Chapter 1 Shelby
Shelby
Present Day
The penthouse is too quiet.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston’s Financial District, my left shoulder throbbing with each beat of my heart.
Three days since Nikolai put me on a plane.
Three days since I left two dead children in a Russian warehouse and brought nothing home but a bullet wound and the confirmation that I’m broken in ways that don’t heal.
The whiskey in my hand is my third. Or fourth. I’ve lost count.
My phone buzzes on the granite counter behind me—another message I won’t answer. Dave’s been calling since I landed. Tommy too. They want to know if I’m okay, if I need anything, if I want company.
I don’t want company. I want to rewind three months and tell myself not to go to Russia. I want to rewind further—to Syria, to the moment before everything went to hell. I want to be the Marine I used to be, the one who didn’t freeze when it mattered most.
But that man died in a Syrian building collapse, and the ghost wearing his face hasn’t figured out how to stop failing people yet.
I drain the whiskey and pour another.
The wound is healing. Alexei did good work patching me up before I left. The bullet went clean through, missing bone and major arteries. In a few weeks, I’ll have full range of motion back. Physical therapy, some scar tissue, and I’ll be combat-ready again.
Too bad the wound that festered isn’t the one in my shoulder.
My phone buzzes again. This time I check it.
Joe DiLorenzo: Need to talk. It’s important. Family stuff.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Joe and I go back years—he’s Dave’s age, thirty-five, and we grew up in adjacent worlds. Irish and Italian, Boyles and DiLorenzos, two of the founding families of the Syndicate. We’ve bled together, fought together, buried people together.
If Joe says it’s important, I don’t doubt him.
I type back: Tomorrow. Need tonight.
His response is immediate: Understood. Take care of yourself, brother.
I set the phone down and return to the window.
The city glitters below me, oblivious to the darkness always swirling inside me.
People down there are living normal lives—going to dinner, watching movies, kissing their partners goodnight.
They don’t know about trafficking rings or failed extractions or the way a child’s scream sounds when—
I shut that thought down hard.
The intercom buzzes.
I freeze. It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I’m not expecting anyone. The building’s security is top-tier—no one gets up here without clearance. I cross to the panel and check the video feed.
My heart skips a beat.
Serena DiLorenzo stands in my hallway, her dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing a black coat that costs more than the rent for a three-bedroom apartment. She’s not looking at the camera. She’s looking at my door, her expression unreadable.
Joe’s little sister.
Except she’s not little anymore, and she’s never been just Joe’s sister to me.
I haven’t seen her since before Russia. Three months of trying to outrun my demons, and she’s the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about in the quiet moments between operations.
The way she looked at me at Tommy’s wedding, like she could see straight through my armor.
The conversation we had in a hallway where I almost—
I press the intercom. “Serena.”
Her eyes lift to the camera. Despite the grainy feed, I see the intelligence in them, the assessment. She’s always been the smartest person in any room, and she’s never bothered pretending otherwise.
“Let me in, Shelby.”
It’s not a request.
I should tell her to leave. I should tell her I’m not fit for company, that I need to be alone, that she’s the last person who should be anywhere near me right now.
I ignore common sense and decide to listen to my heart.
I buzz her in.
I have thirty seconds while she rides the elevator. I use them to pour the whiskey down the sink and hide the bottle. Then I catch sight of myself in the reflection of the microwave—three-day beard, rumpled T-shirt, exhaustion carved into every line of my face.
There’s no time to make myself presentable. The elevator chimes.
I push my glasses up my nose as I open the door before she can knock.
She’s breathtaking. That’s the first thought, the one I can’t suppress.
Every.
Fucking.
Time.
Serena DiLorenzo, at twenty-five, is the kind of beautiful that makes men write poetry and start wars.
Dark hair, olive skin, and eyes the color of aged whiskey.
I could drown my sorrows in them if they didn’t see everything I’m trying to hide.
