ENZO

Redcars, 1

RJ SCOTT

Copyright

Enzo

Redcars 1

Copyright ©2025 RJ Scott

Cover design by Meredith Russell

Edited by Sue Laybourn

Published by Love Lane Books Ltd

ISBN 9781785644191

* * *

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer-to-peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

Contents

Enzo

Content Warning: Please Read

Dedication

Enzo

1. Roman

2. Enzo

3. Robbie

4. Enzo

5. Robbie

6. Enzo

7. Robbie

8. Enzo

9. Robbie

10. Enzo

11. Robbie

12. Enzo

13. Robbie

14. Enzo

15. Robbie

16. Enzo

17. Robbie

18. Enzo

19. Robbie

20. Enzo

21. Robbie

22. Enzo

23. Robbie

24. Enzo

25. Robbie

26. Enzo

27. Robbie

28. Enzo

29. Robbie

30. Enzo

31. Robbie

32. Enzo

33. Robbie

34. Enzo

Epilogue

What’s next for Redcars?

Never miss another release

Books from RJ Scott

Guardian Hall

Shadow Team Trilogy

Lancaster Falls (Romantic Suspense)

Whisper Ridge, Wyoming

The Lake Prophet Mysteries (Romantic Suspense)

Meet RJ Scott

Enzo

He’s hurt. Hunted. Barely holding on. But Enzo will kill to keep him safe.

Enzo has already found his place at Redcars—a garage turned sanctuary for men with dangerous pasts and loyal hearts. He’s built a life of purpose, surrounded by a chosen family who knows exactly what it means to survive.

Then a bloodied, barefoot stranger collapses at their gate.

Terrified, half-starved, and hunted for the key to millions, Robbie has nowhere left to run. But Enzo sees him. Not just the bruises or the shadows of his past—but the man underneath, all sharp edges and shattered trust. And something in Enzo refuses to let go.

Redcars isn’t just a place to hide. It’s a promise. And when the past comes calling, Enzo will do whatever it takes to protect what’s his.

Enzo is a gritty MM romantic suspense featuring high stakes, found family, and an ex-con willing to cross the line for love. Expect drama, danger, “I would die for you” devotion, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission to stay.

Content Warning: Please Read

Enzo is darker and more intense than many of my other books—if you’ve found me through other reads such as my Single Dads series, hockey romances, or small-town love stories, please take a moment to read the guidance below for triggering content.

Enzo is a dark, emotional MM romantic suspense that includes scenes and references that may be triggering for some readers. Please take care when reading.

This book contains:

Graphic depictions of past physical and sexual abuse. Psychological trauma and dissociation. PTSD and panic attacks. References to human trafficking and captivity. Violence in defense of a loved one. Thoughts of self-harm to escape.

While this story centers on survival, found family, and love, it does not shy away from the darkness of the past. Enzo and Robbie’s journey is intense, but has a guaranteed happily-ever-after.

If you’re unsure whether this book is for you, please don’t hesitate to contact me, rj@rjscott.co.uk

RJ, May 2025

Dedication

Always for my family.

ONE

Roman

He left me on my knees.

I didn’t even feel the cold at first—I was numb. My body and mind was locked into an endless cycle of pain and submission. Hope had been stripped from me, torn away, until all that remained was the emptiness inside my chest. I used to believe I could survive anything, but here, in this place, I knew better. Survival was a cruel joke, a whisper I barely remembered. Maybe it would be easier if I just… stopped.

Not yet.

Not until I was sure there was nothing left to fight for.

The rough concrete bit into my skin through my torn jeans, the damp chill of the basement seeping into my bones. My arms ached, bound tight behind me, wrists raw from the coarse rope holding me captive. The chains on either side rattled when I moved, a cruel reminder of my place, my punishment.

Beyond the locked door, I could hear muffled laughter. It was distant, careless. The kind of laughter that belonged to men who had choices, who weren’t caged in the dark like an animal. I swallowed, my throat dry, my ribs throbbing where his boots had found their mark. The coppery tang of blood sat thick on my tongue, mixing with the taste of failure.

John had been drinking. He was always drinking.

Stealing. Making me hide the evidence. Drinking.

Hurting me.

That first time, when he’d found me, I thought maybe—just maybe—it would be different. He’d fed me, given me water, promised me safety. That was the hook. The lie. Safety didn’t exist in his world, only control. Only what he decided I was worth. And he decided I wasn’t worth much at all.

Every day was the same. The cycle. The routine.

A hand in my hair, dragging me from sleep. Words slurred; orders given. I was a thing. A possession. Something to be kept. He’d whisper it like a promise, “Your brain belongs to me now, Roman.”

I lost track of how long it had been. The days blurred together and became years. No windows. No way to mark time beyond his moods, beyond the weight of his fists or the sharp crack of a belt when I failed him, and the bite of the cage on my penis, locked, and the key thrown away right in front of me.

“They want you locked up, I don’t want to see that pathetic thing. I’m not fucking queer and you don’t get to feel anything as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

The cage twisted with hair and blood and cut my skin when they wrenched on it.

“They don’t know what you can do! You remember boy, you don’t tell them shit!”

Tonight, it had been more numbers to remember, statistics to work out, letters to memorize. Then, a visit from the two who join in, who use me, who hurt me, who laugh.

I was too exhausted to get them right, my mind sluggish, my body trembling from lack of food. I’d tried. I always tried. But trying wasn’t enough. Mistakes had consequences.

Now, I knelt in the dark, the air thick with mildew and the acrid scent of old sweat. The cold steel of the collar at my throat was a constant, pressing weight. A mark. His mark.

I used to have a name. A life.

I used to be Roman Lowe.

I wasn’t always this pathetic thing. I used to matter. But John had taken every part of me away, crushing everything good until I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be whole.

Piece by piece, he’d destroyed me until all that was left was what he’d made of me.

And if I stayed here much longer, I wouldn’t survive.

He told me they were coming tomorrow—the people he answered to—and I knew this was my last chance because when they realized what he’d done with their money, and then he realized I’d hidden money that money out of everyone’s reach…

I’m dead.

I had a plan. It wasn’t much—a desperate, last-ditch gamble born of sheer panic. I was at the edge, teetering between hope and surrender. I’d decided I wouldn’t let him keep me if I couldn’t break free. I’d make him kill me first. I’d rather die than let John and his friends win. Every time he forced the drugs down my throat, I learned how to half swallow, gag after he’d gone, how to spit them out when he wasn’t looking, how to scrape them into the fibers of the rug or let them dissolve in the drain, and then to stash them in my secret place. The more I resisted, the clearer my mind became. The haze he tried to keep me under was lifting, but with that clarity came a sharper, more unbearable desperation to escape.

Escape or die.

Escape or swallow every pill I’d stashed.

After he left, I counted to a thousand—sometimes, he came back to check on me, and I’d figured out that a thousand was the magic number before I could be sure he wasn’t returning that night. Only then did I dare to move, to test my restraints. I pulled at the left chain, my fingers raw from nights of the same ritual, of the same desperate hope. The metal links groaned under the strain, the resistance familiar, yet like before, I felt it—movement, however slight. The mortar in the old wall crumbled a tiny bit, a whisper of freedom. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to keep me going, enough to keep me fighting, sufficient to remind me I might be able to get out.

I yanked again, harder this time, the chain biting into my skin as I twisted it with all the strength I had left. My wrists burned, slick with blood, the raw wounds reopening with every desperate yank. My ribs ached, each breath a sharp stab of pain, the bruises deep and unforgiving. The air was thin and damp, but I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. Freedom was there, just beyond my reach—I had to keep pulling.

When the chain finally gave way, I toppled sideways, the sudden lack of resistance sending me sprawling onto the cold, hard floor. Papers scattered beneath me, their crisp edges sharp against my skin as blood smeared across them—ruining the numbers, the letters he’d forced me to memorize. My head struck the floor, and a dull thud reverberated through my skull while my ribs flared in agony, each breath shallow and sharp. But the chain was loose.

I froze. What if someone heard it hit the floor? What if he came back?

I forced myself to stay still, to listen. One hundred. Two hundred. Three. Silence. Only then did I move, scrambling to my feet, sluggish with pain and exhaustion. I crossed the room toward the table where he always left the keys—a cruel taunt, within sight but never within reach My fingers trembled as I grasped them, slipping the key into the cuffs and twisting until I felt the click of freedom, then doing the same thing for the collar around my neck. I couldn’t take off the cage encasing my cock, didn’t matter how hard I pulled or bled, it didn’t move. It would have to stay.

Carefully, I lowered the chains to the floor, arranging them as if they had never been disturbed. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, I nudged the stool under the tiny window—the same stool he sat on when he loomed over me, his voice sharp, his words like knives. The same stool where he would shout at me, scream at me.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I would be gone. One way or another—whether I made it out or whether John found me before I could—I knew this was my last chance. I was either walking out of here or I’d die trying.

The tiny window—sometimes he’d open it just enough so the cold air would run over my skin. I was so skinny that I could fit through. Scraping wood and splinters tore into my arms, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I squeezed through, hit the ground hard, and ran.

I ran. And I kept running across sidewalks, the freeway, and down side roads. My legs burned, my lungs screamed for relief, but I couldn’t stop. Every time I slowed, I imagined his voice, cruel and close. I pictured his face in the window, imagining his hand dragging me back. I ran harder. Deep inside, I thought about my name, the way it used to sound when I said it aloud. I thought about sunshine, the feel of clean sheets, a breeze through an open window—the tiniest scraps of memories I refused to let go of. I clung to them, to the tiniest spark of hope I could find something better. It was dark, and empty, and I didn’t care who saw me… not yet. Not when the city sprawled ahead, vast and unforgiving, the streetlights’ glow offered no safe spots to hide.

My body gave in. My legs buckled, and I stumbled into an alley, barely upright. The air was thick with the stench of rot, old garbage, and motor oil as I dragged myself into the narrow gap behind a row of bins, pressing into the shadows as if I could disappear entirely.

A harsh and sporadic light flickered above me, casting jagged beams across the brick walls. I wanted to move, to keep going, but my body refused. Every muscle ached, every breath was a ragged gasp, and exhaustion weighed me down like chains still wrapped around my wrists.

I curled up as tight as possible, drawing my knees to my chest, shaking. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth; the phantom grip of iron still fresh around my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was free.

But John’s voice still echoed in my head, cruel and possessive, branding me with every syllable. I could still feel his hands, although they weren’t there, the bruises on my skin like a map of everything he’d taken from me. My body had escaped, but my mind and thoughts were still shackled to that place. Was this what freedom felt like? Hollow and terrifying?

I heard voices—one gruff, the other lighter. “I don’t like rats,” the lighter one muttered. “It’s just rats,” he added, as if trying to convince himself.

“Grow a pair,” the gruff one snapped. “The alarm tripped; we’re checking it out.”

I whimpered, trying to stifle the pain and fear.

“Is that a dog?” one of them asked, voice uncertain. “No, it’s—” The flashlight beam wobbled around, searching. My pulse pounded. I grabbed the closest thing I could find—a tin slick with something slimy inside. It had sharp edges, and I dug my hand into it, rubbing it against my wrist. If I could cut myself deep enough, I could bleed out here, and John would never be able to take me back. The beam landed on my face, blinding me. Panic surged, and I attacked, swinging wildly, my makeshift weapon connecting with a solid body: a grunt, a stumble. I scrambled, desperate, clawing for any chance to escape.

“No! No! No!” I screamed, “I won’t go back!” But a big guy held me tight, forcing me onto my belly.

The can was out of reach, his hand clamped over my mouth. The scent of oil was more pungent now, thick in my nose. “Shhh,” he ordered. I kicked, thrashed, and clawed, desperate to break free. The guy holding me grunted, his grip tightening painfully around my arms. “Shit, he’s strong,” he muttered, shifting his stance to keep me pinned.

“He’s hurt, bad,” the lighter voice said, shocked.

“Get a hold of him!”

“There’s too much blood!”

“Jesus, call the paramedics.”

“No! Help me!” My voice cracked beneath the oily palm, raw with panic. I jerked, twisting like a trapped animal, but the big guy only held me tighter, his grip like iron. I managed to free a hand and clawed at his face, my nails scraping the skin. He let out a sharp curse. “Please… don’t tell anyone… don’t!”

“Jesus! Stop!” But I didn’t stop. I thrashed harder, my foot connecting with his shin. He grunted, but his hold didn’t loosen. If anything, he tightened it, his arm crushing my chest. My breath hitched, panic spiking. I dug my nails in again, desperate to break free. “Damn it, he’s fighting like hell!” he growled.

But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going back. Not ever. In that moment, I was sure this was it. That I’d escaped only to be caught by someone worse. My mind spun with fear, the edges of my vision dimming. Were they with John? Had he found me already? Was this some new punishment? I’d never see the sky again. I bucked in his hold, but it was useless. I was being dragged into the unknown. I writhed, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

“Hold still!” the gruff one snapped, but his grip was too tight, his arms like a vice around me. My wrists burned where they had been rubbed raw, blood slicking my skin.

“Kill me! Please!” Then I screamed, but he slammed a hand over my mouth.

I won’t go back.

I’d rather die than be dragged back into that nightmare.

TWO

Enzo

He fell quiet—unconscious. The pain in his eyes when he begged us not to tell anyone… I’d seen pain like that before, and it gutted me. The kind of pain that meant secrets too heavy to carry and too dangerous to speak of. I carried him into the garage. Rio was stunned into silence, and we got him upstairs to the apartment we kept for anyone who needed it. Rough and ready, but it had a couple of beds—singles in case of families—and a TV that worked most of the time.

The bed wasn’t made, so Rio grabbed an armful of blankets from the closet and tossed them over the mattress. We laid him down with as much care as we could manage. He didn’t stir. The air in the room was thick and foul, a rancid mix of sweat, coppery blood, and the sour tang of infection. It clung to everything, heavy enough to make my stomach churn.

“Put a 911 out to Doc,” I said, my voice low.

Rio was already ahead of me, waving his phone. “Already done. He’s fifteen out.”

I nodded, my hands still pressed to the young man’s side, feeling for the rise and fall of his breath.

Rio hovered nearby, eyes wide, voice quiet. “Do you think he’s gonna make it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But we’re going to try. We’re gonna give him a shot. That’s all we can do right now.”

Rio looked at me for a long moment and nodded. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

I reached for the damp cloth beside the sink and dabbed at the worst of the grime and blood on the boy’s face, then took the scissors Rio passed me and began to cut away his jeans. He was skin and bones, nothing to him.

“Jesus, Enzo,” Rio whispered. “What the hell did he survive?”

“I don’t know,” I said again, swallowing hard. “But if he ran here, if he made it this far, it means he’s still fighting. That matters.”

The young man moaned in his sleep, flinching at the most gentle touch.

Rio stepped forward, placing the clean towels on the side table, his voice trembling. “Fuck, Enzo… fuck.”

Doc arrived with Jamie close behind, Rio staggering under the weight of towels and bandages. “Jesus Christ,” Doc muttered, recoiling as the stench hit him. Tall and thin, his face pinched with disgust, Doc wore a battered backpack slung over one shoulder.

“In my car—two boxes in the trunk,” he barked, tossing his keys to Rio.

Rio caught them and bolted out the door.

“Get his pants all the way off,” Doc ordered. “Then clear the room.”

“I’m staying.” I planted myself beside the bed.

Doc’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp with disapproval. “Fine. Jamie, out.”

Jamie hesitated. “But⁠—”

“Out!” Doc barked, and Jamie retreated, leaving me alone with Doc and the bloodied man.

Rio returned moments later, boxes balanced in his arms. We tore into them, digging out gauze, antiseptic, and sterile wipes, then Doc ushered Rio out as well.

“It might be better to just let him go,” Doc snarled when he tried to tug at denim. “I have enough morphine to⁠—”

“Fuck you asshole,” I snapped.

“Fucking bleeding hearts,” Doc grumbled. “Help me with these.” The fabric had stuck to the man’s skin with dried blood, stiff and crusted like old glue. Each tug made him flinch and whimper, despite being unconscious.

“Walking fucking corpse,” Doc muttered, his expression grim.

When the fabric came free, the full extent of his injuries hit me like a gut punch. Blood-smeared scars mapped his thighs and hips, carved into him jagged and uneven. Some were old, their edges faded to silvery lines, while others were fresh angry welts still crusted with dried blood. The flesh stretched tight across each scar, puckered and rigid, a painful map of violence. Whoever had done this hadn’t just hurt him—they’d claimed him, marked him with pain as if he were nothing more than property. Old cuts had been reopened, their surfaces raw and ragged. And then there was a cock cage—filthy metal, rusted in places, and cruelly tight. Parts of his body had swollen around the device, angry and infected.

“Jesus…” I whispered. “How long do you think...”

“Too fucking long,” Doc said, grimly. “Are you sure you wanna⁠—”

“Fix it!” I snarled.

“Your dime.”

“What about his head, he hit it when he fell back⁠—”

“Head is the last of his worries,” Doc said.

The hours dragged on, each minute feeling stretched thin as Doc worked—examining, injecting, poking, and cutting away damaged tissue. Crimson smears of blood marked the towels, and the scent of antiseptic mingled with a coppery tang. Doc’s fingers were sure and precise; his gruff curses muttered as he stitched and bandaged with grim focus. I didn’t know his backstory—no one did—he came, fixed, charged us, and went. That was all I cared about right now.

The rest of his body had taken the brunt of whatever nightmare he’d escaped from, and Doc worked to clean and repair what he could. By the end, his arms shook with exhaustion, but the patient was still breathing—weak and shallow but alive.

“By morning, he’s gonna be dead.” Doc wiped his blood-streaked hands on a rag. His voice was flat, emotionless—a man who’d seen too many close calls to sugarcoat the truth. “You have a cleaner you can use? Someone who can handle the body quietly?”

“He won’t die,” I said, my voice low and fierce. The words felt like a vow, something I had to will into existence. “Not after everything he’s been through. Not here.”

Doc looked skeptical, but he didn’t argue. “I want twenty for this,” he said.

I winced inside. Twenty would wipe me out and leave me scrambling to pay for anything else, but I nodded anyway. I had no choice but didn’t hesitate for a moment.

