Chapter 1
chapter one
Madelyn
I ease my car into a parking spot on Silver Lake's main street and cut the engine. My hands are shaking. They've been shaking for three days straight, ever since I watched Frank Vega put two bullets in Tommy Ricci's chest in the back office of The Dive Bar.
I can't let myself go there. If I do, I'll see the blood all over again, and Tommy's eyes as they went wide before the light disappeared.
I grip the steering wheel harder, forcing myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The therapist I saw after my mom died taught me that. It didn't help then either, but at least it gives me something to focus on besides the fact that I'm dead if Vega's men find me.
The Rusty Anchor sits across the street, all weathered wood and brass fixtures, with a hand-painted sign swinging gently in the mountain breeze.
It looks exactly like the kind of place where a girl can disappear into the background and earn enough cash under the table to keep moving.
No questions asked. No background checks that might ping the wrong people.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror.
My dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and I've gone light on the makeup.
I need to look competent but forgettable.
The last thing I want is to stand out. My curvy figure is harder to hide, I've always had the kind of body that draws attention whether I want it or not, but the simple black jeans and fitted white blouse I'm wearing are professional enough. Neutral. Safe.
You can do this, Madelyn. Walk in, ask for a job, get hired, keep your head down.
I grab my purse and step out into the crisp mountain air.
Silver Lake is beautiful in that postcard kind of way.
It’s all pine trees, clean streets, and people who probably know their neighbors' names.
It's the opposite of the grimy city bar where I spent the last two years slinging drinks and pretending not to notice when Vega's crew conducted their "business meetings" in the back.
I should've quit the second I realized what kind of place it really was. But the tips were good, and I needed the money, and I told myself it wasn't my problem what happened after hours. Until it became my problem.
So I ran. Just got in my car and drove until I couldn't drive anymore, until I found this little mountain town that felt far enough away from everything.
The bell above the door chimes as I push into The Rusty Anchor.
The interior is warm and inviting, all dark wood and soft lighting, with a long polished bar running the length of one wall.
It's early afternoon, so the place is mostly empty except for a couple of men nursing beers at a corner table.
The smell of grilled food hangs in the air, comforting and familiar.
Behind the bar, two men are talking in low voices. They both look up when I walk in, and something about the way they move catches my attention immediately.
The first man is massive. Six-foot-five at least, with shoulders that strain against his black t-shirt and arms covered in intricate tattoos that disappear under his sleeves.
His dark hair is cropped short, and his jaw is shadowed with stubble.
His eyes are steel gray, intense, and currently locked on me with an expression I can't quite read.
He's got the kind of face that's seen things, hard lines and a permanent scowl that suggests he doesn't smile often. Or ever.
The second man matches his height but carries less bulk, with the lean, coiled build that comes from years of disciplined training.
His sandy blond hair is longer on top, swept back from a face that's all sharp angles and easy confidence.
Blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, which he's doing right now as he looks me over.
A scar cuts through his left eyebrow, and he's wearing a faded gray henley that clings to his chest.
Both men have that unmistakable military bearing in the way they hold themselves, the way they assess me in a single sweeping glance that feels like it sees everything.
But what really catches my attention is how they move around each other.
The dark-haired one shifts slightly to the left, and the blond one automatically adjusts his position without looking.
When the blond one reaches for a glass on the back shelf, the other one is already sliding the bottle closer before he even asks.
They're in sync. Like they've been doing this together for years.
"Can I help you?" the dark-haired one asks.
I force myself to walk forward, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. "I'm looking for work. I saw the 'Help Wanted' sign in the window."
The blond one leans against the bar, his smile widening. "Is that so? What kind of work are you looking for, sweetheart?"
"Waitressing, bartending. Honestly, whatever you need." I say, keeping my voice steady. "I've got two years of experience at a high-volume bar in the city. I'm good with customers, I don't call in sick, and I can start immediately."
The dark-haired man crosses his arms over his chest. "What's your name?"
