Chapter 4 #5
Pain spikes—sharp, hot, immediate—but I roll fast, twisting my body under his arm as he reaches to grab me.
He’s bigger. Stronger.
But not faster.
I dig my elbow into his ribs, hard enough to hear a grunt, then drive my palm upward into his throat. Not a clean hit—but enough to make him stumble.
I dive toward the couch. My fingers stretch for the gun. He grabs my ankle, yanking me backward.
I kick—hard. Twist. Plant my foot and spin on it, bringing my knee up straight into his nose.
Blood sprays. He curses, muffled by the mask. I don’t wait.
I grab the lamp beside the couch, ripping it from the table and slamming the base into his forearm when he tries to reach for me again.
Something cracks. That makes him scream.
He drops to the floor, gripping his wrist—his hand limp, fingers twisted unnaturally.
I scramble forward, finally reaching the gun. Cold metal fills my hand. Heavy. Familiar.
I rise in one smooth motion, feet bare, breathing hard, blood dripping from my arm, the skirt of my uniform torn at the hip.
The man stumbles back as I raise the gun. He lifts both hands—palms up. No fight now.
Coward.
“Don’t,” I say, voice low, ragged. “Move.”
He freezes. Just stands there. The blood from his nose stains the edge of his mask, dark red leaking beneath the fabric.
I tighten my grip on the gun. My hands shake, just slightly. Adrenaline and fury. Pure instinct. Because for the first time in a long time… I didn’t freeze.
I fought.
I survived.
And he sees it.
Not just the man in front of me. But Rafael. He saw all of it.
No more pretending. No more waiting tables. No more hiding in shadows.
I feel his eyes behind me—feel them like a brand burning down my spine.
I stare at the man in front of me, breathing hard.
“Take one more step,” I say through clenched teeth, “and I’ll put you down like the animal you are.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He knows I’ll do it.
I breathe in. Slow. Controlled. My finger brushing the trigger— Click.
My breath halts. The cold kiss of metal presses to the back of my skull. A familiar weight. A warning. A shift.
Someone’s behind me.
No.
Not someone.
Rafael.
And he just cocked the gun.
My spine goes rigid. My mouth dries. And as I begin to turn—slowly, too slowly—my thoughts spiral like a storm.
He knew. He set this up. And I walked straight into it.
The cold press of metal doesn’t waver against the back of my skull. The sound of my own breathing fills the silence—too loud, too jagged.
My pulse thrums in my throat, my hand still clutching the gun aimed at the man in front of me.
But I don’t pull the trigger. Because Rafael already has one on me.
“Put it down,” he says behind me, voice low, deliberate. “Nice and slow.”
I freeze. His tone isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s curious.
Like he’s just confirmed something he already suspected.
I lower the gun slowly, fingers tightening once before I let it slip from my grip and fall to the floor with a soft metallic thud.
Rafael moves behind me, lowering his own weapon—but not before he steps forward and grazes his fingers along the torn fabric on my arm.
The pain flares beneath his touch, sharp and hot. He glances at the blood, his voice colder now.
“He touched you.”
It’s not a question. Before I can answer, he looks past me and speaks to someone else.
“Take him.”
The man I fought barely has time to react before two of Rafael’s men appear, grabbing him and yanking him to his feet. He starts to struggle—but not much. Not after the way I broke him.
“ You’re dead, ” the man spits through the mask, trying to throw a final threat in my direction.
Rafael lifts a hand. One of his men slams the guy’s head into the doorframe on the way out. He doesn’t speak again.
I take a step back, my breath finally starting to slow, but my chest still tight. The pain in my arm pulses now—sharp and warm. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s messy. Blood streaks down my forearm, soaking into the side of my blouse.
Still, I don’t look at the wound. I look at Rafael. His eyes are fixed on me. But not with surprise. With confirmation. He saw what he needed to see.
“You’re not a waitress,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer. Because there’s no use pretending anymore.
He steps toward me, gaze locked on mine.
“Who are you working for?”
My jaw tightens. “No one.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
That earns the barest curl of his lips. Not a smile. Not quite.
“Natasha, huh?”
I stay still. Silent.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “How long have you been lying to me?”
The words sting more than they should. I look away, jaw clenched. “You never asked for the truth.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then moves toward the windows, pouring himself another drink like this is just another night.
“You knew how to fight,” he says. “But you didn’t flinch.”
He turns slightly.
“Who trained you?”
“Does it matter?” I fire back.
