now.
The sizzle of chicken, the crunch of lettuce under the knife, the hum of the TV I switch on in the background — it all helps, a thin illusion that maybe tonight I can breathe without looking over my shoulder.
Wishful thinking in truth. Matteo won’t leave me alone.
Not now that he knows where I live and that I’m back in New York.
Maybe I ought to take up Mr. Moretti’s suggestion that I move in with him until all of this settles down.
But will it settle? Matteo wasn’t known for forgiveness, and he hated to lose.
That he lost me I know would still piss him off.
By the time I sit down on the sofa with my chicken salad, the room is bathed in soft lamplight, the city muted behind the curtains. A rerun of some sitcom plays on the TV, laugh tracks filling the silence. I spear a piece of chicken with my fork and try to let my shoulders loosen.
Then comes the knock.
Sharp. Sudden.
I freeze mid-bite, the fork suspended halfway to my mouth. My attention flicks to the door. Nobody visits me. Stacy texts when she wants to come over and I buzz her up, and Mr. Moretti would never — would he?
The knock comes again, harder this time.
My throat tightens. Slowly, I set the fork down on my plate and place it on my coffee table. I cross the room on bare, silent feet and peer through the peephole.
No one.
I frown, unlocking the deadbolt, but leaving the chain in place. “Who is it?” I call, voice steadier than I feel.
No answer.
I swallow hard and go to close the door, and before I can get the door closed a man slams his shoulder into it.
The door flies open, hitting me in the face and throwing me backward.
I hit the floor hard, my breath knocked out of me.
Before I can scream, a heavy boot lands hard into my hip, pain flaring white-hot through my side.
“Matteo says to have a good evening,” the stranger growls, leaning down near my ear, his voice rough, his breath sour.
I kick out, surprised I can move with the pain in my body, but he’s stronger, leaning over me with a shadowed face, covered like a coward in a ski mask and fists like stone. His knuckles crash into my ribs, once, twice, stealing the air from my lungs.
“Stop!” I gasp, curling around the pain, arms wrapping instinctively around my stomach. “Stop, please—”
“Shut up.” He yanks me upright by the front of my shirt, his grip bruising. “I have a message for you. Know that Matteo’s watching you, sweetheart, and unless you wanna keep getting visits like this, you’ll do what he says.”
I suck in a shaky breath, gripping his wrist to try to pry it away from my clothes. “I’m not doing anything for him,” I wheeze through the pain.
He leans closer, so close I can smell rancid cigar smoke clinging to his jacket. “Then you better learn to take a beating.”
I shove at his chest, but he only laughs, shoving me backward onto the floor. My elbow smacks hard against the edge of the coffee table. I bite down on a cry, fury sparking through the terror.
“What does he want me to do exactly?” I choke out, dragging myself upright against the sofa.
The man steps closer, looming over me. “You work for Moretti. That makes you useful. Matteo wants ears in that office. He wants eyes. He wants you to tell him every little thing that crosses Moretti’s desk. He wants his downfall.”
“No,” I whisper. My ribs throb with every shallow breath. “I won’t.”
His expression hardens, but he doesn’t hit me again. Instead, he points a thick finger at me, voice dropping into something colder that makes me shiver. This man is a killer, and he’d have no second thoughts on breaking my neck if asked. “Then expect more house calls.”
He turns and leaves as abruptly as he came, the door slamming shut behind him.
I sit there on the floor for what feels like forever, one hand pressed to my ribs, the other clinging to the sofa cushion like it’s an anchor keeping me from floating away.
My entire body shakes. My dinner lies overturned on the carpet square, salad scattered like debris.
Like my life.
For a long, trembling moment, I think about doing nothing. Pretending this didn’t happen. Pretending I can handle it.
But I can’t.
Not this. Not alone. Not again.
My hands fumble as I grab my phone, scroll through my contacts, and press Mr. Moretti’s number before I can think better of it.
He picks up on the first ring. “Miss Locke?”
I close my eyes, clutching the phone to my ear. As much as I don’t want to admit it, his voice is like a life raft, there to help, to try to save me. “I’ll move in,” I whisper, voice cracking. “The loft. I’ll take the offer.”
Silence stretches for a beat, taut and sharp. Then his voice drops, smooth but edged with steel. “Where are you?”
“At home,” I manage, my breath still shaky, trying to hide what had just happened to me. I probably should have thought more about when I should call Mr. Moretti. Straight after the assault wasn’t a good idea.
“I’m on my way.”
I want to argue, but the words won’t come. I end the call and drag myself off the floor, forcing myself into movement. I throw essentials into a small overnight bag, wincing at every bend and twist.
By the time Mr. Moretti’s car pulls up outside twenty minutes later, I’ve locked every bolt on the door and checked it twice. I move stiffly, pressing an arm against my stomach as I walk out of my apartment building into the damp night air.
The ride is silent, the hum of the engine the only sound. He doesn’t ask questions, not yet, his jaw tight as he stares out at the street ahead. Does he suspect something is off? His quiet contemplation makes me nervous.
We pull into the underground parking garage beneath a tall building, the sleek steel-and-glass structure glowing softly against the skyline. Inside, the elevator ride feels endless, the polished mirrored walls reflecting a pale, shaken version of myself I barely recognize.
There are dark circles under my eyes, and my hair is messy. I look like I’ve been in a tussle. I probably should have at least run a brush through it.
When we reach the top floor, Penthouse loft if the button on the elevator means anything, Mr. Moretti swipes his thumb over a keypad, and the door opens. The loft is vast, sweeping clean lines and city views. I barely register any of it. My ribs scream with every step, with every breath.
“Briar.”
I stop when he says my name, my back to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice quiet but with a dangerous edge.
“Nothing,” I lie, clutching the strap of my overnight bag tighter. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t pretend.” His tone sharpens. “Turn around.”
I shake my head, stubbornness rising even as tears sting the backs of my eyes. “I said I’m fine.”
He crosses the space between us in three long strides. He stops in front of me, his pale-gray gaze sweeping over my face before dropping lower. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking once.
“You’re holding your side,” he says softly.
“It’s nothing,” I insist, taking a step back, but his hand closes gently, firmly around my wrist. “Now that I’m here, it’ll be fine.”
“Briar,” he says, voice low, controlled. “Lift your shirt.”
I freeze. “I…I can’t—”
He doesn’t wait. One smooth tug, and the hem of my blouse rises just enough to reveal the mottled bruises spreading across my ribs and stomach.
His breath hisses out between clenched teeth. “Who,” he says, each word carved from ice, “did this to you?”
I swallow hard, my voice barely a whisper. “One of Matteo’s men just before I rang you.”
Mr. Moretti’s entire body goes rigid, a quiet, dangerous fury radiating from him like heat off asphalt on a hot summer’s day. He lowers my shirt carefully, his touch gentle despite the violence simmering beneath the surface.
Had I not known he didn’t mean me harm, I would’ve been terrified.
“You should have called me the second this happened,” he says, voice low and lethal.
“I did practically. I did as soon as I could manage it.”
His gaze burns into mine and I swallow. Hard. “This ends now.”
The promise in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I know he doesn’t lie and I know he means to do as he says. For a moment I almost feel sorry for Matteo.
Almost.