He wiped his hands on a towel, pulled out his phone, tapped in something, and a moment later, my screen buzzed with a message—encrypted account details. “We’re doing this, now? Here?” I asked, eyeing the scalpel he’d flicked into his hand as if it were an extension of his fingers.

“Yep,” Doc said, his tone grim and final.

“Jesus…” I muttered, but I took the towel from him, and tried to dry my fingers, then opened my phone and started a transfer from the emergency fund—god knows what Logan would say to that, but I was good for it. Logan might well manage the business side of Redcars, but he was here every day, and he was one of us—an ex-con with a second chance thrown at him. There was no turning back now. I swallowed the rising panic. The man was too fragile to survive the night, and I wasn’t sure I’d know what to do if things started to go south.

Doc’s nose wrinkled as he stepped back from the bed, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the overflowing trash. “Get the bits you can reach clean,” he said, voice low and grim. “Keep the wounds dry and burn every bit of medical waste.” He picked up what remained of the cock cage—a twisted piece of corroded metal crusted with dried blood—and turned it over in his hands. “Trafficking, maybe? Kept for sex? There’s fucking scarring around his cock and ass,” His face hardened, and for the first time that night, there was something in his expression resembling compassion.

He glanced at his watch. “It’s six a.m.,” he said.

I felt my shoulders sag under the exhaustion. It had been hours since we’d dragged the victim inside, and the adrenaline that had kept me moving was starting to crash. My arms ached from holding him, and my eyes burned from strain. But sleep wasn’t an option—not with him still clinging to life.

“Call me if he’s still breathing by mid-afternoon, and I’ll come back. Five for each visit—cash only for those.”

Cash? Fucks sake, I was already cleared out. “Sure,” I agreed. He tossed boxes onto the bed, snapping instructions as he worked. “Take this—it’s for infection. Give him this every four hours for the pain. That one goes up on the drip when the first bag runs out,” he said, pointing to a clear IV pouch filled with something that looked more like cloudy broth than medicine. “Extra pain meds in that one,” he added, shoving a smaller vial into my hand. “Don’t give him more than one dose every six hours, or you’ll tank his breathing.”

I panicked. “Can you write it down?”

He rolled his eyes, “No fucking point. He’ll be dead in an hour.”

I lost my shit then, crowding him against the wall, both of our shirts slick with the patient’s blood. “Write. It. The. Fuck. Down.”

He confronted me, asshole, and if we didn’t need him, I’d have had my hands around his throat, and I’d have fucking choked him out in an instant, and snapped his neck even quicker.

No, I didn’t know a cleaner, but I could find one if I needed to, but he didn’t need to know that.

He shoved me away, took his phone out, tapped some instructions and messaged me with them.

When he left, Rio and Jamie returned to the door, lingering inside. Rio’s gaze flicked between me and the man on the bed, concern etched into the lines on his face. “How much?” Rio asked quietly.

“Twenty,” I said, my voice hoarse because my throat ached.

“And?” Rio pressed.

“Five for every visit after that.”

Rio and Jamie exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. “We’ll help.”

“I’ve got it,” I said.

“We’ll help you,” Rio snapped. “But as soon as he’s okay to leave, he needs to be gone.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” I said immediately.

Rio shifted his stance, jaw tightening as his gaze slid toward the front of the garage. “You feel that, Enzo?” he muttered. “If he’s in here, and someone wants him, then trouble’s circling. I don’t like that kind of attention coming anywhere near Jamie.”

Jamie frowned. “Why are you saying that as if I’m the one you need to worry about?”

Rio placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Because I’m always worried about you.”

“Well fuck you,” Jamie snapped, though the heat in his tone didn’t quite hide the crack underneath. “It’s not like I’m gonna get triggered and burn Redcars to the ground.”

“That’s not what I meant, J,” Rio said with a sigh, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake.”

“We’re not throwing the kid out on the street,” Jamie continued, voice hardening.

Enzo didn’t speak, but the words settled deep in his chest. First, the victim might look young, messed up and vulnerable, but he wasn’t a kid. And second? No one was touching the man on the bed. No one was throwing him out. He’d found sanctuary here, and that meant something. It meant everything. He was theirs now—wounded, terrified, silent—but theirs to look out for. And Enzo would make damn sure that whatever had broken him never got close again.

“We got this,” Jamie said firmly. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only quiet certainty, as though they’d already made up their mind not to let me carry this alone.

“That’s… if he survives,” I whispered. My voice shook this time; all the bravado I’d tried to carry drained away. My fingers clenched tight in the bloodstained towel still clutched in my hands.

Please survive.

It was a little past midday when he woke up, and his gray eyes flared wide with panic. For a second, he stared—unable to piece together the room or how he’d ended up in it. Then his gaze shot straight to me, and terror detonated in him.

His breathing hitched, fast and sharp, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. His eyes darted to the room’s corners, tracking shadows as if he expected someone else to lunge from the dark. His fingers clenched on the blanket, twisted tight like he was ready to rip it away and bolt—but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Every tiny shift in movement came with a wince or a sharp, broken breath. He was too weak to run, too battered to fight, and he knew it. The moment that realization hit him, something snapped behind his eyes.

I wasn’t a comforting sight—big, broad, covered in ink, with oil-streaked jeans and my spare scarlet shirt that didn’t hide the stains from my last shift in the garage. My face probably didn’t help either, thanks to the fresh scratches slashed across my cheek. I wasn’t just a stranger to him — I was a threat. Someone stronger, bigger, and in control of the room. His ribs rose and fell like a trapped animal’s, and the more I tried to hold still and look non-threatening, the worse his panic got.

He shifted again, one hand curling over his side and he squeezed his eyes shut as if he could disappear. I could see how badly he wanted to vanish as if he believed if he stayed perfectly still, maybe I’d forget he was there.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see how his fingers dug deeper into the blanket, his entire body curling in on itself as if he could shrink away from me.

“Don’t,” he whimpered, his voice barely more than a breath. His gaze flicked toward the door, then back to me, eyes wide and glassy with fear. “Don’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but I filled in the rest.

Don’t hurt me.

“No one knows you’re here, just me and my friends.”

He winced at that, his face twisting like I’d struck him. Was it the word friends? Or was it the idea there was more than just me—more strangers he couldn’t see, people he couldn’t predict or protect himself from? His fingers twitched in the blanket, curling tighter. His breath quickened.

We didn’t have ice chips, but Rio had rigged up a water bottle with a straw, and I inched closer, slowly, until he could swallow some water. The second he saw me move, panic flared in his eyes. He whimpered and tried to inch away, trembling, the movement jerky and pained. Every shift made him sob, the sound raw and broken, and his gaze was unfocused and wild.

“It’s okay,” I murmured on repeat, trying to keep my voice low and calm. “It’s just water. You need to drink. I promise it’s just water.”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight, terror stealing his breath. I could see it—he wanted to believe me, but fear had its claws too deep.

“You need to drink,” I repeated, holding the bottle up so he could see the clear liquid. “No tricks. Just water. You’re safe now.”

He stared at the bottle, blinking fast, and then—so slowly it broke my heart—he let me bring it close. He sipped once, then again, tiny, desperate gulps like he didn’t believe the water would still be there if he waited too long.

“It’s okay,” I whispered again, then glanced at the drip. “I need to change your meds. Are you in pain?”

He was surprised at the question, his brow furrowing as if he hadn’t considered it. Maybe the meds were doing their job, numbing everything except the cold, clawing panic lingering in his chest. He blinked, confused, as if he were trying to search his body for an answer, and kept coming up blank. For a moment, his fingers twitched on the sheet, almost like he was testing for pain—waiting for it to flare.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered, voice thin and cracked. “I can’t… nothing.”

“You’re safe here with us. No one will hurt you.”

A thin and fragile hope flared in his expression but quickly died as his gaze dropped.

“That’s what he said,” the kid murmured. His voice cracked on the last word.

“Who?” I asked, voice sharper than I intended. Fuck, I wanted a name. I needed someone to blame for what had been done to him. Someone to hurt.

I could be out there right now, tracking the bastard down. Hunting him. I’d find him, drag him out of whatever hole he thought kept him safe, and show him what real fear felt like. All those things I’d buried, all those skills I’d promised never to use again—I’d dust them off without hesitation. I’d make him scream, make him beg. I wouldn’t stop. Not until he knew, in the very last second, what it felt like to be powerless, to be broken. I’d do a million times worse than what he’d done. And I wouldn’t lose a second of sleep.

He shook his head.

“I get it,” I muttered, swallowing my frustration. Pushing him right now wouldn’t help. I’d wait. However long it took. “What’s your name?” I asked after a beat, keeping my tone calm, careful not to spook him.

“R—Ro—Robert—Robbie—” he blurted, fast and shaky as if he’d grabbed the first name he could think of. His eyes flicked away as soon as he said it, guilt rippling across his face. The name didn’t sit right, but I let it go. He wasn’t ready to tell me the truth yet, which was fine. Whatever he’d been through, trust was going to take time.

“Hey Robbie. I’m Lorenzo, but everyone calls me Enzo. My friend Rio and I found you out back.”

“Enzo,” he whispered, as if saying my name out loud made it more real. He focused on my face, and his expression shifted to my face and the scratches. “I hurt you.” His knuckles whitened as he gripped the blanket, and his breath hitched. He remembered—remembered clawing at me in his panic, recalled that those scratches were his doing.

“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “You were scared.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” tears ran down his face. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“I know,” I cut in. “You were trying to survive. Don’t worry about it.”

His grip stayed tight on the blanket, but his face slackened, some tension draining.

“Where… where am I?” he asked, his voice thin and dry. He sounded sleepy, and I assumed the meds were kicking in again.

“You’re safe,” I promised. “We don’t ask questions here; no one here’s gonna hurt you.” I couldn’t guarantee that no one would come looking for him or that whatever had broken him wouldn’t return to finish the job. I needed to believe I could keep him safe, but the uncertainty twisted like a knife in my gut. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted to rip someone apart.

If they came here… I would.

“How old are you, Robbie?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.

He blinked as the question caught him off guard as if no one had asked him something so simple in a long time. His brow furrowed, and he swallowed hard, fingers still tangled in the blanket.

“I... I don’t know,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Eighteen?” He didn’t look much older than that, so damn skinny and sleepy.

He yawned and winced. “No… I think… twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three now?”

I nodded, trying not to let the ache I felt show on my face. He wasn’t a kid, but he was still too young to have seen whatever hell he’d crawled out of. He closed his eyes then, exhausted, and was sleeping in seconds as the cloudy contents of the second drip finally did their work. I didn’t know what was in it and didn’t care—I had to trust Doc.

Jamie was up next, bringing me a jacket. Like Rio, he didn’t say much, but then he never did. He also placed an envelope at my side, stuffed with cash to cover the next visits from Doc. We exchanged nods, and then he left.

When Rio and Jamie arrived together, just after I’d called Doc to tell him to return, they stood opposite the bed and stared at Robbie lying unconscious. We’d tried to change as many of the covers as we could, not so much blood staining, but the scent of pain lingered, and he looked like shit warmed up.

“I called Logan,” Rio admitted, as if he’d done something wrong.

“We called Logan,” Jamie corrected.

“Good.” Redcars had his daughter, Cassidy, this weekend, and it was right not to tell him until she was nearly being picked up by her mom.

“He says you should message him if he needs to come over now.”

I glanced up. “Nah, tell him we got this. We’re not bringing Cassidy anywhere near this.”

They nodded.

“We have work covered,” Rio said and fist-bumped Jamie, and then they vanished downstairs to do what Redcars officially did—fix and maintain broken cars.

I sat back in the chair, flexing my fingers, absently tracing the ink on my arm—the solid black that covered the tattoo I hated most. The one forced on me in prison, branding me as a killer. They’d had to hold me down to do it. That was the only time anyone had ever held me down for anything. I was a fighter—I always had been.

I stared at the black ink, feeling the ghost of the needle that had carved it into my skin. I hated that mark, but I never covered it with sleeves. It was a reminder—of the worst parts of my fucked-up life, of the things I couldn’t undo. But it also reminded me I’d survived. I’d fought my way through hell and made it out. And when I looked at Robbie—small, skinny, barely holding on—I saw that same fight in him. He was a survivor—a fighter.

My mother used to say I got that stubborn streak from my dad—that I inherited the same dark hair and brown eyes. On her more lucid days, she’d spin these stories about my dad as a dashing Puerto Rican man who swept her off her feet, a hero with a wild smile and a reckless streak. I didn’t know how much of it was true, and if I wanted to know for sure, I’d need a DNA test. But it didn’t matter. My mother was an addict, and anything I’d learned about surviving came from never wanting to become what she was.

There was still so much fear when Robbie woke up the next time, but he seemed to relax a little when he locked eyes with mine.

“Hey,” I said, and I helped him drink. I fiddled with the drip and then sat back down. “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked, although I already knew what the answer would be.

His body told enough of the story. The bruises were nasty—dark, ugly blooms of purple and black stretching across his ribs and trailing up to his chest. But it was the scars that hit me. The angry lines carved into his wrists — old marks, pale and faded, that spoke of past pain—and newer ones, red and raw, as if someone had taken wire or rope and tried to tear him apart. There were burns, too, scattered across his arms, some faint and barely noticeable, others deep and blistered.

The worst were the marks on his neck—thick, ropey scars that twisted like a collar above his collarbone. Someone had held him down. Someone had collared him so severely that the skin had been torn and scarred.

He had so much damage carved into him, but I saw the strength that had kept him alive. He’d clawed his way through hell and refused to die there. What had he escaped from?

“Robbie?” I prompted.

“No,” he said, curling in on himself as if shrinking down small enough would make him disappear. He drew his legs up, wrapping his arms around his bruised body. Every movement looked like agony, his face tightening with pain. It hurt him to move, but he’d do that instead of talking to me. His breathing turned ragged, and I could tell he was hurting—ribs, maybe. Stomach, too. The drugs would dull some of it, but not enough. I stayed put, giving him space, but I wasn’t leaving.

“I’ll stay here,” I said, examining the pile of reading material on the unit by the small sofa. We had everything from comic books to fiction books, as much as possible to cover anyone who needed to stay up here. I grabbed one with cars on the front, something familiar, something steady. Something to show him I wasn’t going anywhere.

“You can’t have me!” His voice cracked, dry, and rough.

He yanked at the blankets, and his voice rose, sharp and desperate. “I won’t give myself to you. I won’t let you hurt me. I’ll kill myself!” he tried to yank at the cannula in his arm, but I pressed a hand there to stop him.

“Jesus, kid, it’s okay…”

He struggled, but he was fading.

So I held him as he struggled weakly, and I waited for him to lose consciousness.

Whenever he opened his eyes—in panic or confusion—I was there. I made damn sure of it.

Sometimes, I sat quietly, flipping through magazines without seeing a word. Other times, I paced the room. Once, I’d drifted off in the chair, only to jolt awake the second he stirred, my heart hammering as if I’d been caught off guard.

“Why are you here?” he asked in one of his more lucid moments.

I met his gaze and let the truth slip out. “I’m here to keep you safe.” Safe was a lie some people told to make themselves feel better. But I wasn’t lying, not about this and not about him.

“I don’t want…” he choked.

“What?” I helped him sit up a little.

He fought me off, crying in pain, and then curled on his side.

“What don’t you want, Robbie?”

“Hope.”

THREE

Robbie

The dream started with pain—sharp, burning, and immediate. Fear hit me just as hard, a cold rush that made my skin crawl. I knew I was dreaming. I told myself that repeatedly, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. My ribs ached, my fingers throbbed, and the numbers—those endless, looping numbers—filled my head. I clawed at the air, reaching for something, someone, desperate to break free. But the numbers kept coming. 5… 13… 22… E… M… V… again and again until I thought my skull might split open.

A trio of shadowed men, John front and center, grinning at me.

He’s good.

He’s mine.

You can share!

With each repetition of numbers came the memory of pain. Cold metal on my skin. A fist. The sharp bite of a boot to my ribs. Flashes of John’s expression meant the fear was visceral, lodged deep in my chest. His face emerged from the blur—sharp, cold, and familiar. He was there in my nightmare, holding me down, his fingers digging painfully into my arm. “Tell me,” he hissed, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me everything you heard.” I knew then — I was a prisoner, a bargaining chip.

The wallet password is nothing without the seed phrase.

I knew everything, and that made me dangerous. John’s face twisted in frustration when I said nothing, and the numbers pounded louder in my skull. Password…

5… 13… 22… E… M… V…

I woke with a strangled gasp, clawing for air and reaching out for help, and someone gripped my hand, warm and rough, fingers wrapped around mine.

Enzo.

The man who’d carried me.

His dark eyes were bloodshot and his short beard framed a face that should have been intimidating but wasn’t as he half smiled. His hair was short but wild as if he’d given up trying to tame it. His skin was warm-toned and his lips were too soft for someone so hard.

There was a kindness in his gaze that felt foreign and almost impossible to believe. Kindness wasn’t something I understood. Not real kindness, the kind that didn’t come with a price. In my world, kindness had always been a mask—a trick to lure me in before someone hurt me or took something I couldn’t afford to lose. John’s voice echoed in my head, the sick sweetness of his promises twisting in my memory. But Enzo’s gaze didn’t hold that same gleam. It was steady, quiet, and scared me just as much as John ever had. Because if I believed and it wasn’t real, it would destroy me all over again. I didn’t remember compassion that didn’t come with strings or expectations. My memories were sharp and jagged—snarled words, clenched fists, and cold, calculating eyes. Trust was a dangerous thing, and yet… there it was in his eyes.

Tattoos wound down his arms—his neck and face were clear, the bold patterns on his skin hinting at stories untold. He stared at me with an intensity that should have scared me. It didn’t. Instead, I shifted closer, drawn to him as he held my hand.

My gaze focused on the dark corners of the room. Shadows stretched long and deep, swallowing the edges of the space. I hated that I couldn’t see what was there—what might be hidden. My heart pounded, the phantom sting of old bruises flaring back to life. John was always there, in the places I couldn’t see, watching. Waiting.

