32. Nash
NASH
Morgan stands over Ethan's body with the casual efficiency of someone who's done this countless times before.
Blood pools around his designer shoes, dark against the concrete, but she's already moved on mentally—calculating disposal methods, cleanup requirements, the logistical nightmare of making a person disappear without a trace.
"We'll take care of this," she tells us, gesturing at the corpse with the same tone someone might use to offer taking out the trash. "No one will ever find him."
Antonio nods, hands still buried deep in his jacket pockets. That perpetual smirk hasn't left his face, even with a dead body at his feet. If anything, he looks more relaxed now that the violence is finished, like he can finally get on with the interesting parts of his evening.
"Trust me, Princess," he says to Eve, the endearment carrying none of the condescension it would from anyone else. With Antonio, it sounds almost protective. "By the time we're done, it'll be like this asshole never existed. We specialize in making problems disappear completely."
Eve looks down at Ethan's still form, her expression thoughtful rather than disturbed.
The man who was supposed to love and protect her lies in his own blood, and she shows about as much emotion as she would for roadkill.
It should probably worry me, but instead it just confirms what I've always known—Eve Turner is stronger than anyone gives her credit for.
"What about the money?" she asks, her practical nature asserting itself even in the aftermath of violence. "Everything he stole from my father's company. It's probably scattered across dozens of accounts by now."
Antonio's grin widens, taking on an edge that suggests he's particularly looking forward to this part. "Leave that to me. My cousin Ryker can make computers do whatever he wants. I'll get him to hack every account this piece of shit ever touched and put every penny back where it belongs."
"Plus interest," Morgan adds with dark amusement. "For the inconvenience."
"Obviously," Antonio agrees. "Can't have people thinking they can just steal from family friends without consequences. Bad for business."
The casualness with which they discuss computer crimes and body disposal should be jarring, but instead it's oddly comforting.
These people—Morgan and Antonio—they operate in a world where problems get solved permanently.
Where justice isn't dependent on courts and lawyers and bureaucracy that can be bought and manipulated.
Where people like Ethan don't get to hurt innocent women and walk away unscathed.
"Thank you," Eve says simply, and the genuine gratitude in her voice makes something tight in my chest finally loosen. "Both of you. For everything."
Morgan looks surprised by the thanks, like she's not used to people appreciating her particular skill set. But then her expression softens into something almost vulnerable, revealing glimpses of the girl she was before violence became her profession.
"Hey," she says, stepping closer to Eve. "We're friends now, okay? That means I've got your back. Always."
The hug that follows is fierce and brief, two women who've survived different kinds of hell recognizing something kindred in each other.
"Friends," Eve agrees, and I can hear the smile in her voice even though her back is turned to me.
Antonio watches the exchange with something that might be fondness, though it's hard to tell through his customary smirk. "Alright, now that we've had our emotional moment, can we get out of here? This place smells like rust and dead dreams, and I've got dinner reservations."
"You don't have dinner reservations," Morgan tells him, pulling back from Eve but keeping her hands on her shoulders for another moment.
"I could have dinner reservations," Antonio argues. "The night is young and full of possibilities."
"The night is full of body disposal," Morgan corrects, but there's affection in her exasperation. "Save the fine dining for tomorrow."
I watch them banter while simultaneously beginning the grim work of crime scene cleanup, their easy partnership born from years of shared violence and mutual trust. They move around Ethan's body with practiced efficiency, Morgan producing plastic sheeting from seemingly nowhere while Antonio examines the blood spatter patterns with the eye of someone who's dealt with this particular problem many times before.
"Go," Morgan tells us without looking up from her work. "We've got this handled. Nash, get Eve somewhere warm and safe. She's been through enough today."
The order carries the weight of genuine concern, and I find myself oddly grateful for Morgan's protective instincts toward Eve.
In another life, under different circumstances, I might have been able to like Antonio.
Morgan's still working on me to, and I trust her enough to try.
She's loyal, competent, and clearly gives a damn about the people she considers family.
Which apparently now includes Eve.
I guide Eve toward the warehouse exit, my hand finding the small of her back as we navigate around abandoned machinery and concrete debris.
She moves with quiet grace despite everything she's been through—the memory loss, the head injury, the revelation of her fiancé's betrayal, the violence she just witnessed.
She's stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
The December air is bitterly cold when we step outside, harsh and clean after the stale atmosphere of the warehouse.
Eve pulls her coat tighter around herself, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid evening air.
The city spreads out around us, lights beginning to twinkle as darkness settles over New York, completely oblivious to the fact that justice was just served in an abandoned building on the outskirts of industrial Queens.
The car Morgan is loaning me is parked exactly where I left it, untouched despite the questionable neighborhood. The engine turns over with a reliable rumble, heat beginning to flow from the vents as we pull away from the warehouse district and back toward the relative normalcy of Manhattan.
Eve is quiet during the drive, staring out the passenger window at the passing cityscape.
Her profile is illuminated by streetlights and neon signs, casting shifting shadows across her face that highlight the elegant line of her jaw, the curve of her lips.
Even exhausted and emotionally drained, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You okay?" I ask when we're stopped at a red light, my voice rough with concern and residual adrenaline.
She turns to look at me, those warm brown eyes holding depths I'm still learning to navigate. "I think so. It's strange—I should probably be more shaken up by what just happened. But mostly I just feel... relieved."
"Relieved?"
"That it's over. That he can't hurt anyone else. That I don't have to pretend anymore." She pauses, considering her words carefully. "I was never happy with Ethan, Nash. I was just... existing. Going through the motions of what I thought my life was supposed to look like."
The light turns green and I press the accelerator, guiding us through the familiar streets toward my apartment. Toward home—because that's what it's become with Eve there. The place I want to wake up every morning, the sanctuary I want to return to every night.
"He was safe," she continues, her voice soft but clear.
"Respectable. The kind of man my parents would approve of.
But he never made me feel anything real.
Nothing like what I felt with you." She shrugs.
"Maybe that's why I stayed with him. Because it was easy, and I didn't have any room in my heart for anyone else. "
The admission hits me harder than I expected, warmth spreading through my chest despite the cold December air seeping through the truck's windows.
She's giving me pieces of her truth, laying bare the emotional landscape of her engagement to another man, and every word confirms what I've desperately hoped—that what we have is real, worth fighting for, worth the risks we've taken.
"You were the only one for me, too, sweetheart."
We make it back to the apartment without further conversation, both of us lost in our own thoughts as we climb the familiar stairs to the third floor. The hallway smells like coffee and someone's dinner, normal domestic scents that seem surreal after the violence of the warehouse.
Inside, the space feels different somehow.
Warmer. More settled. The Christmas decorations Eve and Morgan put up earlier cast soft, colored light across the living room, transforming my previously masculine space into something that feels genuinely homelike.
Pictures on the refrigerator, throw pillows on the couch, the lingering scent of the vanilla candle Eve likes to burn—all evidence of a life being built together rather than simply shared.
Eve shrugs out of her coat, hanging it carefully in the closet before settling onto the couch with a sigh that seems to come from her bones.
The past few days have taken their toll—I can see it in the slight slump of her shoulders, the way she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the cushions.
"I think maybe we need to talk about what happened," I say, settling beside her but leaving enough space that she doesn't feel crowded. "Your life is pretty turned around right now."
She opens her eyes, those brown depths focusing on my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. "You want to know what I've been really thinking?"
"Always."