The statement necklace at her throat—teardrop diamonds set in platinum—catches the light as she moves, and her black dress under the coat is elegant and understated even though the French Maison that created it charged a fortune.
But it’s not her beauty that terrifies me. It’s the way she looks at me, like I’m a puzzle she’s determined to solve.
“You look like hell,” she says.
I shake my head, a reluctant smile crossing my face. “Thanks. You’re always so generous with your compliments,” I say, but there’s no bite in it as I step aside. “Come in.”
She moves past me, bringing with her the scent of the floral perfume she always wears, something as alluring as her.
The coat whispers as she removes it, revealing the full, elegant line of the dress beneath.
She drapes the coat over the back of my couch with the casual confidence of someone who’s never been unwelcome anywhere.
I close the door and lean against it, keeping distance between us. “How did you know I was back?”
“Joe heard from Dave.” She turns to face me fully, and there’s something in her expression I can’t quite read. Concern? Anger? “After three months in Russia, you come home with a bullet wound and goes off the radar. What did you expect? That no one would notice?”
“I expected people to give me space.”
“That’s not how family works.” She crosses her arms, and I notice the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for impact. “Joe’s worried. Your brothers are worried. I’m—“ She stops. “We’re all worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Shelby Boyle.”
The use of my full name makes my lips twitch despite everything. “Funny, I’ve made a career out of lying.”
“Not to me you haven’t.”
The words land between us like a challenge. She’s right, and we both know it. I was never able to hide anything from Serena. I could never bullshit her. That has always terrified me but oddly it also comforted me.
I push off the door and move into the living room, putting the couch between us. “Want a drink?”
“You’ve already been drinking.” It’s not a question. “And now you’re deflecting.”
“I’m being a good host.”
“You’re being a coward.”
The word hits harder than it should. I turn to face her, and there’s something fierce in her expression now, something that makes my chest tight.
“Careful, Serena.”
“Or what?” She moves around the couch, closing the distance I tried to create. “You’ll brood at me more intensely? Shut me out like you’re shutting everyone else out?”
“You should go.”
“No.”
“This isn’t—“ I struggle for words. “I’m not good company right now.”
“I don’t want good company. I want honest company.” She stops a few feet away, close enough that the concern in her eyes draws me in. The vulnerability she’s trying to hide beneath her armor seeps through it. “Russia was bad. I can see it all over your face.”
My jaw tightens. “Joe shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“He didn’t have to. I can read you, remember?” Her voice softens slightly. “After Syria, you came back different. Closed off. And now this. Whatever happened in Russia, it’s eating you alive.”
I want to deny it. I want to put my walls back up and push her away like I’ve pushed everyone else away. But standing here, looking at her, I find I don’t have the energy for it.
“Russia was complicated,” I confess.
She waits. Doesn’t push, doesn’t prod. Just waits with that infinite patience that makes me want to tell her things I’ve never told anyone.
But I can’t. I can’t put that burden on her. I should protect her against my darkness. Still, I owe her honesty.
“The operation failed,” I hear myself say. The words feel like crunched glass on my tongue. “People died. Kids died. And I—“ my voice trails off. I clear my throat and add, “I froze.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, naked and raw.
Serena doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. She just watches me with those whiskey-colored eyes, and I see something in them that looks like understanding.
“How long has this been happening?” she asks quietly.
“Since Syria.”
“That was years ago, Shelby.”
“I know. It doesn’t happen every time I’m on a mission, though.”
I don’t need to add that I wouldn’t have survived our world if I froze every damn time. She knows the dangers in my line of work. They’re the same ones her family faces.
She takes another step closer. We’re less than an arm’s length apart now, and the warmth radiating from her body wraps around me. Her floral scent makes me want to close the distance and forget she’s my friend’s little sister.
But I can’t think like that. She is Joe’s sister. She’s off-limits. She’s—
“Nothing about us is safe, Shelby.” Her voice is barely above a whisper as if reading my thoughts. “Not for me, not for you, not for either of our families. But at least when I see you, I feel like I’m not drowning alone.”