He’d done this before—twisted my mind, chipped away at what little hope I had left. A smile, a promise, a warm hand on my shoulder —and then pain. He’d once dragged me from a freezing alley into a dimly lit room, pressing a steaming mug of coffee into my hand, telling me everything would be okay and that I was safe. That he was going to help. I believed him—for maybe five minutes—until the questions started—sharp, urgent demands cloaked in calm words. “Tell me what you know,” he’d said. “Tell me what they told you.” I’d tried to say nothing, to hold my silence, but he’d pushed harder, his fingers curling around my arm like a vice.

Then came the beating. He’d kept me barely conscious, barely conscious enough to know that the kindness had never been real—that he’d only given me warmth so he could tear it away again.

I couldn’t trust this place, couldn’t trust Enzo, even if I wanted to. Because what if John had planned this too? What if this warmth and safety was a trap—hope dangled in front of me only to be ripped away the second I reached for it?

My chest tightened. John had made me paranoid, but this space was too big—too open. The air felt thin and sharp, and the shadows seemed to stretch and crawl. I could feel him, or thought I could—the cold pressure of fingers digging into my arm, the rasp of his breath at my ear. Memories blurred with reality, and I swore I heard his voice whispering in the dark, coaxing me to trust. My pulse hammered, and my skin prickled with a cold sweat. I needed something smaller—a box where I could feel the sides, shut the lid, and disappear.

Was John here? Had he found me?

I didn’t know how far I’d run, desperation fueling every stumble and when I finally stopped, gasping for breath in the cold night air, I had no idea where I was. But the warehouse couldn’t be more than ten blocks from here. Ten blocks. Separated by a highway, but still too close. If he was there anymore. He had a lot of places and had told me that himself, boasting about his reach, about how he could disappear when he needed to. But that wasn’t the only thing keeping my mind tangled up in knots.

I had numbers in my head—rental amounts, bank accounts, and payments that had filtered through under fake names. Information I had memorized without meaning to, details that might have been useful once but now felt like a dead weight. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it was meaningless noise. But the thought gnawed at me. John had always been careful, but I’d pieced together fragments of the life he had built. And if I could do that, what if he had done the same with me? What if he knew where I was? What if he was waiting?

I was already tight with anxiety when footsteps sounded from the hall, heavy and deliberate, each one striking a chord of panic deep inside me. The door creaked open, and a shadow filled the space. I was startled, heart racing, instinct yanking me back. My breath hitched, and I wriggled closer to the big man—Enzo, my mind supplied—as if he could shield me. His hand squeezed mine tighter, grounding me when I felt I might unravel.

“It’s just Doc,” Enzo said, his voice gravelly and low.

The man in the doorway was tall and lean, with dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. His stubble shadowed sharp cheekbones, and a jagged scar ran from his hairline to his chin, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent quirk that made him look like he was one wrong word away from violence. His gaze locked onto me—intense, assessing—and I swore I felt my skin crawl.

“He’s here to help,” Enzo added, his fingers still firm around mine.

I wasn’t sure I believed that. But right now, Enzo’s hand in mine was the only thing keeping me grounded. So I stayed close, and I didn’t let go.

“Well, look who’s still alive,” Doc said, his voice dry and cutting. “Gotta say I’m surprised.”

Enzo stiffened beside me, his hand tightening around mine as if warning Doc to back off—or maybe reassuring me that I wasn’t alone. I clung to that touch like a lifeline.

“I need to check a few things—you got the cash?” he asked, and Enzo nodded to somewhere in the room. Doc lifted an envelope and pocketed it, the crinkle of paper loud in the silence. “Okay, then. Hold still.”

I tried, but Doc’s hands were rough and impersonal, fingers pressing on bruises I didn’t know I had, poking and prodding as if I were nothing more than a bundle of parts. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself not to cry because crying never helped. The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was when Enzo had to let go of my hand. His warmth vanished, leaving me cold and unsteady. Without his hand gripping mine, I felt brittle—as if I might shatter if Doc pressed too hard. I tried to focus on Enzo’s face and how his dark eyes never left mine, but it wasn’t enough.

The numbers whispered in the back of my mind, insistent and relentless. 5… 13… 22… E… M… V…

“Okay, not bad,” Doc muttered, his tone gruff as he wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his pocket. “You’re tougher than you look.” He glanced at Enzo, giving a curt nod. “He’ll make it, but he’s gonna need proper rest.” He paused, eyes flicking back to me. “He needs quiet, warmth—and someone watching him. He’s not out of the woods yet.” Doc’s gaze relaxed a fraction. “Might not look like much, but he’s still breathing. That’s gotta count for something.”

“You feel like some food?” Enzo asked me.

No, I thought. No, I didn’t. I felt empty—hollowed out and raw. The idea of eating turned my stomach, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I shook my head weakly.

Enzo shuffled closer, his voice quieter this time. “I have some soup,” he said. “Rio got it. Wanna try?”

Rio. Tall guy, big, kinda loud. Jamie, blond, blue eyes, manic energy.

Enzo. Big-muscled, warm-colored skin. Too good to be true.

No, I thought again. But I opened my mouth and let him guide a spoon to my lips. The lukewarm liquid hit my tongue, and my throat tightened, instinct trying to force it back up. I swallowed, gagged, swallowed again. This time, it stayed down. I could imagine the path it was taking—slow and deliberate and fighting my body’s instinct to purge itself right now I felt the warmth pool in my stomach, faint and distant, and I clung to that sensation as if it might anchor me.

“Okay?” Enzo asked.

I nodded, swallowing a second spoonful, gesturing that I didn’t want anymore. My stomach felt like it hadn’t registered what I’d eaten, the warmth curling inside me, but I knew if I pushed it, I’d be sick.

“Where am I?” I asked as soon as he set the soup down, my voice hoarse and thin.

“Redcars,” Enzo said with pride, as if that should mean something.

It didn’t. I frowned, confusion tightening my features. The name bounced around my mind as if it were meant to stick, but I couldn’t understand it. Redcars… a place? A group? Something worse? My puzzlement must have shown; either that or Enzo had already planned to.

“So Redcars is a garage,” Enzo said. “We deal mostly with high-value stuff, muscle cars, the odd Porsche or Ferrari. But it’s more than that. It’s… a place that gives second chances.” He paused, his gaze shifting past me as though he was sorting through memories. “Rio, Jamie, Logan, and I are all ex-cons.” He waited for me to react, but my head was full of clouds, and although I tried to be afraid, my body wouldn’t let me. “You’ve met Rio and Jamie, but not Logan because he’s out for a couple of days with his daughter. Logan runs the place now that Tudor has made him boss.” He stared into the far distance as if in thought.

“Tudor,” I murmured. That was a weird name, a word that made no sense in my head.

“Tudor inherited Redcars from his dad. He brought us in and gave us a shot when no one else probably would. He’s retired now, handed the whole thing to Logan… Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t need to worry about anyone else because this is a safe space,” he added. “No judgment. No questions. Just a place to get your head on straight.” He shifted on the mattress beside me, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab my hand again. I wished he would. “The apartment you’re in is always ready for anyone needing it.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and he helped me with the blankets, and somehow just him being there meant all the ghosts in the corners were chased away.

And I slept.

* * *

The nightmare came back, and I reached for Enzo’s hand.

But there was no one there.

Panic flared hot in my chest. I rolled to the side of the bed too fast and hit the floor hard, landing on my knees, my cannula catching in the covers. I wasn’t on the drip now, thank god, and my breath stuttered, and for a moment, all I could hear was my pulse pounding. Where was Enzo? Where was anyone?

I didn’t want to be here—not alone. My head spun, the room tilting and shifting, and the light above felt too bright, stabbing through my skull. The air smelled stale and wrong, like oil and sweat and something sharp beneath it. My stomach twisted, and I knew I needed to go. Now. Before John came back. Before the other two got there.

Before something worse happened.

I crawled toward what I hoped was the doorway, my hands scraping across cold, grimy floorboards. My fingers found the frame, then nothing—space, air—a yawning black chasm that turned out to be stairs. A flight of them dropped away, and I swallowed hard, bracing myself. I had to get down. No choice. Ignore the pain. Ignore everything. Find a door. Find a way out.

I managed to get down, fall, slip, and slide to the bottom. My knees hit the floor hard, jarring pain shooting up my legs, but I didn’t stop. A shout cut through the haze—my name. Enzo’s name. I had to hide. I couldn’t trust anyone.

I pushed myself forward, dragging my aching body along the cold floor. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one burning my throat.

Enzo’s voice—calm, steady—followed me. “It’s okay,” he kept saying, over and over like a chant. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Nothing was ever okay. Jamie and Rio were there too—two solid figures blocking the exit. I knew they were trying to help, but panic twisted my thoughts. I couldn’t tell the difference between safety and threat, and all I saw were bodies in my way—people who might grab me and trap me. Rationally, I knew they weren’t John or the other two. But fear doesn’t listen to reason, and I couldn’t stop the instinct to run. I flinched back, barely hearing their words. Were they helping me? Stopping me? I couldn’t tell. My head swam, and nothing made sense.

Then I saw it—an open door, a small dark room no windows, one door—a mess of boxes stacked high in the corners. I staggered inside, something shifted, and I was somehow safer. The chaos of outside was gone, or at least muffled. I sank to the floor, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let out a breath that didn’t catch in my throat.

“I’m safe! I’m safe!” I yelled at Enzo, though nothing about this felt true. His face blurred in front of me, distorted by fear and confusion. I curled up tight in the corner, pressing my back to the wall. My breath was too fast, too shallow, as the shadows swallowed me whole.

“Robbie—”

“Shut the door!” I gasped, forcing the words out as though they’d been torn from my throat.

Enzo nodded slowly, his face a mask of concern, and pulled the door shut with quiet finality. I scrambled forward, hauling myself to my knees and dragging boxes in front of the door with what little strength I had left. The scratching of cardboard on wood seemed deafening in the silence.

Then came the pain—deep and jagged, tearing through my chest as if someone had reached in and twisted something vital. Memories flooded in with it—John’s face contorted in rage, his knuckles bloodied from beating me—the cold of the concrete floor beneath my cheek. The taste of copper in my mouth was sharp and metallic. I remembered lying there, unable to breathe, hearing John mutter something about how weak I was, how I was nothing. How I owed him for being alive.

“What did you do!” He screamed over and over, the snap of iron around my neck.

He’s gripping me.

“You’ll kill us both!” he’s screaming at me. The ache in my chest wasn’t just pain—it was fear, helplessness, and the awful certainty no one was coming to save me. That moment felt real, my body curling in on itself to brace for another blow that wasn’t coming. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and sobbed. The tears came hard and fast, and I let them. I was too tired to fight anymore.

FOUR

Enzo

“What the fuck did they do to him!” Rio snapped, and I gestured for him to lower his voice. “He’s barely conscious, but he throws himself down the fucking stairs?”

“Do we need to call someone?” Jamie asked.

“Who?” I snapped, suddenly exhausted and scared. “He said no.” I knocked on the thin door, my knuckles rapping on the wood. “Robbie?” I called, keeping my voice low. “There’s meds out here and food.” The silence stretched and scraped my nerves. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my fingers grasping the door frame. I should go in. I should open the door and demand to know how he was, shove the meds and food into his hands, and sit there until he took what he needed. Because if I didn’t, my mind would keep spinning, dragging me back to memories I tried to forget.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I let too much time pass, if I gave him too much space, Robbie might be taken from me. Or worse, killed.

I wouldn’t let that happen.

“I’ll make him let me help,” I snapped to Jamie, who winced.

“Maybe not a good approach?” he said. I hated when he was sensible when what I needed now was his fierce need to get things done.

“Jesus.”

Rio tapped the wall gently. “Like, what if he’s asleep in there? What if he woke up panicked and thought you were a threat?”

I knew that. What if me pushing my way in did more harm than good? My hand hovered over the handle. Just open the damn door, I told myself. Just open it.

I knocked again. Still silence.

I hated that Robbie was in that room where I couldn’t see him. He could be unconscious, bleeding out on the other side of that door, or trapped in a spiral of pain so intense he couldn’t tell if he was awake or dreaming. Maybe he thought we were the enemy, convinced opening that door would be the final mistake he’d ever make. Or perhaps he was lying there, too weak to move, too broken to cry for help. Robbie was as safe as he could be in whatever state, with the four of us watching his back. That was one thing we all agreed on. No matter what happened next, no matter what threats came knocking, Robbie wasn’t going anywhere. We wouldn’t let anyone touch him again.

Robbie was now under Redcars’ protection.

The door opened a little, and Robbie peered around it, gaunt and hollow-eyed. Bruises darkened the skin beneath his eyes, his lips were cracked, and he couldn’t hold himself upright. He was bent at the waist, one hand braced on the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing. The light from the garage spilled into the cramped space behind him, revealing a clutter of files, cabinets, and boxes—barely enough room to sit, let alone rest. The only chair in there was forced up against the door, and although I could have pushed through if I wanted, I let him be. The air smelled stale, like paper and dust, and there wasn’t a single comfort in that space. He needed blankets, something to lie on, and more.

My heart clenched. He shouldn’t be in there.

“I brought food.” I nudged the plate closer. Snacks, his pills, and two bottles of water — all the essentials I could think of.

Robbie’s gaze flicked to the offering, then back to me. His hand shot out, fingers curling around the plate as if he thought I might snatch it back. He tugged it inside, and the door started to close.

“Robbie?” I blurted out before he could shut me out completely. “You need anything else? Is there someone we can call? Family?”

He hesitated. “No,” he half-whispered, then the door closed, and I was left staring at the wood.

“We need to find out who did this,” Rio growled behind me.

I turned to face him, Jamie, and Logan. When the hell had Logan arrived?

“Lo,” I said.

“He okay?” Logan asked, but I didn’t want to talk about Robbie where he could hear, I gestured for them all to move to the engine bay where Rio’s pacing had worn a faint track on the dusty floor, and again boots scuffed in short, agitated bursts. This wasn’t just about Robbie—it never was.

“Fuck knows,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. The thought of Robbie in that room, beaten and broken, fueled something ugly inside me.

Jamie shot me a look but didn’t comment.

“I don’t care who we hurt,” Rio continued, pointing a finger that shook with anger, “whoever’s behind this doesn’t get to walk away clean. We find them, we end them.”

That was Rio—all fists and action, always ready to punch his way through a problem. Direct action was his answer to everything. He didn’t believe in waiting or strategy, not when anger felt faster and more satisfying. It didn’t matter if violence wasn’t the smartest move—if Rio thought it would solve the problem, he’d swing first and worry about the fallout later. His temper ran hot and fast, like a fuse that never quite stopped burning. It made him dangerous, but right now? Dangerous felt like exactly what Robbie might need.

Jamie hummed thoughtfully. There was a darker side to Jamie none of us understood. He didn’t talk about his past much, but the rumors stuck. Whispers about what he’d done before Redcars, about the parents who’d died in a house fire, and the uncle who’d ended up burning alive. Fire was his thing, but he had a gift with computers that none of us saw here. Whether the rumors were true or not, Jamie denied nothing about burning his family—and that silence said enough. There was a cold precision to the way he spoke when things got dark, as if violence wasn’t just an option but something he knew too well, and he flicked his cheap lighters and stared at the flame too often for us not to notice. That edge, the quiet threat following him like a shadow, made Jamie the kind of dangerous even Rio didn’t mess with.

His words carried a weight that chilled the air. “Or we make them wish they’d never been born.” He smiled like it was a casual idea, not a promise of something dark and drawn-out.

Rio and Jamie exchanged glances, silent but sure. That quiet understanding between them—the unshakable confidence that, one way or another, the bad guys were done—sent a chill down my spine. I’d be there with them, but no one needed to know that right now. Jamie leaned in slightly, muttering something sharp. Rio nodded, already tossing out plans.

“We grab ‘em first,” Rio said, his fingers twitching as if he was itching to throw a punch. “Drag ‘em in here, let ‘em stew for a while. Chain ‘em up like they did the kid and then fucking stab them.”

Jamie smirked, dark and cold. “Or we take something they care about, cut their fucking cocks off for what they did to him, break them down piece by piece.”

Their words came low, like the start of a twisted brainstorming session—brutal, merciless, and all too easy for them to slip into. I knew Rio’s fire well enough, but Jamie? There was something about the way he calculated cruelty as though he had a list of tortures already filed away in his mind, each one worse than the last. Rio was rage; Jamie was ice—and both of them were dangerous in their own way.

“Jesus! Stop!” Logan cut in, “We don’t know what the fuck happened.”

“Trafficking,” Rio said.

“Slavery,” Jamie added.

“Okay, fuck. Stop! Someone needs to catch me up here, and hell… “ Logan’s calm felt forced now, strained around the edges, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides, knuckles pale. He was holding everything together, balancing the weight of Redcars and the lives tangled up in it. Logan knew this place wasn’t only a garage—it was sanctuary, safety—and if he lost control now, everything could unravel. He wasn’t just worried about Robbie or the violence Rio and Jamie were eager to unleash. He was carrying all of it—every risk, every threat—and somehow, he had to stay solid enough to keep us all standing. “…we need to be smart, not reckless. Redcars isn’t somewhere we drag shit into.” He paused, dragging in a breath, then exhaled slowly and deliberately. “There’s nothing we should do when the cost is getting ourselves killed or putting this Robbie guy in danger. We can’t charge in blind when we know fuck all about who we’re trying to hurt or why.”

I tuned their heated debate out, my focus slipping back to the file room door. Robbie was away from whatever threats we hadn’t yet faced. And yet, I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to be in there. I needed to know he was okay. The longer I stared at that door, the harder it became to breathe. My thoughts spiraled—was he conscious? Was he scared? Did he know we were out here, fighting to keep him safe? The idea that he might be alone in the dark, hurting and afraid, twisted my gut. Every instinct I had screamed to check on him, but I knew the risk. We had to give him space until he calmed down and accepted he was safe with us.

“He needs stuff,” I said, and somehow the words, or how I said them, struck a chord. “He’s staying in that room, he feels safe, he needs… fuck… a bed… blankets...”

Everyone stared at me for a beat, as if I’d said something profound. For a second, I wondered if they’d even heard me right. I’d never been the one with the answers—not like Logan with his calm, or Rio with his fists, or Jamie with his fire. I’d given up on fixing things and became the man who stayed in the background. But this time, I’d spoken up, and they’d listened. Were they responding to the fear in my voice?

