14. Zaria
ZARIA
The bar smells like stale beer and old wood when I push through the door with Cain at my back, afternoon sunlight cutting through the dim interior like a blade.
I'm here to check on a shipment issue Marco mentioned this morning, something about timing that needs my personal attention because apparently my crew can't handle basic logistics without supervision.
I'm tired. I've been tired for days, running on too little sleep and too much caffeine because every time I close my eyes I see green-gold ones staring back at me, feel phantom hands gripping my hips, taste the ghost of someone's mouth between my?—
I stop so abruptly that Cain almost walks into my back.
"Z, what?—"
But I'm not listening. My entire body has gone still, every nerve ending suddenly firing at once because there, sitting at my bar like he belongs there, is Greer fucking Martin.
My heart does this stupid thing where it leaps into my throat and starts hammering like I'm sixteen instead of twenty-nine, like I'm not Viper Bennett who kills people with her bare hands and runs an entire criminal operation.
Like I'm just a woman who hasn't seen the man she can't stop thinking about in five days and whose absence has been carving holes in places I didn't know could hurt.
I hate myself for it.
Hate that seeing him makes me feel anything other than cold calculation.
Hate that my first instinct is to walk over there and touch him, to confirm he's real and not just another phantom haunting my sleep-deprived brain.
Hate that I've spent the past two days asking around about him, checking his usual spots, trying to play it casual while my crew watched with knowing eyes.
And now here he is, wearing dark jeans and a black henley that makes his shoulders look broader than they should, his hair slightly messed like he's been running his hands through it.
Even from across the bar I can see the tension in his posture, the way he holds himself differently than he did that first night—more confident, more dangerous, more mine.
I start to move toward him, already planning what I'm going to say, when a hand lands on his shoulder.
I freeze again, this time for a different reason.
The hand belongs to a man I recognize—lean build, dark hair slightly tousled, gray-blue eyes that scan the bar with practiced efficiency. Hayes Carelli, younger brother to Heath and part of one of Manhattan's most powerful crime families.
I know the Carellis the way I know most major players in the region—by reputation, by the occasional neutral-ground meeting, by the unspoken understanding that we stay out of each other's territories and handle our own business unless circumstances force collaboration.
They're Manhattan. I'm Jersey. Our worlds overlap at the edges but don't intersect unless there's a reason.
What the fuck is Hayes Carelli doing grabbing Greer's shoulder like they know each other?
Hayes pulls Greer toward the corner, and I drift along the wall instinctively, staying out of sight, every muscle coiled tight with sudden unease. Cain follows without question because he knows me well enough to recognize when something's wrong.
"You knew about this?" he murmurs, voice so low only I can hear it.
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off Greer and Hayes. They're talking in that corner between the jukebox and the hallway, close together in a way that speaks of familiarity. Intimacy, even. Not romantic—I know the difference—but the kind of closeness that comes from history.
From trust.
My stomach twists.
Hayes's body language reads protective, almost aggressive in the way he's leaning into Greer's space. His hand moves to Greer's shoulder again, gripping hard, and I can't hear what they're saying over the bar noise but I can see the intensity in Hayes's expression.
Greer's face is harder to read from this angle, but his posture is defensive. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. The way people look when they're explaining themselves to someone who has the authority to demand explanations.
"They know each other," Cain says, stating the obvious because sometimes he does that when he's processing something that doesn't make sense. "How well do you think?"
"Well enough." My voice comes out flat, cold, nothing like the warmth I felt thirty seconds ago when I first saw Greer. "Well enough that Hayes Carelli is in my territory asking questions."
"Could be coincidence."
"You believe that?"
"No." He shifts beside me, and I know he's running the same calculations I am. "You think he's working with them? Carelli plant?"
The suggestion makes my chest constrict painfully.
I want to reject it immediately, to say there's no way Greer would lie to me like that, would get close to me and touch me and taste me while secretly reporting back to another family.
