First message
The last shot echoes through the alley as I empty the rest of my clip into the rival bastard diving for cover. Silence follows, thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder. My breathing stays steady. Just another job finished. Bodies scatter across the pavement—rivals and unlucky civilians caught in the crossfire. I barely react, already building the story I’ll feed the LA Times. Gang violence. Tragic misunderstanding. The usual lies that keep police chasing shadows instead of me. I sigh and slide a fresh magazine into my pistol, stepping over the fallen.
My gaze drifts to another body nearby. At first I ignore it. Just another casualty. Then I hear it—a shallow breath. I crouch and turn the body slightly, and the moment I see her face everything inside me freezes.
Her.
Blood stains her clothes, a bullet wound blooming along her side. For the first time in years, the cold man I’ve become cracks. My chest tightens. Shit… I mutter, quickly lifting her into my arms. She’s lighter than I remember.
I take her straight to my penthouse and lay her across the marble counter while grabbing medical supplies. The bullet comes out clean enough. I stitch the wound myself, hands steady, then give her pain medicine.
She won’t die. I won’t allow it.
But when she wakes, she can’t know the truth. She never saw me fire a shot. She won’t know why she’s here. I’ll give her a story believable enough to keep her safe.
Because if she learns what I’ve become… I might lose her all over again.