Rio nodded sharply and grabbed Jamie’s arm. “Come on,” he muttered. “We’ll get the cot.”

“Pillows and blankets,” Jamie added.

Without another word, the two of them headed upstairs and I watched them go, their footsteps fading on the stairs. That left me and Logan.

“You okay?” Logan asked, his voice gentle.

I didn’t answer right away. My eyes drifted back to the closed door. “I just…” I swallowed hard. “I hate that he’s in there alone.”

“Catch me up. You found him in the alley, and he was breathing, but hurt.”

“So bad, I don’t know… I took these… I…” I passed him my phone, and showed the photos Doc had ordered me to take in case this ever went to court. Yeah right.

Logan blanched, “Jesus fuck… what the… fuck.”

“He’s staying,” I said, and crossed my arms over my chest.

Logan stared at me, his eyes bright with emotion, and he passed back the phone. “No question.”

“I don’t want him in there alone, Lo…”

“The room is where he feels safe and it’s all that matters.”

“He’ll need a bathroom, his meds, food, he can’t physically stay in there.”

“He won’t,” Tudor said from behind us, and we both turned to see him sitting on the stool by the coffee machine. “He’ll be forced to use the bathroom after a while, or the pain will get too much, he’ll need to eat, and if he’s as much of a survivor as he seems to be, then hell, it won’t be long. Still, give him the space, yeah? Make it his. Sometimes, a body wants four walls close around them.”

Tudor was gray-haired, but a force of nature, less a part of the running of Redcars now he’d retired, but he was the reason we were all here, the one who’d opened up his world to us when we needed help, and I respected the hell out of the man. Redcars might not be Tudor’s place anymore, not since he’d passed the reins to Logan, but he was over here at least once a day, if only to poke his nose around the corner and huff if he caught us doing something wrong. Redcars was more than a garage—it was a safe haven for men with pasts that left them bruised and broken, a place where they could build something stable, something good. Like Greg, who came to us after doing three years for a crime he didn’t commit, struggling to find work because no one would give him a second chance. Or Mikey, who’d spent most of his life in and out of shelters before Logan had given him a place here and taught him how to rebuild engines. Redcars didn’t just fix cars—it helped rebuild lives.

“Jamie and Rio are bringing down the cot.”

“I heard,” Tudor said.

How long had he been sitting there listening? Had he heard all of that shit with Jamie and Rio promising vengeance? Pain throbbed at the base of my skull, the kind of headache that comes from too many hours spent grinding your teeth and overthinking everything. We had no idea what kind of hell Robbie had endured, what horrors he’d been subjected to, but I wanted to scoop him up and take him back to the bed upstairs.

“We need to talk,” Tudor said. “Get the boy settled, and then back here.” He pointed at the floor still rough with Rio’s scuff marks.

That didn’t sound good.

“He’s staying,” I blurted. “We can’t throw him out.” Tudor stared at me unblinking, and I backpedaled. Of course, he wouldn’t throw Robbie out. What the hell am I doing losing my shit like Tudor was the bad guy? “Sorry.”

“I know.” Tudor was doing his best Yoda impression, with his piercing eyes that could see right through a body to the mess underneath—freaking intimidating.

Jamie clattered down, arms full of blankets, and Rio single-handedly carried the cot under one arm and tugged the mattress behind him.

“Robbie?” I knocked on the door he refused to open, and thought about what the hell to do now. “We’ve got you a bed and stuff. Can you open the door? Robbie?”

The door creaked open. “You can’t come in,” Robbie whispered.

“We’re not coming in.”

“You can’t,” he said fiercely, and I saw the glint of something metal in his hand—a fork. Where the hell had he gotten a fork? He stabbed it toward me, his eyes wide, blood on his lips. Had he opened some stitches? This wasn’t right. Did we need to get Doc back?

“We’re not going to hurt you,” I said, but reached for him when he leaned against the door frame, going deathly white.

“Go away!” he threatened with another jab of the fork.

I held out a hand behind me. “Knife,” I snapped, and within seconds I had a blade in my hand. Robbie huddled in on himself.

“No. No.” he tried to shut the door, but I slid the knife in where he could hold it. Was this a good idea? Was he suicidal? Was he murderous? Shit, I’d just armed him, but…

He bent down to pick up the blade, and held it tight, staring at me, then tossing the fork out where it clattered on the concrete.

“Now you’re armed, okay? We can’t hurt you.”

Jamie placed the blankets within reach then moved to sit on a pile of used tires, fingers interlocked, his gaze fixed on the cracked tiles near his boots. Rio leaned the cot frame and mattress next to the open door, then went over to Jamie and paced, restless energy snapping off him like static. Logan hadn’t moved and Tudor was watching carefully.

We all watched as empty boxes were pushed out of the space, and the bed frame was dragged in—how the fuck he was doing that I didn’t know. “Don’t open your stitches,” I said so he could hear.

“I won’t,” he said, and then ruined the effect by coughing and spluttering.

“Jesus, Robbie!” I yelled.

He went quiet. Then after a pause, some more scraping, and then he opened the door a little. “Push it,” he said, and I assume he meant the mattress.

“I can’t if you’re in there and you’re in the way, be sensible about this, Robbie⁠—”

“Push it, please…”

I shoved and it fell in. He shut the door, and I was stuck outside again.

“Kid’s a mess,” Tudor murmured. “Some assholes out there are going to hell.”

“Yeah…”

“If they come looking for him…” Logan seemed twitchy.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Rio snapped, and only subsided when Tudor raised an eyebrow. That damn thing was magic, one tic and we all backed down. “Sorry, boss,” He threw at Logan who didn’t even hear him.

“You think he’s bringing trouble to our doorstep?” I asked.

Tudor didn’t answer right away. He took another sip. “Maybe trouble follows him here.”

“But that doesn’t mean we turn him away, right?” I asked, aware I was confronting the man who had given me—a messed-up murderer—a second chance. I knew he would do the right thing but doubt and lack of sleep were clouding my judgment. Tudor leveled a look at me, one conveying his displeasure with what I had said, and I fell silent. At least he didn’t use the eyebrow.

“It’s not just about Robbie,” Logan said from behind us, and I turned to face my best friend, who was as exhausted as I was. “It’s Cassidy.”

“We’d never let anything happen to Cass,” I reassured Logan because that little girl was precious to all of us. Logan might be her daddy, but we were all surrogate uncles.

“Yeah, I get that, but there’s been some trouble around here, some… the fires at Cardinal Park.”

Violence and threats had been circling us for months now, creeping closer like a noose tightening. Some of it came from the pasts we carried—men who’d pissed off the wrong people, who had enemies they couldn’t outrun. Some of it was newer—gangs carving up the streets, staking claims in the vacuum left behind by a broken police force. And then there was the gentrification, the slow influx of developers picking apart old buildings, driving up rents, and pushing out families who’d lived here for generations. Redcars had always been a target—too many people thought they could take what we had. Too many believed we couldn’t hold the line. I knew better—Logan knew better. But a victim of the worst kinds of violence being here, was different. Seeing something this close was personal, affecting each of us differently.

“What if Robbie is part of that?” Logan continued, “what if he’s one of the bad guys and⁠—”

“You know he’s not,” I snapped. “He’s a freaking victim. Jesus, Lo!”

Tudor placed a hand on my chest, but he spoke to Logan. “Logan, you’re thinking like a leader,” Tudor said. “But don’t forget what this place is. You, Enzo, Jamie, Rio… hell, even me when my pops dragged me kicking and screaming out of Jeb Butler’s whore house when I was thirteen—we all brought trouble when we came here. We were all someone else’s problem.”

That hit hard.

Logan held up a hand in defense. “I never said we should make him go.”

Tudor’s eyes met Logan’s, and then his gaze flicked to me. “Robbie is welcome here.”

“But what if whoever did this to him is… fuck… trafficking… and Cassidy… Jesus,” Logan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “And this gets fucked this up…”

“You’re not wrong,” Tudor agreed. “But Logan⁠—”

“What if this puts Cassidy in danger?” Logan looked up at him, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

Tudor shook his head. “You don’t carry it alone. We all look out for the little angel”

I nodded. “He’s right, Lo. We hold the line together. Looking out for Cassidy isn’t just you. It’s all of us. Same with this place.” In the nine years I’d been here I’d gone from wanting nothing to do with Redcars, to clinging for dear life to our small fucked-up family. I would stand between danger and Cassidy because that kid was like my niece or something, and I took that shit seriously.

Logan exhaled, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “I just… I can’t afford to fuck this up, I can’t have trouble at the door, not when my ex’s partner is waiting for me to crack. I’m not losing my kid.”

Tudor gave a slight, approving nod. “Let’s start with finding out where he came from.”

“Good luck with that, he’s barely right in the head to think, let alone talk, and he’s terrified.”

“Hmmm,” Tudor murmured. That could have meant anything from calling a SWAT team to suggesting coffee. I’d given up on deciphering what the old man meant by his hmmm’s and Yoda-like wisdom. I wasn’t clever enough to second-guess anyone as worldly-wise and manipulative as Tudor Barrera.

FIVE

Robbie

The room was barely more than a storage closet—a converted filing room carved out of the garage space, with walls of cold sheetrock and one flickering strip light buzzing overhead, clogged with the bodies of dead insects, but it was mine.

I shifted the mattress to the cot inch by inch, muscles screaming with each movement. The pain was evil—sharp, unforgiving—it stole the air from my lungs and made my vision blur. But I kept going. I had to. Sweat clung to my skin by the time I got the mattress into place, and I collapsed onto it, gasping, knife clutched in one hand. My fingers cramped around the hilt. That too, was mine.

Above me, the ceiling offered no comfort—just more sheetrock, cracked in places, water-stained and old. The room reeked of oil and mechanical fumes, but there was no rot, no mildew, no damp earth. I could live with that. I knew this air. I understood it. It made sense in a world that hadn’t in a long time.

I crawled to the door, dragging my battered body with me. Pain flared in every joint, every breath. I cracked it open to see if anything had been left. My meds were there. A bottle of water. A plate with a cold slice of pizza, a cookie, and a sad-looking carrot. I reached out, snagged it all in one go, and pulled it back into the room.

The cookie was too sweet. I managed one bite before it turned to glue in my mouth. I couldn’t touch the pizza. Couldn’t think about the carrot. I shoved the plate back outside, shame and fury churning in my stomach. The memory of being denied food lingered. It had been one of their favorite punishments—twisting the mind as much as it weakened the body.

“You need to eat,” came the voice, and I froze.

I gripped the knife and jabbed it toward the door.

Peeking out, I saw him—Enzo. Leaning against the wall outside like he wasn’t waiting.

“Go away,” I hissed.

“You need to eat.”

“I can’t, okay? I can’t!”

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to leave me the hell alone. But I didn’t. I shut the door and curled up on the mattress.

The next time I opened it for meds, something had changed. A mug. One of those keep-warm ones. Soup. Tomato, I think. A few small crackers on the side. My stomach cramped at the smell, and still, I forced myself to try. A sip. Another. A nibble of a cracker.

There was a note, taped to the mug. We can get you any soup you want. Just write it here.

There was a tiny arrow pointing to a blank space.

I stared at it for a long time before scratching out one word: vegetable. I didn’t expect anything. Tricks were easy. Promises were easier to break.

Later, I needed the bathroom. I took the knife. Crawled up the stairs. Every step was agony. My lungs burned. At the top, the one called Jamie stood back, arms folded, eyes anywhere but on me. He didn’t speak or move—he gave me space

I got to the bathroom. Didn’t cry. Almost did.

The shower was there, calling to me—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had hot water. I ignored it. The toilet was all I could manage.

I noticed another sign.

For Robbie, it said, with more arrows. Same handwriting. Next to it, a pile—washbag, deodorant, wet wipes, toothbrush, toothpaste. I stared for a long time.

My throat closed. I could’ve cried. I brushed my teeth, gagging. The soup came up. Not much of it. Enough to sting. I tried the deodorant, but my hands were too unsteady. Settled for a wipe. One. Dragged it over my arms, under my shirt. Stared into the mirror.

Who was I? Who did Enzo see when he looked at me? Who did any of them see?

A ghost. A wreck. Nothing.

Gaunt, bruised, with stitches at my temple and one eye swollen near shut. My eyes—Christ, my eyes. One pale blue, one a deep brown. Heterochromia. My blessing, John called it. Like all the things that made him do awful things to me. He used to say it wasn’t his fault and it was all on me with my mismatched eyes , the way I remembered too much. Said I wasn’t right. Said it made me his to use because I wasn’t fit to…

“Stop,” I said on repeat, nothing more than a whisper

I was wrong, inside and out.

I tucked the wipes into my waistband and made my way downstairs again, one slow descent on my ass made difficult by carrying the huge-ass knife. Still, if I fell on it, then no one could hurt me anymore.

Stop.

Jamie had gone from his place at the top of the stairs, but Enzo was at the bottom. Pretending to work. Not watching. Not speaking.

But when I reached the bottom and we locked eyes, he gave me a single nod.

I didn’t know what it meant. But I nodded back.

Then I shut the door behind me. Back in my room. Back in my air. Knife beside me. Heart still racing.

There were piles of paperwork in the corner of the room, and three big filing cabinets that looked as if they hadn’t been organized since the dawn of time. I couldn’t help myself—I investigated. Orders for parts, flyers, quotes, invoices. So much mess, paper everywhere, some yellowed with age, others printed fresh. It was chaos.

I picked through a stack, letting my fingers run over the top sheet. There was an invoice for a crankshaft sensor—whatever that was—and after a few minutes of flipping through nearby papers, I found a matching quote for the same part. I lined them up, matching numbers, dates, and set them aside together, separate from the disarray. One small thing that made sense. One puzzle solved. Just a little order in the noise. There was a pile of receipts for accounts, but I couldn’t find one matching a payment to the quote and the part order. Maybe they didn’t keep all their paperwork in here? Or perhaps the amount was outstanding?

The meds made everything molasses-slow. I shoved the chair up and under the handle of the door—just in case—not caring if I died in here and people couldn’t get in to retrieve my body. Maybe this could be a cool place to decay?

I curled up on my bed, pulling a blanket over me, pain sliding away, and all I could do was wonder what a crankshaft sensor was.

I woke in pain. Sweating. Cramping. The nightmare ripping the air from my lungs, locking every muscle tight. I heaved. Chest jerking. I rolled to my side. Nothing.

Empty.

Sick, but hollow. The kind of pain you can’t throw up.

I curled in on myself. Smaller. Tighter. Breath catching on a sob I didn’t remember starting.

And then—tears.

Somewhere in the gasps, I realized I was crying.

Then came the knock.

“Robbie?”

Enzo.

His voice was muffled but urgent. “Open the door, Robbie.”

He was trying the handle now. My name again, firmer this time. “Are you okay? I heard you scream. Robbie!”

I wanted to tell him to go away. I wanted to scream no. But something inside me broke open. He needed to see me. And fuck, I needed to see another human. Someone real.

“I’m okay,” I croaked, dragging myself to the door. “I’m coming.”

The chair was jammed under the handle, and I couldn’t get it free. My hands shook too badly, my body trembling with the leftover horror of whatever the nightmare had been. Tears stung hot and fast, not fear, but frustration at how goddamn weak I was.

“Come on,” I snapped at the chair, yanking it. It scraped, my whole arm screaming, but finally, it gave. I stumbled back, grabbed the knife, and cracked the door open an inch.

Enzo was way back from the door, hands visible, posture loose and unthreatening.

“I’m okay,” I said again, quieter now. “It was a nightmare.”

His eyes softened a fraction. Not sad with pity or wide with anger. Just…something steady I couldn’t understand, something like compassion.

“Can I do anything to help you?” he said, unmoving. “I want to help.”

I tugged in the new tray. There was more soup with a V on the top, which I assumed meant it was vegetable, a new note I would read later, more crackers, more water, and a banana chopped into tiny pieces that had started to turn brown at the edges. I love bananas, so soft and squishy, so sweet. Fuck, I hope I can keep it down.

“What is a crankshaft sensor?” I asked after a pause.

“A what now?” he frowned and moved closer, his head tilted as if he hadn’t heard me correctly.

“A crankshaft sensor, what is it?”

Enzo blinked, then scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… it’s this sensor that tracks how fast the crankshaft is spinning. It helps the engine control the timing of the spark plugs and fuel injection. Without it, the car won’t know when to fire—might not even start.”

He was unsure, so I pressed, “And what does the crankshaft do?”

“It… um… it converts the up and down movement of the pistons into rotation,” Enzo said, and his hands started moving like he was trying to sculpt the explanation out of thin air. He raised both fists in front of him, then pumped them up and down in quick succession. “So the pistons move like this—up and down—right? That’s what happens inside the engine cylinders.”

Then he rotated one hand in a slow circle. “The crankshaft takes that and turns it into this—circular motion. That’s what actually drives the car. The sensor tracks all that movement so the computer knows when to fire the spark plugs and add fuel. Timing’s everything.”

He paused and gave me an uncertain look as if maybe it had all come out wrong. “I mean, I know what it does when I fix it. I’m not always great at explaining the tech stuff.

I nodded, then asked, “So the sensor monitors that rotation?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. It’s like the engine’s um… like its brain, and it needs that info to keep everything timed right.”

I turned back to the papers I’d stacked. “Did you get paid for it?”

Enzo blinked. “What?”

“Quote 765/2,” I said, tapping the top sheet. “And a parts order for a crankshaft sensor. Did you get paid for the work?” I tossed the papers I’d found outside the door, and he picked them up, scanning the documents, brows drawing together.

“I have no idea, that’s a Logan thing.”

“You should check,” I said. “I can’t find the payment anywhere—no invoice match, no receipt, nothing.”

“What do you mean?” He took another step closer. “I don’t understand⁠—”

I slammed the door shut, shoved the chair under the handle, and was done with talking again.

He’d come too close and he was twice the size of me, tattooed, hard, and he could hurt me way worse than John ever did. They all could.

