54. Chapter 54
Chapter fifty-four
Alex
Ianswer the phone as I remove the apron I borrowed from Lina and toss it on the rail next to the back door.
“Alex—listen to me,” Reese says, skipping any greeting.
“Elinor Allister is on the move. I believe she’s headed toward the bakery. And she’s not alone.”
My body reacts before my brain finishes processing the words.
“What do you mean not alone?” I ask, already scanning the alley, already shifting my stance. “Two hired men with her,” Reese continues. “Big. Armed. They’re meant to—“ I don’t hear the rest.
I glance up, and there they are. Two extremely large men round the corner. Thick necks. Broad shoulders. The kind of bulk that’s meant to intimidate more than move.
Their hands hover close to their jackets—where I know the guns are.
They don’t want to shoot me. Not here. Not with a neighborhood so close.
Too much attention. Too many witnesses.
They want to neutralize me. They think this will be easy.
I slip the phone in my back pocket. I square my shoulders and let my breathing slow.
Everything sharpens—the sounds, the angles, the distance between us. My pulse steadies.
“You can go quietly on your own or we force you” the guy to the left says.
I roll my neck and smile, giving them the hand signal to move forward.
They come at me together. Bad choice.
The first one leads with a wide right—announced, clumsy.
I slip inside the arc instead of backing away, crashing my forearm into his bicep while my other hand snaps up to his throat.
Not a choke. A strike. He stumbles back.
My thumb digs into the soft hollow under the guys jaw, and I drive forward, smashing his head back against the brick wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. He grunts—but doesn’t go down.
Instead, his hand flashes between us. Steel catches the light.
A knife.
I don’t fucking flinch.
I was trained with blades before I was ever trusted with a gun. Knives don’t echo. Don’t leave casings. Don’t wake neighborhoods or invite sirens. Guns are loud and bring attention.
Blades are intimate. Honest.
The knife whistles past my ribs close enough that I feel the air move. I redirect his wrist without thinking—muscle memory older than most of my scars. I trap his forearm against my chest and torque his wrist hard, past its limit.
Bone pops. The knife drops.
It’s in my hand before it hits the ground.
I know its weight. Its balance—how much pressure it takes to make someone bleed, and how much more it takes to make them talk.
The first man is wailing from the broken bone, registering the pain and sudden absence of control.
The second one charges.
Big. Angry. Sloppy as fuck.
He thinks size wins fights. Not always.
I pivot, letting his momentum carry him past me as the blade comes up—not deep, not lethal. A clean slice across his forearm. Deep enough to open skin and tear into muscle. Blood blooms instantly and he howls.
Pain does that. It steals logic. Steals breath. Steals dignity.
I step in close and drive an elbow into his spine. He stumbles. I hook his ankle and shove. He hits the concrete hard, face-first, teeth cracking on impact.
I don’t follow him down.
I return my attention to the first man—now panicking, eyes locked on the knife in my hand.
Good. Fear makes people predictable.
I move fast. A slash across his cheek, enough to remind him how close he is to losing something he values.
Another cut—across the ribs this time. Deep and bone-slicing.
I was taught early that a knife isn’t only about killing. It’s about precision. About knowing the body well enough to stop short of the line you don’t intend to cross until you’re ready.
He swings wildly. I step inside it, knee driving up into his groin. He folds with a broken sound.
Before he collapses, I drive the knife into his gut, straight to his liver, tugging it up and out. The man groans, clutching the wound filling up with black blood.
Yeah, he’s not surviving that.
The second man is crawling now, one good arm dragging him toward his jacket. Towards his fucking gun.
I’m already moving. I stomp his wrist flat before his fingers can close. The crunch of bone meeting pavement is music to my ears. He screams.
I kick the gun down the alley, then crouch so that he can see my face. The knife flashes once more. Deep into the back of his neck.
His body jerks in a futile attempt to breathe air. A strangled sound escapes him before fading into ragged breaths.
I don’t get to fully enjoy this.
Both of them are down now, and it took less than a few minutes.
My breathing is steady.
I look to the back door, and I’m already moving, sprinting as dread slices through my chest sharper than any blade. Because this was never about me. They were a delay. And all my instincts are screaming the same thing as my boots pound against the pavement—
Lina.
I burst through the back door, and the world narrows to one frozen frame.
Elinor Allister with a gun, holding it firm against Lina.
The barrel is steady, pressed close enough that I can see Lina’s breath hitch with every inhale. Elinor’s posture is calm—too calm—the kind of composure that comes from believing you still have leverage.
Her eyes flick to me and widen a fraction.
“Well,” she says lightly, almost amused. “That was fast. How inconvenient.”
She really believed the two men would hold me.
I take one slow step forward. The gun twitches and she shoots.
I quickly move behind a wall.
“Don’t,” she warns. “One more step and I blow her brains out. I don’t have to aim well to do just that.”
I step out. Raise my hands to appear compliant.
“Alright,” I say, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
Her eyes narrow.
I can hear my pulse now—pounding and present. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know Reese is already moving. Calling it in. Lighting up every channel he has. I need time.
“You really didn’t think this through,” I say, calm and controlled. “You pull that trigger, and this gets very messy.”
She laughs softly. “I’ll be out of here shortly after I make her death look like a suicide. Or maybe a lovers’ quarrel. Now that you’re still in the picture.”
“You won’t get that far,” I counter.
Her grip tightens.
“You don’t scare me,” she says. “You’re not what I planned for, but you’re not a problem I can’t resolve. I can easily pay someone to fix this.”
“What did you plan for?“ I ask.
She studies me, head tilting. “I thought you were some muscled idiot she was fucking. No substance. No consequence. Cole tells me she likes the all-brawn, no-brains men she meets at the gym.”
Lina stiffens at the words, but I keep my eyes pinned to Elinor.
“I underestimated you,” she continues. “That’s on me.”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “You did.”
I shift my weight subtly—nothing obvious or threatening. Just enough to be ready.
Every fiber of my being wants to rip this woman apart, but I have to stay calm for Lina.
“You kill her,” I say, voice lethal in its calm, “and every single thing you’ve done becomes known. Virginia. Your husband. The money. The contract. Everything.”
Her jaw clenches.
“You don’t have proof,” she snaps.
I smile, slow and humorless. “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be holding that gun like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”
Her eyes flick toward the door behind me. Toward the last shred of hope she has left.
I let the silence stretch for a moment. Then I crush it.
“If you’re waiting for backup,” I state, my voice low, “they’re not coming.”
Fear flashes across her face.
I take another step forward. “They died trying.”
She’s shaking now, calculating her next move. And that means fear is creeping in.