9. Lina
Lina
"If a lobster had the cognitive capacity of a golden retriever, do you think they’d still let us boil them?" Maya asks, her arm slung heavily over my shoulder as we sway down the dark street.
I snort, nearly tripping over a loose cobblestone. The three gin and tonics I had at the tavern are currently singing a very loud, warm song in my head. "Maya, lobsters are basically giant sea bugs. They don't have feelings. They just have... defense mechanisms."
"I have defense mechanisms," she giggles, her voice bouncing off the empty brick storefronts of the harbor. "Like when a guy asks for my number and I tell him I’m legally dead in three states. That’s a defense mechanism."
"That’s just lying," I say, wrapping my arm around her waist to keep us both upright. The freezing mist on my face feels amazing, cutting through the heavy, golden buzz of the alcohol. "And you're terrible at it."
"I am a delight," she huffs, pointing a shaky finger at me. "And you are deflecting.”
“I am?” I frown.
“Yess!!!!!”
I wince. “You’re going to scream my ears off, Maya.”
“So don’t deflect! We were talking about the hot neighbor. The one who gave you a five-thousand-dollar book and then basically ate your face off on my beautiful new green chaise."
My stomach does a violent, delicious flip. Even with the gin numbing my brain, the memory of his mouth on mine makes my chest ache with a sudden, sharp heat. "We did not eat each other's faces. It was a... a momentary lapse in judgment."
"Lina, if what you said is half the truth, you were practically fused together. You obviously want to climb him like a tree."
"I do not!” I say, my face burning in the dark. I squeeze my keys in my hand, my fingers hitting the cold brass. "He is too much, Maya. He’s intense. He’s completely unpredictable, and you know how I feel about that. I need to stay away from him."
Maya stops walking, pulling me to a halt right under the blurry yellow halo of a streetlamp. She turns to me, her eyes slightly glassy but suddenly very serious. "You need to stop running, Lina."
"I'm not running," I say, my defense mechanisms instantly flaring. "I'm being smart. I have a shop to run. I have a quiet life. John is... he’s a storm. I don't do storms."
"You run from everything," she says softly, her hand reaching out to squeeze my arm. "You’ve been doing it since we were kids. It’s like you're constantly waiting for someone to knock on your door and tell you that you don't belong here. It’s okay to actually live, you know? It's okay to want things."
"I do live," I mutter, looking down at my boots.
"Lina, do you remember how we became best friends?" Maya asks, her voice dropping to a quiet, gentle whisper.
"Of course I do. You stole my lunchbox in seventh grade."
"I didn't steal it, I held it hostage because you wouldn't talk to me," she says, a small, sad smile touching her lips.
"You sat in the corner of the cafeteria for three weeks, completely silent, watching the doors like someone was coming to get you.
I had to chase you down, corner you at the bus stop, and bug you for three months straight before you finally dropped your guard. You were like a feral kitten."
I don't know what to say to that. I stare at her, my throat tight, a sudden wave of vulnerability washing over me. A feral kitten. Is that what I am? Is this what my mother’s fear did to me? Did she raise me to be so terrified of the dark that I don't even know how to let someone close?
Maybe I'm just damaged for real, I think, the thought visceral and bitter in my head. Maybe the quiet life I built is just a cage I put myself in.
"I just don't want to get hurt, Maya," I whisper.
"I know, sweetie," she says, wrapping her arms around my neck in a tight, clumsy hug. "But some storms are worth getting wet for."
We break the hug and start walking again, the silence of the harbor town settling around us.
The fog has gotten thicker, swallowing the ocean and turning the narrow alleyways into dark, gaping mouths.
We are only half a block from our building, but the dark feels heavier now, the shadows stretching out across the wet stone.
Suddenly, a heavy, scraping sound echoes from the mouth of the alleyway ahead of us.
I freeze. My hand automatically flies out, grabbing Maya’s sleeve, pulling her back. The drunken warmth in my blood vanishes in a single, terrifying second, replaced by a cold, sharp rush of adrenaline.
"Maya," I whisper, my heart starting to hammer against my ribs. "Stop."
"What?" she mumbles, her eyes blinking in confusion. "Lina, my feet hurt—"
Two men step out of the gray mist.
They are tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing heavy dark coats. Their faces are partially obscured by the shadow of their hoods, but I can see the cold, hard set of their jaws. They don't look like locals. They walk with a quiet, synchronized coordination that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
"Lina Rossi?" the one on the left asks. His voice is deep, rough, carrying a thick, harsh accent I’ve never heard before.
"Who’s asking?" I demand, my hand clenching around my keys, pointing the sharp edges outward between my knuckles. My mother’s training—the survival instincts I thought were just paranoia—instantly take over. Never show them you’re scared. Stand your ground.
"You're coming with us," the other man says, stepping forward, his hand reaching out to grab my shoulder.
"Don't touch her!" Maya screams, suddenly waking up to the danger. She lunges forward, swinging her heavy leather purse, but the first man catches her arm effortlessly, twisting it behind her back.
Maya lets out a sharp, pained cry.
"Let her go!" I roar, lunging forward and driving my keys straight toward the man's throat.
But before the metal can touch his skin, a dark shadow explodes out of the fog behind them.
It is a silent, terrifying blur of movement.
John.