I swallowed some soup—it was softer, gentler, creamier. The warmth soothed my throat, and the crackers didn’t hurt as much to swallow this time. The note taped to the tray had a list with little boxes, asking me for muffin choices and candy preferences. Options. As if I mattered. There were also vitamins lined up like tiny soldiers and a line scrawled under them: You should take these.

I stared at them for a long time. They could be a trick. A new kind of poison, something slow. But I’d already been taking the pain meds, and they hadn’t hurt me. So what was different about this? What made this the moment I questioned it?

Eventually, I wrote a new soup option: chicken. Simple. Safe. Familiar.

Then my eyes caught on the mess of papers again, and a wave of irritation swept through me. Everything was chaos, loose sheets scattered, some fluttering off the edge of the desk when I moved. I needed to do something about it.

There was something I needed really bad.

A stapler.

SIX

Enzo

Jamie, Rio, and I were standing in the break room, locked in a heated debate over the damn stapler on Robbie’s list. I wasn’t even part of the conversation—just nodded at the right times, tossing out automatic answers, my thoughts a million miles away. Truth was, it had been impossible to focus on anything all morning, knowing Robbie was locked in that freaking room. He’d been more lucid in the last few hours, yeah, and that was something. He’d been here over two weeks now and I hadn’t stopped watching.

Listening. Bracing and waiting for the next scream, the next sob, the next sound telling me he was back in that dark place. And when he did scream, when he sobbed and I heard him retching as though his body was trying to force the memories out, I saw red. I grabbed the axe we kept in the back and was halfway to the door before Rio stopped me, arms wrapped around my chest, stopping me from messing up.

Helping him had ceased being about duty about five minutes after I’d scooped him up out of the alley. It wasn’t about being a decent guy or doing the right thing—no one ever said I was a decent guy. It was instinct now. His survival was important to me, and somewhere in the broken nights Robbie had carved out space in me. He wasn’t only someone I wanted to help. He was someone I needed to see safe. Someone who’d gone from a ghost behind a locked door to the person I thought about when I closed my eyes. I wasn’t anyone’s hero and that scared the hell out of me.

“Why a stapler?” Jamie pressed, and I focused back on what he and Rio were discussing.

“He’s not trying to staple an open wound closed, is he?” Rio asked, wide-eyed.

The thought hit me like a truck. My stomach flipped. Shit. I hadn’t considered that. I bolted toward the side room, heart thudding. I knocked on the door.

“Robbie,” I called, trying to keep my voice even.

“What?”

“Why do you need a stapler?”

“To staple things.” The doh was implied, and kinda sassy for a man who’d been dying only a week earlier. I liked that. It made me feel warm inside.

Behind me, Rio made a face and mimed, asking more. Of course, he did.

“Not to, uh…. staple yourself?” I asked, wincing at how stupid it sounded out loud.

Silence stretched between us, and I was about ready to break down the damn door.

Finally, Robbie said, “Paper.”.

Relief washed over me so fast I almost swayed. I snapped my fingers. “Jamie, get me a stapler.”

Jamie tore off toward Logan’s office and crashed through the door as if he were hunting treasure. A second later, he came out with the stapler and a fresh box of staples, victorious.

Logan followed him, clearly unimpressed. “That’s my stapler!”

“Robbie wants it,” I said, grabbing it from Jamie and heading back toward the room.

Logan was baffled. “Okay then… don’t lose it. I like that one. Also, why? No, I don’t want to know. He okay?”

“Better,” I murmured. He was far from okay, but he’d kept a small amount of food down, and he’d taken the vitamins I’d added to the tray—or at least they weren’t on the tray now. For all I knew he’d tossed them in the corner of the room. I hated this so much. I wanted control, and Robbie being in there wasn’t in my control at all.

I knocked, the sound dull against the heavy door. A beat passed. Then another. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open enough for Robbie to peer out, his eyes wary. The knife was still in his hand, gripped tight—not raised, but not lowered either.

“I’ve got it,” I said softly, holding out the stapler. I let the staples follow in a gentle arc, tossing them low so they landed near his feet without alarm.

His eyes flicked to the items, then back to my face. A cautious half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, tentative, as if it hadn’t been used in a while and wasn’t sure it would be welcome. And then, the door closed again—not slammed, simply shut. Firm, but not final.

It occurred to me then that Robbie had asked earlier about a crankshaft sensor and whether we’d been paid for it, though he hadn’t said which one. I had no idea what he meant—only that it mattered to him. So I gestured for Jamie to keep an eye on the door and stepped into Logan’s office.

“Hey,” I said. “Robbie wants to know if we’ve been paid for a crankshaft sensor.”

Logan blinked at me from behind his desk, looking as if I’d asked him to solve a nuclear physics calculation.

“A what… who… um… which one?” he asked.

I shrugged. “No idea. Just... a crankshaft sensor.”

“Why?” Logan said, rubbing at the back of his neck. His desk was a disaster—piles of paperwork, open folders, and old invoices held down by cups of cold coffee. None of us were numbers guys, least of all Logan. But as the new owner of Redcars it all fell on him to make sense of the accounts.

“I have no fucking idea,” he muttered, dragging his laptop toward him. He opened a spreadsheet, stared at it for a solid thirty seconds, then huffed and slammed it shut again. “I don’t fucking know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. “I don’t fucking know anything.”

I peeked into Robbie’s room. “Which crankshaft sensor?” I asked.

Robbie didn’t glance up. “Quote 765-slash-2,” he said, same as before. But this time, his voice carried more weight. He flipped open the notebook without even glancing at the page. “That one came from the blue Civic with the snapped timing belt. See here?” He pointed to the stack of invoices on the desk. “I matched it to the order we got from Jasper Auto—green form, top right corner torn, but it still shows the last three digits of the VIN.”

He moved as though he’d rehearsed this, each connection crisp, precise. “We logged the part under internal reference code JN92—linked to vehicle ID 4CXM227, the blue Civic with the snapped timing belt. The original sensor failed during ignition testing—Rio flagged it in the diagnostic. I matched that to invoice #04498 from Jasper Auto, subtotal $72.83—green form, top right corner torn but the VIN ending in 227 is still legible.”

He tapped the notebook, still not checking it—as if he had the whole thing memorized. “A replacement sensor came in two days later under UPS tracking 1Z37748E9031021740—it was bundled with the valve covers for the old Chevy and a serpentine belt we didn’t order but got credited for on invoice #04511. I matched up the shipment discrepancies with the intake logs from Receiving—Rio had initialed the manifest but flagged two inconsistencies. The serpentine belt wasn’t part of our original request, and the packing list marked it as a bonus part, but the system tried to bill us anyway. I filed a claim with Jasper’s distributor interface and found their refund confirmation in the recycling box, which is stapled to the back of invoice #04511. Then I piled everything the other shipment trackers—on the Non-Match Deliveries pile.”

“Um—”

“Install was documented as Enzo-Rep-12—three labor hours logged against your code, and I cross-referenced that with timecard 88A, the one from the Wednesday you stayed late. Filed the labor invoice under JN92-LB, amounting to $180 plus shop fees. That’s how I matched the trail.”

I didn’t say a word. Just watched him. His hands never trembled, voice never broke, in fact he sounded like he was talking by rote, his eyes focused elsewhere.

“That customer might have paid in full—and we have a carbon copy receipt stapled to the folded work order, but the staple tore out when I was sorting them, and the amounts don’t match.” He finally looked at me. “That’s why I linked them. Order, part, labor, payment.”

I caught sight of the open page he’d said listed this all. It was blank. The fuck? I glanced around the room and then at the pile of books he’d made next to his bed—long titles, a couple of them open to pages, dense law textbooks, thick technical car manuals, old manuals on pre-digital filing systems, and a fraying copy of something that looked like a university-level statistics book. Fuck knows where these all came from, but had he read through these? Studied them?

Robbie was clever. More than clever. If he read all of this and understood even five percent of it, then he wasn’t just smart—he was a damn genius. No wonder the numbers poured out of him like breath. This wasn’t memorization. This was structure. Systems. Patterns. He wasn’t parroting information—he was building a map in his head, one invoice, one torn corner at a time.

He saw me glance at the notebook, and then met my gaze, and there was fear in his eyes.

I stepped closer, one foot inside his room, and all hell broke loose.

“Get out!” Robbie shouted, his voice sharp and cracking with panic. The notebook slammed shut in his hands. “Get out, Enzo!”

I froze, stunned. “Robbie—hey, I didn’t mean anything. I just—how do you remember all that?”

But it was too late. His expression twisted, his breathing sharp and shallow as he backed toward the door like a cornered animal.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice shaking. “Don’t ask. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not⁠—”

The door slammed in my face before I could finish.

The sound echoed through the bay like a gunshot.

“What did you do to the kid?” Logan asked as he passed by, his tone somewhere between concern and accusation.

“Nothing.”

He knocked on Robbie’s door, “Hey Robbie, thanks for the heads-up on that invoice.”

“Okay,” Robbie said after a pause.

SEVEN

Robbie

I couldn’t believe I spouted everything to Enzo of all people—with his quiet care, and his staring as if he was trying to solve me like a puzzle.

If the people here at Redcars knew what I could do, they’d use me—just like John had.

That was the fear buried deepest. My eidetic memory wasn’t a gift; it was a target. I didn’t choose it, didn’t train for it. It was just there—relentless and inescapable. Every invoice, every tracking number, every code and label seared into my mind. I remembered it all.

And if anyone realized what I could do, the truth wouldn’t set me free. It would trap me. Again.

They’d see a tool. A resource. Not a person. Not me.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I’d been proud of what I’d figured out. Proud of the trail I’d built. Somewhere in me, under all the panic and reflex and fear, I’d wanted Enzo to look at me with approval. Just once. I wanted him to see me as independent and clever. To really see me.

But all he did was stare. Shocked. Unnerved. And when he saw the empty notebook page—rookie mistake. I’d given myself away.

No one can know what I have in my head. They’ll use me. They always do. The kindness I’d gotten used to—Enzo, the others, their small gestures that made me feel human—would twist into something else in a flash. Greed. Exploitation. Control.

I’m an idiot.

So I shut down. Said nothing. Locked the words in my mouth and slammed the door in Enzo’s face. Because if he knew what I was and what I could do, I wouldn’t be safe here either.

John had known, and he’d gotten to me before the other two.

They hated that he’d won.

They made sure I knew it.

A trio of torturers.

Enzo never mentioned the empty page again, and in the last two weeks, I’d quietly continued to match up paperwork. Every invoice, every receipt, every battered logbook had been wrangled into order and filed into neat piles on the scarred metal desk, and I’d made actual notes and didn’t reveal my freaky brain to anyone. Enzo never mentioned it again, and probably chalked it up to him not seeing notes, or something.

I hoped for that anyway.

The filing cabinets were open now, half empty, the rest waiting their turn. I’d started reordering everything into something that made sense—not just to whoever dumped it there ten years ago, but to someone who might need to find something again.

My hands still shook when I got tired, but I didn’t drop things as much now.

Pain still clawed at me—low in my gut and up through my ribs as if someone had barbed wire wrapped around them—but it was bearable. Manageable. Doc said I could shower if I wanted to as he removed stitches with his usual brusque precision. He wasn’t the friendliest of men, but I let him touch me because he didn’t care. He was here to heal the bag of meat he’d been handed to fix, and he took the money and ran. He’d unwrapped my feet, commented on the healing, tutted over a stitch that wouldn’t move, but pronounced they could stay out of being wrapped as long as I wore these stupid hospital slipper things. Of course, I agreed, because Doc was fucking scary.

Also. I could keep food down. That was new. Huge, actually. I’d managed a full bowl of soup and half a pack of crackers yesterday, and it stayed put. No retching. No cold sweats. No dizziness so bad I had to lie on the floor until the ceiling stopped spinning. Progress. And, today, I was determined to take a shower.

I’d made a mark on the back of the office door for every day I’d been here—thin lines carved with the tip of a paperclip. I knew I’d missed some at the beginning, when I was too out of it to know where I was, let alone what day it was. But I’d counted. Fifteen days since I’d woken up and hid in this room—over two weeks of sponging myself down with wet wipes and water from the sink. Fifteen days of pretending it didn’t matter that I felt sticky and sour and less than human. That a shower was too much. It was just a shower. Hot water. Steam. Soap. How bad could it be? I gripped the edge of the desk and took a breath. Deep and slow. My ribs ached, but I could breathe. I could stand. I could do this. But the moment I managed the stairs, and turned toward the small bathroom, my chest tightened. I could still feel it sometimes—the water rushing in, filling my nose, my mouth. The way it burned going down. The way I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. The helplessness. The choking. My feet stopped moving.

“It’s not the same,” I whispered to myself. My voice sounded thin in the empty room. “It’s not the same.”

Still, I reached to shut the door. One hand, steady enough. I could feel the tremble in my knees now, and the room tilted for a second, like it was testing me. But I didn’t fall.

I could do this. I locked the door, used the toilet, brushed my teeth, counted the white tiles on the wall, glanced out of the small window which opened onto a wall, pulled the tiny blind, checked the door was locked again, then counted some more tiles.

Fucks sake.

It was a shower over a bath, one of those all-in-one setups with a nozzle on a bracket, and I had to climb in to use it. That meant bracing both hands on the sides, lifting one knee, then the other, the bones creaking as if they belonged to someone twice my age. My knees cracked as I bent them, muscles stiff and screaming from too many days curled in a ball, from too many injuries not yet healed. But I got in and sat myself on the edge of the bath at the opposite end, water up to my ankles now, enough to soak the soles. I stared at them for a moment—at the raw, scabbed-over wreckage of what used to be skin. I’d run so far from John that night in blind panic. No shoes. No thought. I’d torn my feet to shreds on concrete, gravel, broken glass. The pain was nothing compared to the fear, but it still hurt like hell.

I glanced at the bottles by the taps—soap, scar salve, shampoo. New. Expensive. The guys I was staying with had stocked up. Quiet and steady kindness. It chipped away at me, softened seams I’d stitched tight.

I gripped the tub’s edge. My body trembled. “Fuck,” I whispered. “Okay.”

I stood, flipped the shower on, and let the water hit my chest. Warm. Not painful, but overwhelming. I turned slowly so it hit my back, then face. I flinched. Cold water. John. That night. I grabbed the edge. Stayed upright.

Let it run.

I washed my hair with lemon-scented shampoo, slow and methodical. Focused on the heat, the scent, the simple act of cleaning myself. I wasn’t drowning.

I sobbed quietly beneath the spray, grime and fear washing down the drain—not just dirt, but John and his bosses, all of it, gone, if only for now.

I picked up the soap, lathered my chest, arms, throat. My skin felt like mine again and as I rinsed the shampoo slowly, blinking at the ceiling to keep the water away from my eyes. The water was soft—not harsh or biting—and as it poured over me, I felt the grime lift. The stickiness. The layers of sweat, fear, blood, and years of just… surviving. Breathed in the citrus and steam. Not blood or fear.

Just clean.

I’m here. Not there.

The tension in my shoulders gave a little more. I leaned into the stream and let the water beat down on my spine. I closed my eyes—not in fear, but in peace. I hadn’t realized how heavy the dirt had felt until it was gone. There were fluffy towels—there always was—and wrapped in them, I rubbed the salve into one of my oldest scars absently, my touch gentler than it used to be. I didn’t flinch from it. Didn’t rush. I was learning I didn’t have to.

I made sure to put the slippers back on, and picked up the clean sweats that were just the latest in clothes left outside my door. I’d worn these ones before, the softest cotton and blue with a darker stripe, there was a small tear in the cuff at the ankle, as if these had been well-loved. They smelled of washing detergent, so someone was doing my laundry here. That didn’t seem right.

I should offer to help.

I headed back downstairs, one cautious step at a time. My legs still ached, shaky from effort, but the clean weight of warm skin and damp hair gave me a strange feeling of strength. Not physical, exactly. Just… steadier. Confident. I leaned hard on the banister, careful not to slip, feeling all kinds of brave. The step creaked beneath my feet as the office door swung open and Enzo stepped into my space. I jolted, foot slipping, heart slamming against my ribs in a burst of raw panic. A gasp tore from my throat as my knees buckled, the world tilting like it might swallow me whole⁠—

—and then he was there. Arms around me. Catching me before I fell.

One arm wrapped around my waist, the other braced me to his chest. Solid. Steady. Warm from the heat of the day and smelling of engine oil and soap, I didn’t move or breathe for a second. Being held like this—held, not grabbed—sent something aching through my chest. I craved the gentle care. But he was close enough to see everything. The raw edges of me, and his gaze met mine. Something passed between us—sharp and soft all at once.

His brow furrowed, then he said, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud, “Your eyes are so unusual.”

I blinked, startled. “What?”

Enzo’s voice was low, thoughtful. “Your eyes, one gray, the other hazel.”

“Let me go,” I wriggled free and hurried the last few steps down and into my room—I slipped inside and shut it, pressing the lock into place with a soft click. I leaned on the door, eyes closed and tried to breathe past the rush of emotion in my throat. I was clean. I was safe. But I was also terrified—because for one impossible second, I’d let myself want someone to hold me. And that someone looked a lot like Enzo.

EIGHT

Enzo

Memories of scaring Robbie, of catching him, of feeling the weight of him in my arms, made it so there no hope in hell of sleeping tonight. I sat at the scarred kitchen table, fingers curled around the mug of cocoa, lost in thought with just the hum of the fridge for company. I didn’t sleep much anymore, not since Robbie had arrived and SC had tagged the outside wall like a calling card anyway, but after holding Robbie… nah… not happening.

I stayed at Redcars every night. Crashed in the upstairs apartment, half-dressed and ready to move if something went down. The security system beeped when anyone came in or out, and I still jumped every damn time, with a tire iron by the bed. I hated that Robbie was downstairs in his room, but I could be with him in seconds if he needed me. But tonight sleep wasn’t happening so I was down here in the kitchen.

I heard the soft creak of Robbie’s door. I didn’t move. Figured he was heading up to the bathroom. He’d been doing better, sleeping a little deeper, trusting the space. Still, I kept half an ear on the floorboards.