But I learned a long time ago that wanting something to be true doesn't make it true, and the evidence is right in front of me—Greer Martin, who showed up at my fights randomly one night and inserted himself into my world with suspicious efficiency, is familiar enough with a Carelli that Hayes can drag him to a corner for some confrontation.
I never thought Greer was a cop. He doesn't move like law enforcement, doesn't ask questions like someone building a case. But working with another family? Gathering intelligence? Using me as leverage in some larger game I'm not seeing?
That's possible.
That's the kind of thing that happens in this world, where loyalty is currency and betrayal is business.
Heath Carelli appears at the entrance—taller than his brother, harder edges, scanning the bar with the kind of authority that commands attention.
He spots Hayes and waves him over impatiently.
I watch as Hayes says something to Greer, his hand squeezing Greer's shoulder one more time before he backs away.
Greer catches Hayes's arm. They're too far for me to hear, but I can read the body language—Greer asking something, Hayes reluctant, finally nodding. An agreement passing between them like a secret.
Like a promise.
Hayes heads toward Heath, and they both disappear into the back room where I know Marco lets people hold private meetings on neutral ground.
Business, then. The Carellis are here for business that has nothing to do with Greer, which makes me wonder if Hayes even knew he was here.
If that conversation wasn't what I thought. I have so many question.
Like how much does Greer matter to Hayes Carelli?
And why the fuck didn't I know about this connection before I let Greer get close enough to see inside my operation?
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I'm furious—at Greer for not telling me, at myself for not digging deeper before I let my guard down, at this entire situation that's making me question everything.
I gave him pieces of myself I don't give anyone.
I let him see me vulnerable, let him into my world, let him prove himself with violence and gifts and that stupid giant panda that's currently sitting on my couch like a judgment.
And he was connected to another family the entire time.
"Z." Cain's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "What do you want to do?"
I watch Greer return to his seat at the bar, his shoulders tight with tension.
Marco pours him another beer without being asked, which means Greer's been here enough times that the bartender knows his preferences.
How did I miss that? How many times has he been coming here when I wasn't around, building his own network in my territory while I was busy thinking he was just an obsessed outsider trying to find his way in?
My heart is still doing that stupid jumping thing, even angrier now because seeing him makes me want him and wanting him makes me weak and I can't afford weakness when I don't know whose side he's really on.
"I'm going to talk to him." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Get answers."
"Want me there?"
"No." I need to do this alone. Need to look Greer in the eyes without Cain's protective presence and see if I can still read him the way I thought I could. Need to know if everything between us has been real or if I've been played by someone better at the game than I gave him credit for.
Cain nods once, accepting my decision even though I can tell he doesn't like it. "I'll be at the bar if you need me."
He moves away, taking a seat three stools down from Greer but positioned so he can watch without being obvious. Good. I don't want backup but I'm not stupid enough to go completely without it, especially when my emotions are compromised and my judgment is questionable.
I take a breath, steeling myself, then start across the bar toward Greer.
Each step makes the anger build hotter in my chest. Anger at him, at Hayes, at myself for falling for someone without properly vetting his connections first. I've been running Bennett territory for months, holding everything together while rivals test my boundaries and my own crew questions whether Malcolm's daughter has what it takes.
I can't afford mistakes. Can't afford to let someone get close who might be feeding information to another family.
Can't afford to want someone who might be using me.
By the time I reach the bar, I'm fuming. My hands are shaking slightly and I shove them in my jacket pockets so Greer won't see. Won't know that he's gotten under my skin deep enough to make me lose control.
He's staring at his beer, lost in thought, completely unaware that I'm standing three feet away.
His profile is sharp in the dim lighting—the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar across his temple that I've traced with my fingers.
He looks tired. Looks like he hasn't been sleeping well, which makes two of us.
I want to touch him. Want to grab his face and kiss him until neither of us can breathe. Want to demand answers and believe whatever he tells me because the alternative is admitting that I've been a fool.