His voice stays calm. Dangerous. “It does when you’ve been lying to me in my own house.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my spine straight. Because I won’t let him see me bleed more than I already have.
“This was never about the casino,” he says. “So what was it about?”
I meet his eyes. “Maybe I just wanted to see who the devil really was.”
That gets a reaction. The smirk fades. His eyes darken, gaze fixed like he’s reading every thought behind my skin. But before he can say another word— the penthouse doors slam open.
And everything stops.
Nikolai steps inside, his face hard, jaw clenched. Behind him—two of Rafael’s men drag familiar bodies into the room.
Kellan. Ash.
Both of them bruised but still fighting, struggling even as they’re shoved to the floor like trophies.
“We found them outside security control,” Nikolai says calmly. “Trying to loop the feed.”
My heart slams. Hard.
“Ash—” I breathe.
Ash glares at the men who dragged him in, spitting blood onto the floor.
“You’re all dead,” he snarls. “You hear me? You lay another hand on her, and I’ll bury you all.”
Kellan pushes up onto his hands, shaking off the grip of the guy beside him.
“You set us up,” he growls, eyes locked on Rafael now. “You knew. You fucking knew.”
Rafael doesn’t flinch. He just watches me. Like I’m the one he’s still trying to solve. And I stand there… Bleeding. Breathing hard. Caught between the man I came to destroy— and the only two people I trust left on this earth.
My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths as I stare at the two men on the floor— my men. Brought in like criminals. Bruised. Angry. Still ready to fight.
But not at me. Never at me.
Rafael stands near the windows, one hand still wrapped loosely around his glass, the other resting casually in the pocket of his slacks like none of this surprises him. Like he planned it all.
Because he did.
He steps away from the glass and slowly circles behind me, his shoes clicking softly against the marble.
He says nothing at first. But I feel it. His attention. His calculation. Like he’s watching a puzzle finally take shape.
“Interesting,” he says quietly as he moves. “You walk like a shadow, but they follow you like a general.”
My jaw clenches. Behind me, I hear him pick something up off the bar—metal clinking. A bottle. A glass. I turn my head slightly, but not enough to see what he’s doing.
Then— he steps beside me again. And without warning, he uncaps the bottle and pours the contents straight over my wounded arm. Alcohol.
The sting is immediate. Hot. White. Sharp.
I hiss between my teeth, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting more than I already have.
“Has to be disinfected,” he says, almost gently.
But his tone makes it worse. Like he’s pretending to be considerate, when we both know this is punishment. A reminder. A show of control.
Before I can pull away, Ash is on his feet.
“Enough,” he growls, fists already curled at his sides as he strides forward.
He’s aiming straight for Rafael.
“ Ash— ” I snap, sharp and low.
He freezes mid-step. Chest heaving. Eyes locked on Rafael like he wants nothing more than to bury him where he stands.
But he listens. He stops. And Rafael notices.
He turns toward me again, brows slightly raised.
“They follow your orders,” he murmurs, voice like silk over steel. “Good soldiers.”
“They’re not soldiers,” I say through gritted teeth. “They’re mine.”
He hums like he’s impressed, but he doesn’t respond to that. Not directly. He moves toward the center of the room, his eyes now sweeping between the three of us.
“You’ve been inside my walls for weeks,” he says, voice low but firm. “Listening. Watching. Taking notes, I assume?”
I don’t speak.
Kellan does.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave doors half open if you don’t want people to walk through them.”
Rafael tilts his head.
“And the casino footage? The looped feeds? What was the goal there?”
Ash’s jaw tightens, but it’s Kellan who answers again.
“To keep her safe.”
Rafael’s eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “She doesn’t look like she needs protecting.”
“She doesn’t,” Kellan snaps. “But we still do it.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Like the room is holding its breath.
Rafael studies us again, but he’s already seen what he needs to see. He turns toward the doorway, where a few of his men still stand near the exit, eyes alert, weapons holstered.
“Leave,” he says flatly. “All of you—except Nikolai.”
The men nod and begin to file out. One of them—broad, dark-haired, built like a wall—is still standing behind Kellan, too close. Too long. Kellan senses it too.
The second the guy shifts, Kellan moves—spinning and driving his fist into the man’s face with a satisfying crack.
The man stumbles, snarling, already rearing back to retaliate. But before he can— Rafael lifts a single hand.
“Enough.”
The man halts. Barely. Breathing hard.
Rafael looks at him once, eyes narrowed.
“Leave. Now.”