Then came the footsteps—quiet, careful. Not upstairs to the bathroom, but toward me. I stiffened, every muscle tightening on instinct and a second later, Robbie stepped into the kitchen. His hair was a mess, as though he’d been tossing around in bed for hours. He wore sweat pants and one of the oversized shirts I’d left in the pile outside his door—one of my old Redcars sweatshirts, faded red, nearly swallowed him whole—and his eyes were wide, soft with sleep. God, those eyes. I couldn’t see the color in the dim light, but I knew them. Knew the exact, impossible shades. Unique. Stunning.

He hovered in the doorway his feet in those cute-as-hell hospital slippers and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Robbie,” I began, and then I had nowhere to go with what to say next.

He hesitated, and I waited. “I’m… I’m hungry,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Hungry,” he repeated.

I pushed back from the table, reacting before my brain caught up. “Yeah, of course,” I said, standing too fast.

Robbie flinched.

Shit.

I sat right back down, slow, palms open on the table like I could prove I wasn’t a threat. “Sorry. I can make you something. Eggs? Toast? Or⁠—”

“Do we have any more cookies?” he said, then his eyes flicked toward my mug. “and can I have some of that as well?”

I nodded, already reaching for another mug. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Cookies and cocoa are coming right up. Sit. I’ll get it.” I moved around the kitchen as quietly as I could, digging out the last few of Carters’ cookies from the cookie jar we kept sealed tight in the cupboard. I poured the cocoa into a clean mug and then reached over to set both the cocoa and the plate down in front of him. He hunched protectively over the food, and my stupid heart broke a little.

“Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper.

I nodded. “No problem.”

Then came the hard part—not watching him. I focused on my own mug. On the little bubbles where the milk had frothed. On the chip in the rim. Anything but Robbie. But I still saw him, in the edge of my vision. The way he picked up a cookie as if it might vanish if he wasn’t careful. How he took the smallest bites and sipped his cocoa so carefully.

My hands curled into fists in my lap. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just sat there, silent and still, like maybe if I didn’t breathe too loud, he’d feel safe. He took another bite. Then a sip of cocoa. His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed—just a little less braced. The kind of change you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking too hard. And hell, I was always looking too hard. Worrying. Watching. Waiting. Falling into his eyes.

He glanced up, met my eyes. I turned away quickly, cleared my throat. “Sorry they’re not fresh. Jamie was meant to grab more today, but he got called out and... yeah.”

“They’re still good,” he said.

If I stood too quick again, he’d bolt, so I stayed still. In the kitchen. At the table. Eating cookies and drinking cocoa like maybe this was normal. He’d eaten half a cookie, then another, and some of the cocoa, and I was pretending as if I wasn’t watching every movement when he cleared his throat softly.

“I finished all the filing,” he said, eyes fixed on the rim of his mug when I slid one toward him. “Everything’s in the folders. Alphabetical. And I matched all the invoices to orders.”

I nodded. “That’s great. Logan’ll be happy.”

He picked up his mug and stared into the cocoa as if it held answers to questions he hadn’t asked yet.

“You did all that today?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, wanting to get him to talk.

He nodded, still not meeting my eyes.

I leaned back in my chair, watching him for a moment. “I’m amazed at how much you pulled together. How do you remember it all?”

He winced. Not big, not dramatic, more of a quiet flinch, like I’d brushed against an old bruise. His fingers tightened around the mug, and his whole body seemed to go still. “I just do.”

“Well, my memory is shit—like, have you ever seen Finding Nemo?”

The question caught him off guard and he blinked. “Uh… yeah. The fish movie?”

“Cassidy loves that movie. I’ve watched it with her. Oh wait—Cassidy’s Logan’s daughter? You haven’t met her yet, but she’s cool. Fierce like her dad.”

“I know who she is,” Robbie whispered. “I heard Logan talking to Tudor. She calls him Grampy T, right? Tudor I mean.”

“She does,” I said. “They’re not related by blood, but Redcars is family.”

He nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Why’d you ask about Nemo?”

“Oh, right.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “There’s this fish in it—Dory. She doesn’t have a good memory. And some days I feel like her.”

Robbie glanced up at me, puzzled.

I gave him a sheepish smile. “Last week I forgot the difference between a fuel pressure sensor and a crankshaft position sensor and stared at the damn engine for five minutes as if it was going to explain itself.”

That got the barest twitch of a smile from him.

I leaned in a little. “But you? You put that all together, and it was like this genius moment.”

His shoulders tensed again, but he didn’t look away. “Don’t say that. I don’t want to be… I want to be Dory.”

To forget whatever happened to him? I’d want to forget every pain inflicted on me like he’d had done to him. “Hey,” I said. “You’re safe here. I was just impressed and… proud of you, okay?”

He swallowed hard, nodded, and after a moment, whispered, “Thanks.” Robbie hesitated, then he glanced up, wide-eyed and serious. “Do you think Logan could pay me? For some of the work? If I promise not to fuck it up and keep on top of it?”

I blinked. “If you need money, there’s an emergency fund. It’s not—” I broke off at the expression on his face. “It’s not dependent on working.”

His whole body stiffened. “I work,” he said. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… gutted. Like I’d said something cruel.

“I know,” I said quickly. “Okay. Okay.”

“I just…” He stared down at his hands. “I want to buy some stuff. But I don’t know how much money I need. It’s been a long time since… none of it feels real…” he stared into the middle distance for a moment, lost in thought, and I pulled my phone from my pocket and unlocked it. “I don’t have money… I mean I know where to get some but…” he was mumbling.

“What do you need? We’ll work it out.”

He stared at the screen. Then at his hands. They were pale, still thin but healing and his wrists were still reddened with worn skin, but his delicate fingers weren’t shaking now.

He swallowed. “It’s private,” he said.

I slid the phone across the table, making sure it was turned so he could see the screen opened at a big box store website. “Go for it. I won’t look.”

He didn’t touch it immediately, only staring down as if it might burn him. His fingers hovered, then curled in. Finally, he closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and stared at me with an expression of hope.

“Can you do it?” he asked. “I didn’t have a phone. They never let me have a phone. I mean, I know what one is, and I can use the ones like in the office, but it’s all moved on and…”

“Sure,” I said. “What do you want?”

He reached up and tugged at a lock of his long blond hair, pulling it forward over his shoulder. It was soft now, thick, with a natural wave. It had been a matted mess when he’d first showed up, but he’d been using the shampoo I left out. Combing it, maybe. Taking care.

“A box dye,” he said. “Black. Opposite of this.” I nodded. “And contact lenses. Some boring color. Blue, maybe, same as loads of other people, just not…” He trailed off, still tugging at the strand. “Not like my eyes now.”

I kept my face neutral. He was trying to change his appearance—I understood that, although the thought of his unique eyes and all that long blond hair being obliterated made me murderous at whoever he was scared of all over again. “Okay.” I wanted to tug him into my lap and hold him there, wrapped up in my arms, in my warmth, in something solid and safe. I wanted to press my cheek to his hair before he cut it off and tell him he was safe now. That I’d keep him safe. That he didn’t need to hide anymore.

“And I need scissors,” he added. “To cut it.” His voice cracked on the last part, a tiny fracture that gave him away, no matter how steady he tried to sound. The words cut going out. He was trying to take control—to vanish in the only way that ever felt safe.

“I can cut it if you⁠—”

“I can use scissors you know! I won’t try to kill myself.”

Jesus. Fuck. “Of course you won’t. But are you sure you want to change the way you look?” I asked. I looked at him for a long moment and he nodded. “Okay,” I said, already rewriting the entire world to make it safer for him. One fucker at a time. “Okay then, we’ll get it. All of it.” I clicked around, found the box dye, “I’ll get the dye in the morning from the store, a few boxes for your roots when they come through, and uhm… oh… the contact lenses we can get…from…” I clicked around, pumped a fist when I found a place online that carried lenses to change eye color. “Dark hazel? Like a brown-green color?” I asked and got another nod in answer. “Done.”

“And Logan will pay me to pay for them?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He shifted on his feet. “Then I need a photo. Because I need ID for Robbie Elwood if I’m going to be new. But no one can know who I am, no one can find me. Can you do that for me? Do you know people?”

I met his eyes. “Yeah.” All of us at Redcars knew people who could get IDs—the kind of people who owed us favors and didn’t ask questions. Guys with heat-press machines in the backs of pawn shops and friends behind glass counters in state offices who knew how to bend rules far enough to help someone disappear. I didn’t pull on those connections lightly—but for him? For this? I’d burn through every last favor I had.

“Promise me it’s safe.”

“I’ll make sure it is.”

He didn’t press; just simply nodded as if that was all he needed to hear. Then he stood, picked up his mug and the cookie plate, and carried them to the sink where he rinsed them without a word.

I was about to thank him—something simple, something easy—when he spoke, voice tight.

“You held me today,” he blurted.

I paused, caught off guard. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I startled you and when you fell I⁠—”

“That’s not what…” He stopped, jaw clenching. His eyes flicked toward mine, frustrated, uncertain.

I waited.

“I didn’t hate it,” he whispered. “I d-don’t understand why.”

My throat closed a little. I raised both hands, giving him space. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. But if it helps to talk⁠—”

He took a breath. “Would you…” He hesitated, glanced down at his feet, then back at me. “Would you touch me again?”

That damn question nearly undid me. “I’d like that,” I said.

“Can I hug you?” he asked, and there was no confidence in the words—only confusion as if the want itself was foreign and dangerous.

“Of course. Do you want me to stand up?” I didn’t move, letting him decide.

“No… I need…” he sounded so confused then stepped toward me, awkward and uncertain, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then he wrapped them around me.

“Can you hold me, again?” he asked, so quiet it was hard to hear.

I placed my hands on his lower back, light as breath. “Is that okay?”

He whimpered. But he didn’t pull away from this awkward side hug. He leaned down further, and wriggled until he was sitting on one knee, light as a feather. For a long time, we sat there, him moving gently until he was fully in my lap, and then he pressed into me, hard, burying his face in my shirt as if he was trying to disappear in it. I tightened my hold, to speak the words I couldn’t say out loud. I’m here. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you now. I poured every promise into that grip, hoping he’d feel it in his bones.

He shook once. Not a sob, more a shiver rolling through his whole body, as if letting himself be held was its own kind of earthquake.

Touch-starved. Care-starved. I could feel it in every line of him. How lightly he leaned on me at first, like he didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to ask too much—then all at once, he was there, clinging as if this was the first warmth he’d had in years.

I closed my eyes, let my hands rest on the small of his back, grounding him.

Grounding me.

His hair was soft against my jaw, freshly washed and still smelling of that lemon shampoo I’d left in the bathroom cabinet. I pressed my nose to it without thinking, breathing him in. Not in a way that crossed any lines—just to remind myself that he was real. That he was here. Delicate and brave and tucked into my arms like he’d always belonged there. Mine to look after. To protect. I wanted to gather him up, take him away from every nightmare he’d ever survived. Feed him, wrap him in blankets, make sure he never went cold. I wanted to leave cocoa warming on the stove and soft clothes folded in his drawer. I wanted to build him a world where he never had to flinch again.

“I’ll hug you,” I murmured, lips brushing the side of his temple, “whenever you want me to.”

“Just you,” he mumbled into my chest. “Not the others.”

God.

My throat tightened. I felt a hundred feet tall that he trusted me like that. Like this. And terrified of breaking it.

I didn’t say anything as I felt the rhythm of his breathing start to even out.

And he didn’t let go for so long I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep in my arms.

He uncurled himself, and I let him go, and he offered me a soft smile, then hugging the wall, shoulders hunched but no longer caved in, he padded toward the stairs. He paused outside his door, head tilted in my direction. “Night, Enzo.”

I swallowed. “Night, Robbie.”

He closed the door to his room, and I sat in the kitchen for a while longer, staring at the cooling cocoa in my mug, processing the hug and then already turning over the people I’d need to call about the ID.

Because Robbie was serious about becoming someone new.

And I’d do whatever it took to make that happen.

* * *

Three days later, I was under the hood of an ancient Honda with more rust than frame—when I heard the soft creak of the upstairs steps. I didn’t need to look up right away. I knew it was Robbie and that he’d taken the scissors, lenses, and the box dye up to the bathroom, and I didn’t want to follow my instincts and stare. Play it cool, Lorenzo. But when I finally saw him, I swear the breath caught right in my throat. Robbie stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking in the bright garage light. His hair was short—cropped, jet-black, and still wet. The soft white-blond waves were gone, replaced by something sleeker, sharper. And his eyes… a flat brown with the contacts, and different from the wild colors I knew.

He looked… good. He was filling out a little now, not quite so hollow. Still thin, still breakable, but he had color in his cheeks. His Redcars T-shirt clung to him in a way that made it impossible not to notice how narrow his waist was, how the sleeves hung a little too loose over his upper arms. His sweats were slung low on his hips, and he looked as if he belonged at Redcars. Like any other guy rolling through the shop. Older. Wiser.

He walked a few steps forward, shoulders squared, chin up, and Rio gave a low, exaggerated wolf whistle. “Damn. Who let the hottie in?”

Robbie flushed, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He glanced at me.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice softer than his posture, all the uncertainty rushing back in.

I nodded. Managed a smile. “Yeah,” I said, rough and too low. “Yeah, Robbie. It’s okay.”

He was someone else entirely now. Not just because of the dye, the lenses, or the sharp new haircut. It was the way he carried himself—upright, steady, as if he believed, even for a fleeting second, that he could disappear the right way. The safe way. No one looking at him would ever guess he was the same kid we’d found trembling beside a heap of garbage bags. And part of me ached—for the soft waves of his hair, the uneven color of his eyes—but what mattered more was this: the way he stood. Like he wasn’t afraid to take up space.

And the way he smiled, shy and crooked, when Rio grinned and added, “Seriously, though. Someone call the cops—this guy’s got model energy.”

I laughed, and the sound didn’t feel forced. Robbie’s shoulders relaxed a little. He was still healing and figuring himself out; hiding and afraid.

But today?

He was here. He was alive.

The others drifted back to what they were doing—Logan muttering about the bank, Rio pretending to tidy up but mostly scrolling on his phone. Jamie heading out to Carters on a cookie run when Robbie turned toward me.

“Enzo?” he said, quiet but clear. I glanced up from the counter, and his hands were fidgeting, twisting the hem of his Redcars tee. “Can you hold me?”

He hadn’t asked since that night. The one where everything cracked open, and he let me in for a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” I said, already pulling out a kitchen chair. I didn’t hesitate to sit down and make space.

He came over.

Not awkward this time. Not unsure. He knew what he needed.

Robbie settled in my lap, his knees to either side of me, arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms around him—supporting his back, his waist—cradling him as if he were something precious. Because he was.

Jamie froze in the doorway, cookies in his hand, but he didn’t say a word. Rio glanced up, caught the moment, and for once didn’t grin or crack a joke, gave me a nod and looked away.

He was ours to protect, but he was mine to hold.

I held Robbie close, rubbing slow circles over the small of his back. His breathing evened out, the tension in his shoulders loosening bit by bit as he leaned into me, cheek resting against my collarbone.

He didn’t need words. Neither did I.

This wasn’t about fixing anything. It wasn’t about pain or pasts or promises.

This was just… Robbie in my lap, letting me hold him, exactly where he was supposed to be.

“If I ever found out who hurt you…” I whispered.

“Three of them. You’d need to find three,” he murmured.

“Robbie?”

He didn’t say anything else.

And I didn’t push.

NINE

Robbie

FOUR MONTHS LATER

“Hey.”

I glanced up to find Logan standing outside my door, which I’d taken to leaving open the last few days. Not wide enough to be an invitation for anyone to come inside, just enough to mean I was trying. He held a small square of yellow paper between two fingers—the note I’d left on the table this morning.

“What do you mean by duplicate?” he asked, touching the spot where his scar began. I didn’t know the whole story behind it, but the line from his temple to his lip gave him a rugged, unyielding look.

“That one’s doubled,” I explained.

Logan blinked. “What?”

I pointed to the pale green invoice on the corner of my desk—the one I’d been staring at half the night. It was buried under what I’d come to call the pile of stupidity—a stack of papers I didn’t understand the purpose of but kept sorting anyway.

“It’s a duplicate. For the shocks, you ordered on the eighteenth of last month. Same part number. Same delivery date. The serial on the packing slip ended in 2-1-4-8—this one does too.”

I handed it to him before I could overthink it again. He stared at the page, then back at me, and muttered, “Shit. You’re right. I would have just paid that.”

I wasn’t proud I’d found it. In fact, I’d spent most of the morning and all of last night debating whether I should say anything after what happened with the last missing payment I uncovered. I could’ve filed it away or shoved it in the garbage. But it hurt, sometimes, knowing things and staying quiet—especially when the people around me had been nothing but kind.

They wouldn’t use it against me—right? They wouldn’t make me do things because I could. Wouldn’t train me like a dog or lock me in a room full of files and say, don’t come out until you’ve memorized them all. They wouldn’t be like him.

John had thought it was a joke, at first. A trick. Then the scruffy, quiet kid from the group home he visited started rattling off strings of numbers, full sheets of client data, names of every guy John had told me to watch. I never forgot a single word.

I’d been proud of what I could do. I’d loved when he ruffled my hair and called me special. I left with him willingly, when he told me about the big house with the pool, the gardens, how a boy like me would love it there.

I never saw a pool, or a garden, and I was so young when the real bad stuff started.

I shoved the memory down.

I had to trust someone soon outside of the hugs I got from Enzo. And this—this felt small enough. Safe enough. Hence the note I’d left Logan this morning. Still, when he stared at me now, as if I’d revealed I had X-ray vision, I regretted opening my mouth.

“Good catch,” Logan said. “How do you know the serial number? You memorize that kind of thing?”

Fuck. I swallowed hard. “I… I just see it. I don’t mean to. I remember things. Not always useful things. Just… stuff.”

I didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to have to be that again. The freak. The walking memory bank. The thing people poked until it bled facts, and when it couldn’t bleed any more, they used it in other ways.

“I didn’t mean—just forget it.”

He blinked at me. “Well, okay then. I’ll make a note, and we can, uh… well, you can file that one in the garbage, I guess.”

I shook my head. “We should keep these duplicates until all the invoices are paid.”

Logan nodded, scratching something down on the pad he always carried. “Smart.”

