23. Aliyah
ALIYAH
Ihave lied a lot in my life. And never once have I felt guilty about it. But when I used all the knowledge I had gathered to get by Jackson's security system so he didn't know I was gone before getting an uber on an account I know he won't link to me… I feel a stab of it.
That doesn't stop me from running. Not after everything he just said. I need space to think, and our charade is finally crumbling to pieces around us.
My fingers trace the delicate edges of my hidden microphone bracelet as I step into my apartment. The familiar scent of jasmine from my automated diffuser fills the air, but something feels off.
I move through the darkness, my heels silent against the hardwood floors. Everything is exactly as I left it - the vintage record player my father used to distract marks, the antique desk where I've compiled countless files on the city's elite. My tools. My weapons.
The moonlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows across my collection of party dresses - each one carefully chosen to make me look harmless, forgettable.
I pull out a blue silk number, remembering how it helped me get close to a senator last month. The fabric feels cold against my skin.
"This is what freedom feels like," I whisper to myself, but the words ring hollow. My gaze drifts to where my wall safe sits, untouched. Inside lies enough blackmail material to destroy half of New York's upper crust. It used to make me feel powerful, untouchable.
I sink into my leather armchair, the one where I've spent countless nights plotting and planning. My fingers find the key tattoo behind my ear - my reminder that knowledge unlocks everything. But for the first time, all these secrets feel... meaningless.
The apartment is too quiet. No sounds of Jackson's steady breathing from the next room. No heavy footsteps in the hall. No low voice calling me "angel" with that infuriating smirk.
I grab a crystal tumbler from my bar cart, pouring two fingers of bourbon.
The alcohol burns, but it doesn't wash away the emptiness.
Every piece of furniture, every carefully curated item that screams "independent woman" feels like it belongs to someone else.
A character I created, just like all my other masks.
"Damn you, tough guy," I mutter, staring at my reflection in the window. "What have you done to me?"
The walls feel like they're closing in. I need air. Need normalcy. Need something that belongs to the old me, before Jackson turned my world sideways. So I head downstairs, going to check my mail like I used to do every evening between shifts.
My key slides into the ancient mailbox lock in the basement.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting strange shadows across the concrete floor.
This building's been my sanctuary for years - chosen specifically because the security cameras have convenient blind spots and the super takes cash to keep quiet.
Bills. Junk mail. A postcard from one of my informants disguised as a vacation greeting. And... my fingers brush against thick cream-colored paper. No postmark. No return address. Just my name in elegant script that makes my stomach clench.
I see you, Miss Richards. The little games you’re playing? Your new mafia guard dog? Time's running out. Even he can't protect you from what's coming. You should have never gotten involved with something you can't handle. But all actions have consequences. And you're about to face yours.
Ice spreads through my veins. The paper crumples in my fist as I scan the shadows. Nothing moves except dust motes in the dim light.
Someone's been watching me. All this time, while I thought I was the one gathering secrets, someone else was collecting mine. And now they know about Jackson, too.
"Fuck." The word echoes off the basement walls. My carefully constructed world of information and leverage is cracking, and I've dragged him into the crosshairs with me.
The note burns in my palm like acid. I've always worked alone because it was safer. Because other people were liabilities. Because I learned young that trust gets you killed.
And now, I've set a target on someone else's back.
It doesn't matter if he's a made man. It's the fact that he's got enemies he doesn't even know about - and my list is so long I don't even know where to start looking.
The fluorescent lights flicker as two shadows detach from the darkness. My pulse skyrockets as heavy footsteps echo off concrete walls. Both men tower over me - one with a spider web tattoo crawling up his neck, the other with brass knuckles that catch the dim light.
"Miss Richards." Spider Web's voice drips honey-coated poison. "The boss would like a word."
My mind races through possibilities, cataloging every person I've ever crossed. But all I can think about is Jackson - how this could blow back on him, how they might use him to get to me. The realization hits harder than any physical blow: I care more about his safety than my own.
"Which boss?" I keep my voice steady, buying time as I slide my hand into my pocket, feeling for my phone. "I deal with quite a few."
Brass Knuckles steps closer. "The one you fucked over three weeks ago. The night your guard dog grabbed you? That wasn't a coincidence, sweetheart. Boss had plans for you before Amato interfered."
Everything clicks into place. The night Jackson dragged me from that party - did he know? Or was it the perfect coincidence that he saved me when someone else had been coming for me. And now they're here to finish the job.
"I'm flattered." I edge toward the stairs. "But I'll have to decline the invitation."
Spider Web lunges. I duck, my elbow connecting with his solar plexus. The self-defense moves Jackson insisted on teaching me before he took me to meetings kick in automatically. As Brass Knuckles reaches for me, I slam my stiletto into his instep and shove past him.
My fingers fly across my phone screen as I race up the stairs, sending a text to building security about suspicious men in the mailroom. The thunder of pursuit follows me, but I know this building's layout better than they do.
I slam my apartment door, engaging every lock.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I lean against the wall, trying to steady my breathing.
For the first time in my life, my instincts are screaming at me to run toward danger instead of away from it.
To go to Jackson. To trust someone else with my secrets, my safety - my heart.
"Fuck." I slide down the wall, head in my hands. "I'm so screwed."
My hands shake as I double-check every lock, then slide the heavy bookcase in front of my door. The thud of wood against wood echoes through my silent apartment.
I strip off my heels, padding across the hardwood in bare feet to check each window. The city stretches below, a maze of lights and shadows where threats could be lurking anywhere. Three weeks ago, I would have relished the challenge, the thrill of outsmarting whoever was hunting me.
Now all I can think about is Jackson's face when he realizes I've run.
The way his jaw clenches when he's angry.
How his dark eyes go completely cold, like black ice over deep water.
The steady rise and fall of his chest while he sleeps down the hall from me, a rhythm that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat.
"Get it together," I mutter, but my fingers still reach for my phone. One call and he'd be here, filling my space with his overwhelming presence. Making me feel... safe.
The word tastes foreign on my tongue. Safety was never part of my vocabulary - not with a con artist father who used his own daughter as bait, not in the cut-throat world of information trading where today's ally is tomorrow's mark.
I pour another bourbon, letting the crystal tumbler rest against my lower lip. Jackson would hate this cheap stuff. He drinks thousand-dollar scotch like it's water, but never gets truly drunk. Always in control. Always watching. Always seeing right through my bullshit with those penetrating eyes.
My chest tightens. When did I start measuring everything against his standards? When did his opinion begin to matter more than my carefully crafted facades?
The silence in my apartment feels oppressive now. I miss the weight of his gaze following me across rooms. Miss the way he says "angel" like it's both a curse and a caress. Even miss how he crowds my space, making me feel small but never weak.
"I don't need anyone," I whisper to my reflection in the window. But the woman staring back at me looks lost, uncertain - nothing like the confident manipulator I've spent years becoming. She looks like someone who's finally found something real and is terrified of losing it.