CHAPTER 38
Santino
The words replayed in my head, slower this time.
“If you don’t leave… you’ll lose me. Forever.”
Not don’t come back. Not I don’t want you.
‘You’ll lose me.’
That wasn’t a threat. That sounded too much like fear.
Air struggled to fill my lungs as I stepped out of the cottage, a sharp pang lodging itself beneath my ribs.
I dragged in a breath that didn’t go deep enough, didn’t fix anything, and before I could stop it, a tear slipped free.
Then another. I wiped them away roughly, jaw locking like that would be enough to steady me.
It wasn’t.
I told myself I’d give her what she asked for—space, distance, whatever the hell she thought would fix this. But the moment I stepped out of the cottage, my pulse refused to settle.
I dragged a hand over my face, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with shaky fingers.
The first inhale burned, smoke filling my lungs, but it didn’t touch the weight pressing into my chest. If anything, it made everything louder—the echo of her voice when she said please, the way her hands had trembled even as she pushed me away like she meant it.
She hadn’t meant it. I knew it in my bones.
I knew her. I knew the difference between rejection and fear, between distance and defence—and what I had seen in her eyes wasn’t indifference. It was panic.
I tilted my head back, staring into the night as everything in me snapped loose, raw and uncontained. A harsh sound tore out of me, somewhere between a shout and a growl, ripping through the quiet. It didn’t ease the pressure in my chest. It didn’t fix a damn thing.
I ran a hand through my hair and swung my leg over the bike, gripping the handles harder than necessary.
For a second, I just sat there, staring ahead without seeing anything, until the engine roared to life beneath me.
The vibration grounded me in a way nothing else did, a familiarity, something I could control.
So I took off. Fast enough that the world blurred. I ended up outside a bar without remembering the drive. Dim. Half-empty. Forgettable—the kind of place no one asked questions. I went in anyway, ordered a drink I had no intention of drinking, and sat there longer than I should have.
Her face kept coming back. Not the anger. Not the defiance.The moment before it—when she’d looked like she was about to say something and chose not to. Like she was protecting me from it.
And then it hit me. The pieces started fitting together. Tiny details lining up. The way she’d held her phone—too tight. The way the colour had drained from her face. The way she had shut me out too fast. Damage control.
My grip tightened around the glass.
“Shit.”
I was already on my feet before the thought finished forming. I didn’t remember leaving. Didn’t remember getting back on the bike. Just the way everything narrowed into one clear line of instinct that I had ignored for too long.
She hadn’t pushed me away because she didn’t want me there. She had pushed me away because she couldn’t afford me there. And like the bastard I was, I had walked.
The cottage door was unlocked, the lights still low—exactly how I’d left them.
“Roxanne.”
No answer. The silence inside felt wrong. Too still. Too empty. I moved through the space quickly, tension coiling tight in my chest, every instinct on edge. It didn’t take long to find her.
She was on the floor. Curled in on herself, one arm tucked beneath her, the other limp at her side like she had dropped mid-step and never made it back up.
For a second—just one—everything in me went still. My breath caught.
“Rox.”
I dropped beside her, fingers at her neck, checking her pulse—there. Weak, but steady enough to keep me from losing it completely. Her skin was warm. Her lashes damp. Her face red and swollen. She’d been crying. A dark and protective streak twisted low in my chest.
I slid an arm under her, lifting her carefully, her body soft, unresisting, like she had nothing left to fight with. She didn’t wake. Didn’t even stir. I carried her to the bed, laying her down slower than necessary, my hand lingering at the back of her neck for a second longer than it should have.
“Roxanne,” I said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
Nothing. My jaw clenched. I stepped back, forcing myself to think. That was when I saw her phone on the table. I picked it up, bringing it to her face. The screen unlocked. Her messages were already open by the time I registered what I was looking at.
Darius Uncle.
The name alone was enough.
I scrolled.
Location. Time. Instructions. And then—the picture.
Her. With me. Outside the motel. Too close. Too clear.
A slow, dangerous clarity settled in.
“So that’s what you’ve got on her,” I muttered under my breath.
Blackmail. Not just her.
Marcello. Everything.
My grip tightened around the phone as I read it again, slower this time.
Tomorrow. Three. Warehouse.
I looked back at her, at the way she lay there—drained, spent, like she had already gone through hell and was about to walk into it again. Alone.