She stops, and that vulnerability flashes again in her eyes before she looks away. “That came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t.”
I don’t know which one of us moves first, but suddenly I’m closer, my hand lifting of its own accord.
I stop myself just before I touch her face, the memory of the last time I almost did this flooding back.
A hallway at a fundraising organized by the Syndicate, three months and a lifetime ago.
She’d been wearing red then, and I’d wanted to kiss her so badly all fucking night I could taste it.
I managed to stay away instead.
But right now, with her looking at me like I’m something other than broken, I can’t make myself walk away.
“I felt the same way,” I admit. “After Syria, you were the only person I didn’t have to explain myself to.”
“And now we’re here together,” she says, her eyes searching mine. “Are you going to pretend we don’t feel this?”
Everything in me wants to say yes. Wants to protect her from the disaster I’ve become.
“I have to protect you. From the darkness. From me. From the life we’re inheriting.”
“I don’t need protection.” She lifts her chin, and there’s steel in her voice now. “I need honesty. Can you give me that? Can you look at me and tell me the truth about what this means to you? Not strategically. Truthfully.”
The question strips me bare. Because the truth is terrifying, and I’ve spent months—years—running from it.
“You terrify me,” I say finally, and the words feel like surrender. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because I do. And trusting someone means caring about them. And caring about them means I have something to lose. And I’ve watched what happens to people I care about.”
My voice cracks on the last words, and her eyes soften.
“So have I,” she says quietly. She moves closer still, until there’s barely any space between us. “But maybe... maybe the worst thing isn’t losing someone. Maybe the worst thing is not trying at all.”
We’re close now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the way her pulse beats at her throat, the slight part of her lips as her breath catches.
The air between us is charged with three months of distance and years of unspoken wanting.
I raise my hand again, and this time I don’t stop. My fingers brush her cheek, and she’s so soft, so alive. She leans into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Shelby,” she breathes.
I kiss her.
It’s restrained at first—tentative, asking permission with every movement. Her lips are warm under mine, and she tastes like mint and sweet promises. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and her hands come up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer.
The kiss deepens. Not desperate, but committed.
Temptation wrapped in desire as I savor her mouth, as her lips move against mine.
I cup her face with both hands, careful of my injured shoulder, and pour everything I can’t say into this kiss—the fear, the longing, the terrible certainty that this could destroy us both.
I’m terrified, and I’m choosing this anyway.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her lipstick is smudged—dark plum against her olive skin—and her eyes are wide and dark.
“So what do we do now?” she asks, her voice unsteady, a note of wonder in it.
I rest my forehead against hers, my hands still cradling her face. “We take it one day at a time. We figure out if there’s something real underneath all this.”
“And if there is?”
I pull back enough to look into her eyes, seeing her fragility and her strength mixed there in equal measure. “Then we find a way to make it survive our world.”
She nods slowly as determination settles over her features. Serena DiLorenzo doesn’t do anything halfway. If she’s choosing this—choosing me—she’ll fight for it with everything she has.
The thought scares the shut out of me.
The thought exhilarates me.
“Stay,” I hear myself say. “Just for a while. I don’t—“ I stop, swallow hard. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Okay,” she says.
We lie down on the couch, and she tucks herself against my good shoulder like she’s done this a thousand times before. Her head rests in the hollow of my neck, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close.
For the first time in three months—maybe longer—I feel like I can breathe.
Outside, Boston glitters in the darkness. Inside, Serena DiLorenzo falls asleep against my chest, and I let myself believe, just for tonight, that maybe I’m not too broken to deserve this.
Even if I know better.
Even if I know that everyone I care about ends up hurt or dead.
Even if I know this is the beginning of something that could destroy us both.
For tonight, I hold her close and let myself pretend that vulnerability doesn’t equal death.
That maybe it equals life instead.