He meant it as a compliment. I knew that. But I still felt sick all the way through the afternoon and going right up to dinner.

I was getting better at spending time here on my own. The garage was locked up, the space eerily quiet now that Jamie and Rio had left and after Enzo had stepped outside to talk to Logan. I knew they took some conversations away from me—probably discussing why I was still here, or what to do next, or fuck… maybe they would talk about what I could do and how they could use it.

I trusted them and I was getting to be a pro at forcing back my fears. The terror they’d throw me out or send me back was always there, but sometimes, if I focused hard enough, I could ignore it all. I wasn’t going to be that person anymore. I refused to curl up in a corner and let John win. Not here. Not now.

Since that day I’d found Redcars by accident, I hadn’t left. I didn’t know if John or the other two were searching for me; or if he thought maybe I’d crawled into a corner and died along with everything I knew, but it was quiet, and nothing had hit the news. There was no one coming into the garage for me, and I was feeling a little more confident each day hidden with this new persona. Enzo hadn’t left, sleeping in the apartment upstairs, just him and a go bag in case he needed to leave for someone who might have to move in, but he’d spent every night here, watching over me. And the alarms were insane. Camera, motion detectors in the yard, entry codes, lockdown doors. No chance of John getting in should he find out where I was. He wanted Roman Lowe, a skinny malnourished long-haired blond with two different eye colors. I was Robbie Elwood, with dark eyes, and black hair, something I was still getting used to despite all these months of being this new me.

I’d started to feel as if Logan and the rest might let me stay. Tudor spent enough time telling me I was safe here, and Logan fell all over himself to tell me he’d be lost without me. Now I was hopeful they wouldn’t ask me to leave, and determined to at least try to make myself indispensable. It started with the filing, and with my eidetic memory, I knew every detail of orders and invoices and what matched and what didn’t. Last month alone, I worked out there were over nine hundred dollars in outstanding payments, and Logan liked that a lot.

Today I’d asked him for more responsibility—maybe booking in clients.

That felt huge. Like stepping onto a stage with the lights too bright.

But I meant it. I wanted to try.

I mean, I didn’t look like Roman anymore. That shell felt a thousand miles behind me. My face was rounder now, not so hollow. I was filling out in ways I hadn’t expected—healthy and a little stronger. I wore clothes Enzo had helped me order from an online store—fitted pants jeans, my Redcars shirt, sleeves rolled up like I had somewhere to be.

No one who came in would recognize me. More importantly, no one here would let them near me if they tried.

Not even John and the two men he worked for would know it was me, and they’d been obsessed with how far they could push the pain without breaking my brain when I’d stopped helping them. They knew every inch of my body and where it hurt most.

Stop thinking. Stop.

I could act confident. I’d been watching Logan for weeks—how he spoke to clients, how he walked around as though everything was under control. I’d studied it, written down half his phrases word-for-word. Enzo had smiled when he’d caught me muttering my way through my scripts in the mirror, but it wasn’t cruel. He got it.

Now I picked up my notebook—one of many I kept close like a lifeline—and flipped through to the page I’d written and rewritten a dozen times.

Good morning. Welcome to Redcars. Do you have an appointment, or are you dropping off today?

I had a whole speech in there. Options. Backup lines. Little arrows reminding me to smile and make eye contact if I could.

Logan had agreed that tomorrow would be a good day to start. First thing in the morning. Nothing too full-on. Just checking a car in.

I could do that.

At least—I was going to try.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d get to see that expression on Enzo’s face again. The one where he didn’t say I’m proud of you, but I could feel it like sunlight on my skin, because I was getting better. Stronger. Smarter. And I could stop looking over my shoulder long enough to believe that I belonged here. I wasn’t only surviving.

Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself; I believed it for a moment. Yesterday after everyone had gone home, and Enzo was taking a parcel to Logan, I’d stepped outside—just long enough to feel the evening breeze on my face, cool and sharp on my skin. For a second, I let myself believe I was okay, that I could do this. But then the familiar panic crept in, tightening my chest and knotting my stomach. My breathing hitched, and it took every ounce of willpower not to bolt like a scared animal. My fingers trembled as I gripped the doorframe, forcing myself to stay still.

Of course, I’d unintentionally set off a door alarm. Enzo and Rio arrived in minutes, their faces tense. I barely managed to stammer out an apology before Enzo launched into a tirade about me not knowing who could be outside the door, and only stopping when I began to cry, and he apologized, and I sat on his lap like a sniveling kid for an hour. Rio didn’t say much—just paced back and forth, as if he couldn’t decide if he was angry or worried. And when Jamie arrived soon after, a baseball bat clutched tightly in his hand, ready to defend Redcars—and me—it felt like I’d dragged them all into my mess. I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I promised I was sorry. I meant it too. But I hated that I kept needing to.

Despite the embarrassment of being an idiot, it had felt like a victory, even if my hands had been shaking afterward. Small and insignificant, maybe, but real. And tonight, sitting in the quiet garage trying to read my book, waiting for Enzo to come back in I clung to that feeling, faking confidence until it might become the truth.

When Enzo still wasn’t back, I couldn’t settle, so I headed into my room. Since moving in there, I now had a tiny closet with my own clothes, a desk with a chair, and bookshelves. No one asked if I wanted them; they’d set them up and let me drag them inside, allowed me to have my space without making a big deal about it. The filing cabinets stayed, pushed against the walls, but now they weren’t storage for mess—they were part of my space, my place.

No one else came in here but me. I had a lock on the door, and it was mine. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. That mattered more than size or comfort. I didn’t need a window—I didn’t want one. What I needed was the panic button installed inside the door, which gave me the illusion of control and security. Maybe neither were real, but I clung to it anyway, the same as I clung to this space, to the tiny piece of Redcars that belonged to me alone.

I tidied up, pottered around, and straightened the covers on my bed, smoothing out invisible creases as if order could settle the restlessness inside me. My gaze landed on the calendar tacked to the wall—showing July from some fifteen years ago, abandoned in here, an image sunset over the ocean, the colors soft and blurred at the edges, with some classic car front and center. It had been there when I arrived, part of the room before it became mine, left in the clutter and space.

I reached out and adjusted it, nudging it a fraction so it sat perfectly straight. It was a small thing, but it mattered—the same way it did to keep my books, or smoothed the quilt flat on the bed until every corner aligned, or the way I hid my newest book beneath the worn, dog-eared copy of The Hobbit.

I’d spent years with John reading nothing but accounts, until I could barely remember what it felt like to get lost in a story. Now, reading had become my escape—my safe space, as much as being here with the men of Redcars.

The new book was from Enzo—something about counseling and post-traumatic recovery, thick with advice that made my heart ache and my head spin. I hadn’t gotten far. The words felt like knives some days. Not sharp enough to draw blood, but enough to make me flinch. The Hobbit was safer. I knew where that journey ended.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t trying.

My shelves were a mismatched blend of whatever the guys found for me. A stack of law textbooks sat on the far end and I’d started reading them because I’d run out of things to read, and then I couldn’t stop. Criminal law, constitutional frameworks, even one on ethics that made no sense to me, given the world I’d escaped from. Where were the ethics in imprisoning someone, abusing them, handing them over to other men like it was okay. I could quote whole sections word for word, not because I wanted to remember, but because my brain wouldn’t let go.

That was the thing about eidetic memory—it didn’t ask what I wanted. It just took. Every phrase, every case citation, every ugly little footnote. I’d memorized whole pages without meaning to, the words bleeding into me. And now they were part of me, whether I liked it or not. I didn’t want long-term memories. Not really. Not the kind that took root and grew and reminded me of things I wasn’t strong enough to face. But my brain hoarded them anyway and it wasn’t fair, the way it worked—that I could remember stupid facts like the exact legal definition of constructive manslaughter.

Still, I read. I couldn’t help it.

A forensic psychology textbook made me nauseous, particularly page 147 with its graphic explanation of conditioned compliance and the grooming cycle—how abusers break someone down with kindness before they ever lay a hand on them. How control can look like love. How silence can be manufactured.

I’d lived that. I didn’t need to read it.

Logan and Enzo both said they’d arrange it if I wanted to talk to someone, but both of them understood if I talked to a counselor about what happened then A, it would be the first time anyone else would know my shame and horror, and B, people outside of Redcars would know I was here.

John might know I was here.

Where is Enzo? Should I start dinner? Is he coming back? Will we watch a movie again tonight?

I should have asked how long he would be because now my thoughts ran in circles. An anxious knot tightened in my stomach as I berated myself for not getting a straight answer before he’d left. Fuck. I hated how quickly uncertainty could set me on edge and how easily my thoughts could spiral into worst-case scenarios. The counseling books I’d read told me it was normal—PTSD, they called it. My mind was still stuck in survival mode, hypervigilant, always looking for danger, always expecting the worst. It didn’t matter how safe I was in; my body hadn’t figured that part out yet.

There were nights I couldn’t sleep because I was sure I wouldn’t wake up again. My heart would race, pounding so hard I’d press a hand there just to feel the rhythm and convince myself I was still breathing. The fear of dying would creep in like a cold draft under a door, turning my stomach inside out. I’d remember John’s threats, the way he’d cornered me, the bruises. The money that changed hands. The pain. Even now, in the quiet of Redcars, those memories clung to me like smoke, impossible to shake off.

The books said it could get better—I could train my mind to push past the panic. Some days, I believed that. Other days, I wasn’t so sure.

Like now.

Where is Enzo?

I don’t like being on my own.

This is fucking ridiculous.

I’m a fucking idiot!

I exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over my face, then forced myself to move. Sitting here overthinking, wouldn’t help. I headed toward the kitchen at the back of the garage, past the office and storage area, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. The space was small, tucked away, but functional—Logan had ensured that. A stove, a sink, a well-stocked pantry, and enough counter space for me to work. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.

Cooking helped. It kept my hands busy and gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the nagging worry twisting inside me. I reached for a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, watching as tiny bubbles formed at the bottom. The routine steadied me, and if Enzo came back, dinner would be ready. If he didn’t… I’d deal with that later.

Please come back.

I was stirring the pot of Mac and Cheese when I heard the door unlock and footsteps. At the first click of the lock, my muscles tensed before my brain caught up, my grip on the spatula tightened, and my heartbeat thudded. Years of instinct, fear, and adrenaline coiled tight inside me like a spring ready to snap. No one got into Redcars after hours without knowing both codes, and only a handful of people had them. I shouldn’t have been startled. But still, the way my pulse had spiked reminded me that I was always on edge, always expecting the worst.

It’s just Enzo.

Enzo.

“I’m back,” Enzo called.

Relief flooded me when I saw him, and my body relaxed. I let out a small breath, the tension in my shoulders easing as the corners of my mouth lifted in a self-conscious smile. “Hey,” I murmured, the words barely louder than the bubbling pot behind me. I stepped into his space and hugged him, and as usual he held me carefully, as if I was going to break.

One day I’d ask him to hold me harder.

And he’d lift me off my feet, let me climb him.

“Smells good in here,” he murmured, and I had to agree.

It had taken a few months after arriving at Redcars before I could keep real food down. After the soup, I’d moved onto plain pasta, the only thing my stomach would accept. Enzo cooked it every night for me, never pushing, never making me eat more than I could handle. Slowly, I started taking over, first just stirring pots as he stood out of the way, then adding ingredients, testing the limits of what I could manage and each time he stood closer to me. My stomach got used to more than soup and crackers and the impossibly good cookies from Carters, and eventually, I craved more.

I asked Jamie to pick up some second-hand cookbooks for me one day. A few days later, they appeared on the counter, neatly stacked, as if waiting for me to take the next step. Afterward, the ingredients magically appeared in the pantry whenever I left a book open to a recipe. I never asked who was behind it, but I had my suspicions when I saw a flash of Jamie’s distinctive leather jacket after the latest deposit to the counter. I experimented with dishes, testing flavors, pushing my comfort zone, and finding control in creating something with my own hands. My best dish? Mac and cheese. Simple, warm, familiar. It became my signature meal, the one thing I could always make without thinking, without fear of messing it up.

And every night Enzo ate with me before heading up to the apartment, and sometimes he’d ask me if I wanted to watch a movie, and I’d go up with him and sit on the sofa and lose myself in elves and dragons

But I missed Enzo when he wasn’t where I could see him, so much that it hurt. The silence after he left felt too loud, the shadows too deep. The fear crept in, slipping through the cracks, but I refused to give in to it. I’d come too far and learned too much. So I did the only thing I could—I cooked.

“Want extra cheese in your pasta?” I asked, keeping my tone deliberately light and casual, the same as always. It was easier to pretend this was a normal conversation and not the highlight of my day. He never once complained that my mac and cheese had become a staple and never suggested I try making something else. If anything, he seemed to love it. I hoped it was more than only a meal to him; that me doing this for him meant something. Like a thank you.

“Of course,” he said too quickly, and I glanced up at him. He looked almost embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to answer so fast, and warmth curled in my stomach at the thought.

I turned back to the stove, focusing on dishing up the pasta. Anything to keep my hands busy. I’d changed since coming to Redcars, grown stronger, but there were things I couldn’t hide—scars on my wrists, the faded band of red around my throat, the way my knees bore the rough imprint of a past I never talked about. I had reinvented myself as Robert James Ellwood—Robbie—with a fake ID to match, a name I could wrap around me like armor. My hair was black as night, my contacts turned my eyes hazel, and I never left Redcars.

I trusted all the guys here with my safety, but it was Enzo I hid behind when necessary, although I never let myself admit this out loud.

I set the pasta down on the table, pushing a bowl toward him, then sliding over the container of extra grated cheese before taking my seat. We ate like we always did—silent, comfortable, the steady hum of the kitchen filling the space between us. The steam from the pasta curled upward, hitting my face and stinging my eyes. I blinked, the heat making my contacts feel tight and dry. It was a stupid little thing, barely noticeable most of the time, but tonight it felt unbearable. My fingers itched to pull them out and stop pretending I was someone else for just a few minutes, and I sighed, before reaching for the small case I kept tucked in my pocket.

I slipped the lenses out, placing them in the container, and snapping the lid shut. It was a routine now, a habit as much as dyeing my hair or keeping my head down—another layer of the disguise I had built for myself. Without the contacts, I was too recognizable because my heterochromia was so rare.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, blinking a few times to adjust to the world without the filter of hazel-colored lenses. I dropped my gaze to my plate, stabbing at my pasta, pretending nothing had changed.

“I wish you didn’t have to wear those,” Enzo said, and I stiffened. Was he going to ask me why I was hiding—he’d asked me once, and he’d never asked again. Then Enzo’s voice cut through the quiet. “Your eyes are stunning,” he blurted, and turned scarlet.

I froze, caught off guard.

What the hell do I say to that?

TEN

Enzo

The words were out before I could stop them, and I had no idea why I’d said them. I’d researched heterochromia almost as soon as Robbie had arrived, because I’d never seen anything as beautiful and unique as his eyes—one iris a warm, hazel green and the other a shade so pale it was almost silver. I knew he wanted to hide them, so he wore those dull brown contacts most of the time. Somehow, since he’d started wearing the contacts I’d become one of the few people who saw him without them.

But I wasn’t supposed to be telling him his eyes were stunning, for fucks sake—maybe it was the way he’d been looking at me—uncertain but hopeful—or perhaps I was too damn tired to keep my thoughts locked down anymore. Either way, I wanted to snatch the words right back when I heard myself say it.

Robbie blinked, confusion flickering across his face as if he’d misheard me. “Oh,” he said, voice quiet and unsure, like he was still figuring out the words even as they left his mouth.

Heat surged up my neck, burning hotter than wildfire as Robbie pushed away his half-eaten pasta. My heart thumped painfully, and I knew I’d screwed up. What the hell had possessed me to say that?

Desperate to fix things, I reached out and touched the back of his hand, my fingers barely grazing his skin. He closed his eyes, and I knew I’d made things shit. Only he scooted closer to me and then straddled my lap, his face in my neck.

“I’m didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” I murmured, keeping my voice quiet and careful. I didn’t want to make things worse. He paused, and I braced myself for him to tell me to fuck off and leave him alone. Instead, he glanced up at me and pulled his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it for a moment.

“I wish I could feel beautiful for someone like you.”

“Fuck, Robbie…” The second the words left my mouth, horror consumed his expression, and he shoved away from me so fast the chair rocked.

“I mean—shit—never mind, forget it.”

In his rush to the sink, he was close to tripping over my feet, gripping the edge as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The tension in his shoulders drawn tight enough that I half expected him to snap.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He didn’t look at me, his knuckles white where his hands clung to the counter. “I mean… I don’t know why I said that.”

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” I insisted. “I was the idiot who spoke first. If anything, I should be the one embarrassed.” I paused. “Your eyes are beautiful, Robbie. But I didn’t mean to dig up anything. I just…” I shook my head. “I just said something stupid, okay? We’re good.”

Finally, he turned to face me, flushed.

“I’m a mess,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t believe it himself.

“You’re not a mess.”

“I am.” He rubbed his hands down his face and his breath hitched, and for a second, I thought he might cry.

“Good Mac and Cheese,” I changed the subject, trying to keep it light.

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice low.

We’d usually read at the table after we’d eaten, Robbie lost in one of his books, while I skimmed through a car magazine. Other times, we’d watch a movie. He liked familiar ones, things he’d seen before—like they brought him comfort. Some nights we’d hug, and he’d read on my lap. It was just the way it was. He was mine to care for, and my complicated emotions were put on hold for every second he was in my arms.

I’d set up a movie and get him upstairs to chill.

I needed that. He needed that.

I was halfway to the stairs when his voice stopped me. “Enzo?”

“Yep?”

“Before you go, can I have one last hug?”

I turned back. Robbie was already standing, fidgeting as though he’d made a mistake and expected me to say no.

“I’m not going up. I’m… Yeah,” I said, stepping forward and opening my arms.

He barely hesitated before pressing into me, his head tucked to my chest. He wasn’t small, but he felt fragile like this; if I held him too tightly, he might break. I wrapped my arms around him, steady and sure, giving him time to decide when to let go. His breathing slowed, his grip tightening before he relaxed against me.

“You’re okay, kid,” I murmured.

He stiffened at the word, and I knew I’d messed up. He hated that nickname, hated anything that made him feel small.