“No,” I muttered under my breath.
Not happening. I stepped back toward the bed, crouching slightly as my hand came up to her hair, brushing it back gently—softer than I allowed myself to feel.
“You don’t get to do this alone,” I said quietly. “Not anymore.”
I pressed a brief kiss to her forehead before straightening, already pulling my phone out and sending myself the location.
The message thread popped up under the contact name she’d saved me as.
Asshole.
A rough, disbelieving breath left me before I could stop it. Of course that’s what she called me.
I deleted the message immediately from her phone and dialled. Sean picked up on the second ring.
“This better be good,” he said, irritation bleeding through the line.
“I need men.”
I paused a beat.
“Location incoming,” I said, already forwarding it. “A warehouse. Tomorrow. Three.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Feckin’ hell…” he muttered. “This about the woman?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
When he spoke again, his voice had changed—less irritation, more calculation.
“You’re going to get yourself killed, lad.”
“Will you help or not?” I cut in, tone flat, leaving no space for anything but a yes or no.
Another beat. Then a quiet exhale.
“You’re racking up your debts, lad.”
“Noted.”
“I’ll have people in place.”
“Good.”
The line went dead. A second later, my phone lit up—names, numbers, faces. A team already forming before I had time to think twice.
By the time the next day rolled in, everything was already moving. We didn’t walk into it blind. Four men with me. Enough to get in. Not enough to get sloppy.
The warehouse sat exactly where it had on the map—isolated, in a way that made it worse. Outside, men moved in loose patterns, which told me they were hired muscle.
I counted quickly. Ten outside. Spread wide. Watching angles. No clear sight on the inside. Which meant more. My jaw tightened.
I studied the layout quickly, committing it to memory in seconds—the blind spots, the entry points, the timing between their movements. I gave a small signal.
Jacob—one of mine peeled off immediately, circling toward the back roof access. The other three shifted positions without drawing attention, closing in just enough to keep the perimeter tight. I moved without waiting.
Inside, the air felt thick and stale. My eyes adjusted fast, tracking movement, structure, exits—and there, on the second level, two men on the walkway. Watching. Waiting. They didn’t stay that way for long.
Jacob was already up there. By the time they realised something was off, it was too late. A sharp struggle. A dull thud. Then nothing.
The man further inside wasn’t as lucky. He turned—too slow, too late.
My hand closed around his throat before he could react, cutting off whatever warning he might’ve tried to give.
He struggled, brief and useless. A twist. A crack.
His body dropped instantly, weight hitting the floor without resistance.
Like he’d never been anything more than an obstacle.
Silence followed, heavy, controlled.
And then—I saw her. Standing there. Still. Eyes wide. Jeans. Shirt. Hair pulled back.
Roxanne.
And then—the blood.
On her hands. Across her face. Her clothes. For one second, everything else disappeared.
I crossed the space in seconds, hands already on her face, turning it, checking her, assessing—no obvious injuries, no immediate threat, but her body was rigid, wound too tight. I looked for damage, for blood that wasn’t hers, for anything that told me I was already too late.
“Where are you hurt?”
Her breath hitched, uneven, eyes still wide like she hadn’t come back into herself yet.
“Not mine.”
Relief hit so hard my knees nearly gave out. My gaze dropped past her—
To him. Still sitting in his chair. Still smiling.
Darius adjusted slightly, one hand pressed against the knife buried in his chest like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. Blood soaked through his shirt, slow and dark, but his expression didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened.
“Touching,” he murmured, voice rough but amused. “Really.”
My gun was already in my hand. So was his. I saw it the second his fingers moved. His arm lifting. The angle directed at her.
“You’ll always be nothing but—”
I didn’t let him finish. I moved fast. My hand hit her shoulder, shoving her out of the line of fire just as the shot rang out—At the same time, I fired. The sound tore through the space, loud enough to split thought in half. His body jerked.
Darius slumped back into the chair, the gun slipping from his hand, his head tilting slightly to the side. That smile was still there, a final, sickening taunt etched onto a corpse dressed in amusement.
Behind me, Roxanne screamed.
“NO—”
The sound barely registered. Because everything else went quiet. My vision flickered. Blurred and sharpened again. The gun slipped loose from my fingers. The world tilted slightly—and then I felt it. The burn, spreading through my chest.
My knees gave. And through the blur, I found her.
Only her.