10. Zaria
ZARIA
I'm leaning against Cain's motorcycle in some warehouse parking lot, scrolling through contacts on my phone and trying to figure out who the hell would be stupid enough to shelter Rasheed, when Cain's phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen, eyebrows lifting. "Huh."
"What?"
"Marco says there's something we need to see. Back alley behind his bar."
My stomach drops. Either someone found Rasheed's body—which would mean he's already dead and I don't get the satisfaction of killing him myself—or this is about something else entirely. Neither option feels good at four-thirty in the morning.
"Let's go."
The ride to Marco's takes twelve minutes, Cain leading on his bike while I follow in my Challenger.
The giant panda is still buckled into my passenger seat, its stupid stitched-on smile mocking me every time I glance over.
I should've left it at home, but something about Greer handing it to me before I left made it impossible to just toss it aside.
Text me when you find him, he'd said. Like he genuinely believed I'd want to share that with him. Like he thought I'd let him into that part of my world.
The scary thing is, I do want to tell him. I want to text him the second we find Rasheed and watch him show up anyway, despite promising to go home. I want to see how he looks at me when I put a bullet in a traitor's skull.
I want him to keep looking at me like I'm not terrifying. Like my darkness is exactly what he's been searching for.
Cain parks his bike near the bar's back entrance, and I pull in beside him. The alley is narrow, lined with dumpsters and fire escapes, the kind of place where deals get made and bodies get dumped. Marco's standing near the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, looking grim.
"Back there." He jerks his chin toward the shadows. "Didn't touch anything. Figured you'd want to handle it yourself."
I walk deeper into the alley, Cain a step behind me, and stop when I see what's waiting.
Rasheed.
Strung up on a fire escape ladder with his hands tied above his head, toes barely touching the ground, head lolling forward.
His face is destroyed—nose clearly broken, lips split, one eye swollen completely shut, blood dried in streaks down his neck.
He's breathing, shallow and raspy, but unconscious.
At his feet sits my duffel bag. The one with a hundred and forty thousand dollars and twenty kilos of product.
And tucked into his shirt pocket is a folded piece of paper.
I pull it out, already knowing what I'm going to find before I unfold it.
Found your thief. Money and product are safe. Consider this handled.
—G
The handwriting matches the note from the Okafor shipment. Blocky, careful, distinctive enough that I'd recognize it anywhere now.
Greer.
Greer went home. Greer told me he was going to sleep like I asked. Greer looked me in the eye and lied about what he was planning, then went hunting for Rasheed while I was coordinating search efforts with my crew.
He found him first. Beat the shit out of him. Recovered everything that was stolen. Delivered him gift-wrapped to an alley where he knew I'd find him.
I'm grinning before I can stop myself. Full teeth, the kind of smile that makes people nervous because it means I'm genuinely pleased about something violent.
My good boy went out and got his hands bloody for me without being asked, without expecting praise or payment, just because someone fucked me over and he decided that was unacceptable.
"Z?" Cain moves closer, studying Rasheed's hanging form. "This is..."
"I know what it is."
Cain stares at the body for a long moment, expression unreadable. I wait for him to say something about how Greer needs to stay out of this, how he's going to get himself killed, how I need to cut him loose before he becomes a liability.
Instead, Cain turns to look at me with the most deadpan expression I've ever seen on his face. "This guy is like really into you."
I try to suppress my smile and fail completely. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying." He gestures at Rasheed like he's evidence in a trial. "Most guys bring flowers or chocolate. Your man brings you beaten traitors and stolen product. It's very on-brand for you."
"He's not my man."
"Right. He's just some random guy who hunts down your enemies in the middle of the night for fun." Cain pulls out his phone, probably texting his cleanup crew. "Totally casual."
I flip him off, still grinning like an idiot. The thing is, Cain's right. Greer isn't the kind of guy who buys women flowers. Or maybe he is with normal women, but he looked at me and realized I'm not the kind of woman who wants flowers.
I want loyalty. Protection. Someone willing to get bloody when it matters.
And apparently, that's exactly what Greer's offering.
"Isn't Greer supposed to be the good boy type?" Cain asks, still staring at Rasheed. "Like, the guy who opens doors and plans nice dates and shit?"
"I'm not the kind of woman who wants a man to buy her flowers." I fold the note carefully, tucking it into my jacket pocket. "You know that."
Cain does know that. He's watched me date exactly three people in the years we've known each other, and every single one ended because they tried to soften me.
Tried to convince me I didn't need to be in the streets, that I could let someone else handle the dangerous work, that being a woman meant I should want protection instead of providing it.
Greer's doing the opposite. He's trying to prove he can match my darkness instead of asking me to dim it.
It's the sexiest thing anyone's ever done for me.
Cain starts working on cutting Rasheed down, catching his weight as the rope gives way and lowering him to the ground with surprising gentleness for someone who's definitely killed more people than I have. "You shouldn't get too attached."
"I'm not?—"
"Z." He looks up at me, expression serious now. "This guy isn't connected. He doesn't know how to cover up crimes. The only reason he's getting away with any of this is because the people he's killing are criminals and I'm doing the cleanup. He's going to get himself killed."