"Madelyn. Madelyn Graves."
"Damien Keller," he says, jerking his chin toward himself. "Though everyone calls me Dash. This is Finn Callahan. We own the place."
Finn pushes off the bar and extends his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Madelyn."
I shake his hand. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. When I pull back, Dash is watching the exchange with narrowed eyes.
Is he testing me? Or is that just how he is with everyone?
"Why Silver Lake?" Dash asks bluntly. "You don't look like the small-town type."
Because I'm running for my life. "I needed a change of scenery. The city was getting old."
"Uh-huh." He doesn't look convinced. "You got references?"
"Not really. I left my last job pretty suddenly." I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "But I'm a hard worker, and I'm not looking for trouble. I just need a job."
Finn leans back against the bar, studying me. "What kind of trouble are you running from, Madelyn?"
My heart kicks against my ribs. "I'm not running from anything."
"Sure you are," Finn says easily, his tone light but his gaze sharp. "Pretty girl shows up in a town like this with no references, no notice, needing work immediately? That's the definition of running, honey."
I swallow hard. "Does it matter? I can do the job. That's all you need to know."
Dash and Finn exchange a look. I watch the silent communication pass between them, a slight tilt of Dash's head, a barely perceptible nod from Finn. They're having an entire conversation without saying a word.
Then Dash grunts and pulls a clipboard from under the bar. “Fill this out. We’re in need of a waitress. If you can handle a Friday night rush without falling apart, the job’s yours.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost sag. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“We’ll see,” Dash mutters, sliding the clipboard across the bar.
I take it and stare at the form. Name, easy.
But then I reach the address line, and my stomach twists.
I can’t put down my old place. I hesitate, pen hovering over the blank space, then scribble down the motel address on the edge of town.
My hand trembles as I write. It feels wrong, like I’m lying, even though it’s technically where I’m staying.
Emergency contact. I stare at that line for a long moment, then leave it blank. There’s no one to call if something happens to me.
While I fill out the form, I can feel both men watching. I glance up once and catch them doing it again, that silent communication thing. Dash’s eyes flick toward Finn, then back to me. Finn’s mouth quirks slightly, like he’s amused by something only the two of them understand.
“You got a place to stay?” Finn asks.
“I’m renting a room at the motel on the edge of town. Just until I find something more permanent.”
Dash’s scowl deepens. “That place is a shithole.”
“It’s cheap,” I counter. “And it’s fine for now.”
“There’s an apartment above the bar,” Finn says, ignoring Dash’s sharp look. “The previous tenant moved out last month. It’s small, but it’s clean and the rent’s reasonable. Are you interested?”
I hesitate. Living above the bar where I work feels risky. Too close. But it’s also convenient, and if I’m being honest, the motel is a shithole. “How much?”
Finn names a price lower than I expected. “First month’s free if you work out. Consider it a signing bonus.”
It’s too good to be true. “What’s the catch?”
Dash’s mouth twitches, almost like he wants to smile. “No catch. We need a good waitress, and you need a place to stay. Seems like a fair trade.”
I look between them, trying to read their intentions. Dash is all hard edges and suspicion, but there's something else in the way he watches me. Finn is charming, but his eyes are just as sharp and assessing. Why are they offering this? What do they want from me?
These men are dangerous. Not in the way Vega is dangerous, not criminals, but dangerous in a different way. The kind of men who see too much and don't let things go.
And for some reason I don't understand, they're both focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. That makes me want to figure them out.
"Okay," I say finally. "I'll take the job and the apartment. Thank you.”
Finn's smile widens. "Good."
Dash pushes off the bar and jerks his head toward the back. "Come on. I'll show you the apartment and get you a key."
I follow him through the bar, watching the way he moves. He leads me up a narrow staircase to a door at the top, unlocks it, and steps aside, letting me enter first.
It’s a studio with a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a double bed tucked into the corner. The windows overlook the main street, and afternoon light streams in, making the space feel warm and inviting. "It's perfect," I say honestly.