Before I can even scream, he is there. He doesn't look like my neighbor. He doesn't look like the man who fixed my wobbly shelf or kissed me by the fire. His face is completely devoid of humanity—a cold, mechanical mask of absolute, lethal focus.
He grabs the first man by the back of his hair, yanking his head back with a force that makes an audible, sickening snapecho through the alley. The man drops like a stone, his body hitting the wet cobblestones with a heavy, limp thud.
The second man spins around, his hand reaching into his coat for a weapon, but John is already inside his guard.
John drives his elbow straight into the man's jaw.
Crunch.
The impact is devastating. The man’s head snaps sideways, teeth and bright red blood spraying across the gray brick wall.
He stumbles backward, but John doesn't let him fall.
He grabs the man's wrist, twists his arm behind his back until the shoulder joint pops out of its socket with a sickening, wet tear, and slams his face hard against the cobblestones.
The man screams, a high-pitched, agonizing sound that is cut short as John drives his boot heavily into the back of his neck, pinning his windpipe to the ground.
Maya lets out a small, choking whimper, her eyes rolling back into her head as her knees buckle. She faints, sliding down the brick wall into a limp pile on the pavement.
I stand there frozen, my back pressed against the cold brick, my keys still clutched in my fist, my chest heaving with a wild, frantic panic. I can't take my eyes off him.
“D-Don Gio…. Spare me… please! I h-have two daughters!” The groaning man begs as John is stands over him, his chest rising and falling slowly, his hands stained with dark, hot blood.
He doesn't look rattled. He doesn't look scared. He looks... calm. Like he just took out the trash. He reaches into his coat, pulls out a dark, heavy handgun, and presses the barrel directly against the back of the pinned man’s head.
He is going to kill him.
"John, stop!" I gasp, my voice a broken, terrified sob in the quiet street. "Don't! Please!"
He freezes. Slowly, his head turns to look at me. His eyes—which were so warm and heavy when he held me by the fire yesterday—are completely black, turning into two cold, dead stones. The glacier is back, but this time, there is no neighbor underneath. There is only a killer.
I look at him, the pieces of the puzzle instantly slamming together in my brain. The scars on his bare chest. The quiet, intense spatial awareness. The clinical, dark deceptions. The way he broke these men’s bodies without a single second of hesitation.
He isn't a tech bro. He isn't a regular neighbor named John.
He is mafia. Don Gio…
"Lina," he says, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely too calm. He slides the gun back into his holster, releasing his boot from the man's neck. He steps over the groaning body, walking slowly toward me.
"Don't come near me," I whisper, my keys shaking in my hand. "What... what are you?"
He doesn't answer. He stops two feet from me, his eyes analyzing my face, checking my arms, my neck, my sweater for any blood that isn't his. "Are you hurt?"
"Who are those men?" I demand, my voice rising. "Who are they, John? Or whatever your name is! Why did they want me?"
"They are bad people," he says simply. He looks down at Maya’s limp body on the pavement. "She is just shocked. She will wake up in a few minutes, my men are in the shadows and will safely take her home. We need to go."
"I am not going anywhere with you," I snap, my natural stubbornness and defiance rising through the sheer terror. I refuse to let him see how badly my knees are shaking. "You just broke two men's bodies in front of me! You're a monster!"
A slight, almost invisible twitch touches the corner of his mouth. It isn't amusement. It looks like pain. "I saved your life, piccola."
"Don't call me that!" I scream, tears of anger and adrenaline finally spilling over my eyelashes. "You lied to me! You moved next door, you pretended to be a normal guy, and you're... you're one of them! You're a criminal!"
He steps closer, completely ignoring my keys, his massive frame blocking out the dark street.
The smell of copper and cold rain radiating off him is thick, suffocating.
"Those men came to kidnap you. If I wasn't here, you would be in the back of a van on your way to Boston.
I am the only thing keeping you breathing. "
"I don't believe you," I whisper, clutching my ruined book to my chest like a shield.
"You have to," he says. His voice is very quiet now, very deep, carrying a weight that makes my breath catch. He looks down at my mouth, then back to my eyes. "Because the men who sent them are not going to stop. Your safety in this town is gone, Lina."
"Then I'll call the police," I say, my chin tilting up.
"The police cannot protect you from this," he says, his tone flat and final. "But I can."
"And why would you do that?" I demand, my chest heaving. "What do you want from me?"
John looks at the groaning man on the pavement, then back at my face. He rubs a streak of dark blood off his hand with a clean handkerchief—the one with the embroidered initials G.M.—and puts it back in his pocket.
"I have a business deal," he says, his voice cool, calculated, and completely professional. "A high-stakes transaction that requires a convincing partner. I need a woman on my arm who can make my associates believe I am settled. I need a girlfriend."
I stare at him, my brain completely stalling, my mouth slightly open. "What?"
"Posing as my partner will keep you close to me, where my guards can protect you," he explains, as if he is presenting a contract in a boardroom.
"And in return, you will help me secure my assets.
It is a mutually beneficial arrangement.
You repay the debt of your life by helping me close this deal. "
I look from him, to the bloody men on the ground, to my unconscious best friend, and back to his gorgeous, granite face. The sheer, astronomical arrogance of him is mind-blowing.
"Are you crazy?!" I shout.