My stomach twists. "He can handle himself."
"Can he?" Cain ties Rasheed's hands behind his back with fresh rope, efficient and practiced.
"Because from where I'm standing, he's a marketing analyst who learned how to throw a punch and thinks that makes him ready for this life.
He's sloppy. He's leaving evidence. He's operating on emotion instead of strategy.
" He pauses. "He's doing all of this to impress you, and one day it's going to get him killed. And then what?"
Then I'll lose the first person in years who looked at me and wanted to dive deeper instead of pulling me toward the light.
But admitting that out loud would mean admitting Greer has gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever has. That watching him stand in that alley outside the fight club two months ago, refusing to leave, refusing to be scared of me—it flipped something in my chest that I didn't know could flip.
That every time he shows up, every time he matches my energy instead of flinching away from it, I want him more.
That the note in my pocket feels more intimate than anything anyone's ever said to me during sex.
"I'll handle it," I say instead.
"Yeah. You always do." Cain's voice is dry. He hefts Rasheed over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. "I'll take care of this. You go home. Rest. Figure out what you're doing with your good boy who beats people unconscious for you."
"He's not?—"
"Save it, Z. I've known you too long." He carries Rasheed toward his van, parked deeper in the alley. "Just... be careful. That's all I'm saying. He's different. And different gets complicated."
I watch him load Rasheed into the back of the van, then drive away into the early morning darkness. Marco disappeared at some point, leaving me alone in the alley with my duffel bag of recovered money and product.
My phone buzzes. A text from one of my crew asking for updates on the search.
Zaria: Found him. Situation handled. Stand down.
Three more texts come in rapid succession from different people, all variations of how'd you find him so fast and need backup? I ignore them all and head back to my car.
The giant panda stares at me from the passenger seat as I slide behind the wheel.
I stare back at it, then laugh—sharp and slightly unhinged—because my life has become so fucking surreal that I'm having a staring contest with a carnival prize at five AM while trying not to think about how much I want the man who won it for me.
The drive home should clear my head. It doesn't.
By the time I'm parking in my building's underground garage, hauling the duffel bag and the ridiculous panda up to my apartment, I'm wired in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with Greer fucking Martin.
My apartment feels too quiet when I walk in. Too empty. I've always liked it that way—my space, my rules, no one to answer to. But after spending hours with Greer tonight, the silence feels wrong.
I drop the duffel bag by my desk, prop the panda on my couch where it takes up half the cushions, and head for the bathroom.
I need to shower. Need to wash off the blood spatter from killing that Okafor guy, the sweat from dancing with Greer in that subway tunnel, the salt from the ocean air on the beach.
But even under the hot water, I can't stop thinking about him.
About the way he looked at my blood-covered hands with hunger instead of disgust. The way he moved through that gambling den like he belonged there, reading patterns and working angles. The way he held me on the beach, solid and warm, while I talked about loneliness.
The way he promised to go home, then went hunting for my traitor instead.
He's going so far out of his way for me. Further than anyone ever has. My father protected me because I'm his daughter, his legacy. Cain protects me because we're family, bound by years of loyalty and shared violence. But Greer?
Greer doesn't owe me anything. He has a clean life, a good job, a sister who clearly loves him. He could walk away right now and go back to being the kind of man who goes to work in button-downs and plans brunches with friends and lives a completely normal existence.
But he's choosing this. Choosing me. Choosing to get bloody and dangerous because he wants to be the kind of man who fits in my world.
It's terrifying how much I like that.
I've never had someone try to match me like this before. Every other person I've been with either wanted to fix me or fetishized the danger without understanding the reality. They liked the idea of being with Viper, but they didn't actually want to know Zaria.
Greer wants both. He watches me kill someone and gets turned on.
He wins me a giant panda and makes me laugh.
He tracks down my traitor and leaves me notes.
He's twisted enough to crave the violence but sweet enough to take me to the beach at midnight just because I mentioned wanting to see the ocean.
He's a good boy. But he's my kind of good boy—the kind who'll break someone's face if they fuck with what's his.
I dry off and pull on clean clothes—soft sleep shorts and a tank top that I'd never let anyone else see me in. My hair is still damp when I collapse on my bed, exhaustion finally catching up.
But sleep doesn't come.
I grab my phone, pulling up Greer's contact. He saved himself as "Greer (from the fight club)" which is absurdly formal and makes me smile every time I see it. There's his last text from two hours ago: Text me when you find him.
I did find him. Thanks to Greer.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? Thanks for the gift-wrapped traitor, really thoughtful? You're insane and I'm into it? Come over so I can fuck you while I'm still thinking about how you beat someone unconscious for me?
Instead, I set my phone down and stare at my ceiling.
Greer has been giving me things—information, violence, loyalty, that stupid perfect panda. He's been proving himself, showing me he can handle my world, demonstrating he's worth keeping around.
Maybe it's my turn to do something for him.
Not flowers or chocolates or whatever normal people give each other. Something that shows I see him the same way he sees me. Something that proves I'm just as willing to give as I am to take.
I just need to figure out what that something is.