“Not a kid,” he reminded me.

I didn’t correct myself because ‘Kid’ meant he was ours—part of this mismatched family we’d built at Redcars. It meant I was here to watch out for him, no matter what.

When he pulled back, his eyes were clearer, less haunted.

“Good hug,” I said as though this were normal.

He rubbed his face as if he could scrub away whatever he felt. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I headed for the stairs again, figuring that was enough for tonight. But I paused at the bottom, glancing back. “Wanna get our Lord of the Rings freak on?”

He blinked in surprise, then tested me. “Which one?”

“Two Towers?”

His smile was small but real. “You’re really okay watching it again?”

“Yeah,” I grinned. “Besides, I need another look at Legolas and his perfect elf hair. Seriously, how does he fight an entire war and still look like a shampoo commercial?”

Robbie laughed, that easy sound I didn’t hear often enough. “I’d love to.”

“Bring the snacks,” I said, “I’ll cue up the movie.”

Later, when we were both slouched on the couch, the opening scenes flickering across the screen, I caught Robbie sneaking a glance at me. He wasn’t scared at that moment, and that was enough.

Robbie was already absorbed, his eyes fixed on the screen as though the rest of the world had faded away. When he watched a movie or read a book, he relaxed, lifted out of his thoughts, escaping into someone else’s world for a while. I relished watching that happen, seeing the tension in his shoulders ease as he got lost in the story. But I also liked needling him, poking at that rare moment of quiet until he was smiling in exasperation.

God, I loved his smile.

When he’d finished his popcorn, I settled back in the corner and held out my hands. He climbed onto my lap and settled in my arms.

Perfect.

“I still say Frodo is the hero of this story,” I said, carrying on from another conversation we had on repeat.

“Nope, it’s Sam, and you know it.”

I scoffed. “Nope, Frodo’s the one carrying the ring.”

Robbie chuckled. “Yeah, but he wouldn’t have made it past Rivendell without Sam. He never gives up on him. He’s brave and strong and that makes him the hero.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sam is great, sure, but he’s not the one the story revolves around.”

“Say it. Say Sam is the real hero.” Robbie poked at my side, knocking the empty popcorn bowl so it wobbled on the arm of the sofa. We both grabbed to halt its fall, but I leaned too far. Robbie’s face was inches from mine, breath warm, eyes wide, my weight pinning his arm. His heat and sheer closeness made my pulse stutter, a rush of warmth flooding my chest as every nerve seemed to ignite. I struggled to breathe, my heartbeat so loud I was sure Robbie could hear it, each second stretching as desire tangled with panic.

We stilled. The world outside the moment disappeared. The only thing left was his breath, touch, and gaze holding mine.

“Enzo?” he whispered.

A charge settled in the air between us, and I was close enough to feel his breath against my skin, his entire body tensing beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away.

I waited.

I could have kissed him. I wanted to kiss him. It would have been easy, natural, a language I understood—something I could use to show him how much I...

How much I what?

Wanted to kiss him? Needed to kiss him?

I sat back and handed him the bowl, clearing my throat. “Sorry,” I muttered, not quite looking at him. The moment passed, and the Battle of Helm’s Deep raged on the screen. I latched onto it, needing something to fill the space between us. “You ever notice how the orc that Aragorn fights here—right before Legolas shoots him—has a completely different weapon in the close-up? It’s like, axe, then suddenly sword.”

Robbie didn’t respond at first, still gripping the bowl like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then after a pause, his lips quirked. “Yeah.”

“And in the wide shot, he’s on the left. Close-up? Right side.”

“Have we watched this too many times?” He winced as if he expected me to tell him I was bored, didn’t want to watch, or any of a million awful things he imagined I could say—none of which I would say. He couldn’t know how happy I was sitting here with him, watching over him.

Nearly kissing him.

“Never too many,” I said, throwing a piece of popcorn into my mouth. “So, tell me again, how Sam is the real hero?”

ELEVEN

Robbie

Enzo was angry about something and he and Logan were fighting. I stiffened as soon as it started, every muscle locking up. Although it was just Enzo—I knew Enzo, trusted him—my breath caught, my fingers tightening around the folder in my hands. He wasn’t a threat. None of them were. But my body wasn’t listening to logic, reacting instead to a past that had conditioned me to fear anger, no matter its source. I knew that tone, and no one who worked here would ever hurt me, but I was primed for the abuse that followed anger. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and I froze, waiting, bracing for something I couldn’t predict but knew would be bad. The office door was ajar, and I could hear Logan and Enzo shouting at each other. I should have buried myself in the safety of numbers and schedules, but I stayed.

Logan and Enzo were best friends, but when the shouting stopped, the silence stretched and somehow that was worse, thick with things they weren’t saying. I peeked through the small window—Logan’s jaw was tight, his expression torn between guilt and devastation as if he hated what he was doing but knew he had to do it anyway. Enzo, on the other hand, looked ready to tear the entire office apart.

“We don’t just roll over and let people take advantage, Lo! This is our home.”

“We don’t go out and find the trouble if it’s staying away,” Logan shouted back.

Enzo’s shoulders were tight with barely restrained fury, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. Neither of them moved, neither willing to back down first.

“We stop it before it gets out of hand!” Enzo snapped.

“Not with violence Enzo!”

A chair scraped over the floor and banged the wall as if one of them—probably Enzo—had pushed it away in a temper. I backed away from the window—and held my breath.

Logan’s anger was cold and precise. Enzo’s was a storm, all heat and force, unpredictable and raw. I didn’t want to be here for this, didn’t want to hear it, but I couldn’t seem to make my feet move.

Then the office door slammed open, and I didn’t had time to flinch before Enzo stormed out, all muscle and motion, and plowed straight into me.

“Jesus Christ, Robbie!” he yelled.

I staggered back.

Too loud. Too sudden. Too much.

My heart lurched into panic mode before my brain could catch up. I hesitated, just for a second, as I fought the instinct to flee. I knew Enzo wasn’t a danger, knew I was safe here—but my body didn’t. My pulse pounded, my muscles seized up, and then the panic took over. I turned and bolted for the filing room, slamming the door behind me. My hands shook as I shoved a chair under the handle, and my breath came too fast and too shallow. I stumbled back until my legs hit the cot, then curled up, pressing my forehead to my knees.

“Robbie! Wait!”

Enzo had been angry, but not at me. I knew that. Rationally, I knew that.

Didn’t matter.

I’d seen angry men before.

Angry men had hurt me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to focus on the rhythm of my breathing, but it wasn’t working. My chest was too tight, my skin too hot, my body too small in this too-big world that kept threatening to crush me.

I despised that my body betrayed me like this, that my past still had its claws in me. No matter how safe I was here, I couldn’t stop the way fear gripped my throat like a noose.

I was shaking with anger. Furious with myself for running and reacting like a scared kid instead of the man I aimed to be. Exhausted by the never-ending battle in my head, I felt the weight of it pressing down on me.

More than anything, I hated that I couldn’t let it go. But I refused to let it define me. I clenched my fists, inhaling deeply, forcing myself to push past the fear, to remember I wasn’t the same person I had been back then. I had built something here, with these men who cared about me. I wasn’t just surviving—I was fighting to reclaim myself, to prove that my past didn’t own me anymore.

“Robbie!” Enzo called from outside the door, his voice sharp and edged with frustration but threaded with something else—concern, maybe. A heavy thud followed as if he’d rested a fist on the doorframe, trying to rein himself in. “Come on, kid. Open up.”

I wasn’t a kid. I was twenty-three or something close to that. I’d survived too much to be treated like a kid. Every time one of the guys here called me that, it felt like they were brushing aside everything I’d fought through, everything I’d built here. I wasn’t fragile. I wasn’t helpless.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to; I did. But my body wasn’t listening. My pulse was still hammering, my breathing still too fast, my nails bit into my palms.

“Robbie.” This time, softer. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Go away!” I said, but not loud enough for him to hear.

“I’m mad at myself, not you. I know I fucked up…talk to me, okay?”

I couldn’t. Not yet.

Outside, voices rose again, but it wasn’t Logan this time.

“Nice work, dumbass,” Rio drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Scare the hell outta the kid, why don’t you? You proud of yourself?” I flinched at the word, irritation curling in my gut. Kid. Again. Like I wasn’t standing right here, like I wasn’t fully capable. I swallowed the sharp retort on my tongue, because now wasn’t the time—but damn if I wasn’t sick of hearing them call me kid.

“Fuck off, Rio.” Enzo snapped. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“Yeah, well, intentions don’t mean shit when you’re built like a brick wall and stomping around like a damn hurricane,” Rio shot back. “You think he’s gonna handle a pissed-off guy twice his size? Jesus, Enzo.”

Silence. Then, a deep, slow exhale. “I know.” His voice was quieter now, the sharp edge dulled with regret, maybe.

“So, fix it you asshole.”

A beat passed, and then footsteps as Rio walked away.

I stayed curled up, trying to will my body to stop shaking. Outside, Rio might have been mouthing off, but I knew what this was. He was furious because, for some reason, the four men in this place—Logan, Enzo, Rio, and Jamie—cared about me.

I knew that Enzo cared. I knew he didn’t mean to scare me. He was loud and rough around the edges, but he’d never once made me feel he would actually hurt me—this was a visceral reaction to his temper.

I inhaled slowly, then exhaled, trying to follow the steps from the relaxation techniques I’d read about. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. My pulse was still erratic, my skin clammy, but I focused on the sound of Enzo’s voice outside the door. He wasn’t yelling anymore, just talking—about car parts, the mess Jamie had made of the purchase orders, and how he’d typically ask me where everything was because I was the only one who knew where anything was.

I focused on the words, the steady tempo of his voice, the familiarity of numbers and lists, of cars and engines—things I understood and could control. My hands relaxed, and my breathing evened out, but the exhaustion it left behind was brutal. My stomach churned, nausea rolling through me in waves. I still felt sick, but at least the worst had passed.

“…so then I told Jamie it was for the Corvette.”

Hell. No.

I yanked the chair from under the door handle so fast it scraped across the floor, flung the door open, and glared at Enzo. “It was for the Charger! The Charger, Enzo! No wonder nothing gets done right around here!” I folded my arms, still fuming, but the weight in my chest had lightened a little. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Enzo offered me a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his liquid chocolate eyes. Then, it faded, his expression sobering as guilt crept in. “Sorry, kid.”

The words struck a deep chord within me, and I stood up tall at my full five-eight, brushing my hair out of my eyes. Standing straighter didn’t change my height, but it made me feel bigger, steadier. “I’m not a kid,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

Enzo winced. “It’s just a nickname⁠—”

“Well, think of something else!” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest.

Silence hung between us for a beat, and Rio blew a low whistle. “Damn, De León. You really fucked up this time.”

Enzo shifted, rubbing the back of his neck before exhaling. His gaze flicked toward me, guilt evident in the tight set of his jaw, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he nodded once, as if he knew there was nothing he could say to fix it right now.

“What the hell?” Jamie asked, his arms full of brake pads and a timing belt. He stopped mid-step, his gaze flicking between Enzo and Rio, then landing on me, and within seconds, he’d placed the parts to one side and stood between me and the other two. “What the fuck did you do now, Rio?”

Rio didn’t hesitate. “Wasn’t me,” he thumbed at Enzo, “Big dumbass here scared the crap outta Robbie. Kid locked himself in his room.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Idiots.” He turned to me, softer now. “You okay, kid?” My jaw clenched at the word, frustration in my chest like a tight coil. Not again. Not from Jamie, too. I forced my shoulders back, swallowing down the irritation, but my hands still curled into fists at my sides. “I’m fine,” I bit out, sharper than I intended, “But I’m twenty-freaking-three! I’m not a kid! Find something else to call me!”

I turned on my heel, stalking back into the filing room. Pulling out the paperwork for the Charger, I listened as the three started bickering over what else to call me.

“Fine, no more Kid,’” Jamie said. “How about ‘Rookie’?”

“Rookie?” Rio scoffed. “He’s not a cop, and he’s not playing sports, dumbass.”

“All right, all right, what about ‘Shortstack’?” Jamie suggested, smirking.

“Oh yeah, that’ll go over real well,” Rio muttered. “Why not just call him ‘Fun-Size’ and really piss him off?”

“What about ‘Specs’?” Jamie offered. “He’s always got his nose in paperwork and books.”

“Not wearing glasses, genius,” Rio shot back.

“Then what the hell do we call him?”

I slammed the filing cabinet drawer shut harder than necessary. The sharp bang echoed through the room, and for a second, silence followed. Jamie blinked, Rio raised an eyebrow, and Enzo was shocked.

“How about you all shut the hell up and let me work?”

Silence. Then, a snort from Rio.

“Yeah, that one’s not gonna stick either,” Jamie muttered, and I heard them go right back to debating, as if I wasn’t there.

Assholes.

Head high, I grabbed everything I needed and headed into Logan’s office, placing the matched orders on the side of the desk. Logan was hunched over the old office computer, fingers moving across the keyboard, his face set in concentration. He didn’t look up at first, too absorbed in his work. I hesitated, ready to slip out, but then his voice cut through the quiet.

“Robbie, do you have a minute?”

My stomach dropped. This was it. I hadn’t been able to handle one freaking argument and he was going to tell me my time at Redcars was done. That me using their filing room as a tiny apartment was over, and I needed to leave and find something else to do. Panic clawed at my chest. This was my safe place—the only one I’d ever really had. If I lost this, where would I go? What if there wasn’t anywhere else? Where would I go? I’d always meant to leave the city, but where? Montana maybe? Be a cowboy? Was there work for a five-eight guy with no muscles to speak of? Did random, sexy cowboys need someone to sort invoices and recall part numbers accurately? Probably not.

“…so if that’s okay with you?” Logan’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

“Huh?” I blinked at him.

He looked at me. “Can you?” He waved his hand as though he knew I hadn’t been listening.

I cleared my throat and tried to refocus. “You want me to…what?”

Logan smiled, something softer than I expected. “Are you okay?”

I was used to people asking me if I was okay, used to nodding and brushing it off. But I wasn’t okay. Not really. Two steps forward, one step back—that was what healing felt like. And today, I was stumbling more than I wanted to admit.

“Sure,” I lied, forcing the word past the lump in my throat. I was good at lying—had been for years. It was easier to pretend, to plaster on a mask of indifference rather than admit that my chest was still tight, that my hands hadn’t quite stopped shaking. Easier to let them believe I was fine than to risk the discomfort of the truth.

“Are you okay to sit down and chat?” Logan was so kind, it made my chest ache—made me want to cry. Fucking idiot.

What if he asked me why I got all upset and locked myself away? What if he made me talk about my feelings? No way was I going there. He patted the back of the old chair, and I noticed the plastic was more cracked than it had been yesterday when I’d caught my T-shirt on a jagged edge. Probably where it hit the wall during the argument. The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through me and. I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit, fingers curling against my jeans to keep them from shaking.

“‘Chat’?” I asked.

“If that’s okay.”

I hesitated for a moment before complying, my mind still catching up to what was happening. My thoughts were still tangled in everything that had happened earlier, the lingering weight of panic making it hard to focus.

Logan leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw before exhaling. His gaze met mine, steady and serious. “Thing is I need some help with the accounts. Keep things running. And you already know the system inside and out.”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I expected. “I do? You want me to…”

He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze steady, his expression open. “I want you to take an official job, Robbie. You already keep this place from falling into a chaos of paper and crap. You’re good at it.”

I sat there, stunned. I’d expected rejection. Instead, Logan was asking me to be something more.

“But I have bad days.”

“Then you work the next one.”

To step up like I’d been asking him to let me. Like I’d been wanting to prove I could. However, stepping up to deal with customers and handle face-to-face interactions was a disaster. Answering the phone turned into a mess of stammered words and second-guessing myself. But this? Organizing, spreadsheets, finances—I could do that in my sleep. I didn’t need to deal with anyone outside of the four men in this garage—no strangers, no pressure, just numbers and logic, things that made sense.

And this meant I had a place here after all.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Then, “Hell yes.”

TWELVE

Enzo

I wasn’t sure how long Tudor had been standing there, watching me stack parts onto the bench ready for tomorrow, but I felt his eyes before I heard his voice.

“Logan’s heading out for parts, so reckon you want to walk an old man home?”

“You’re not old.”

“And you’re full of shit.” He huffed, a sound that could have been amusement, but he let me take his arm anyway.

“Back in ten,” I told Robbie, who glanced up at me, his fingers gripping the edge of the book he was reading, uncertainty flickering in the crease between his brows. Then, as if catching himself, he tilted his chin—a habit he’d developed lately, feeling the fear but pushing it aside.

“Okay,” he said, watching as we headed to the door.

“Night, Robbie,” Tudor called.

“Night, Tudor,” Robbie said with a smile.

I locked the door behind me and set the exterior alarm—I might only be away ten minutes, but Robbie needed to feel safe. He’d been getting better, pushing past his fears, but I still caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes when he was alone here. I knew he’d be okay—he had his routines, his spaces, the book he was pretending to be lost in—but I knew the weight of being alone still sat heavy on him. Lately, I’d seen him fighting it, tilting his chin up and setting his shoulders as if he dared himself to be stronger. It made me proud. Watching him push past his fears, standing a little taller, claiming space that had once made him shrink—it warmed something in me. Pride, sure, but also something deeper, something I wasn’t ready to name. It also made me worry he’d never feel safe enough to leave Redcars, but I was trying to fix that. I’d find out who hurt him, and I’d make the world safe for Robbie by taking whoever it was out of any goddamn equation.

And fuck that. He could stay here forever if he needed to, because the idea of him leaving unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t just about keeping him safe anymore. I liked knowing he was close, within reach, where I could watch over him and not wonder if he was okay.

He’d filled out since he arrived at Redcars, gotten stronger, and his body was taking shape in ways that made it hard for me to see him as the broken man we’d found, but he was still fragile. Tiny compared to me, he was delicate, sweet, gentle, and scared, but sometimes, he seemed… confident. And shit, I was losing myself in thought again, right in front of the one person who always saw through everything.

Tudor glanced at me, with that frustrating knowing smile. “You can get right back after,” he reassured me.

The streets were quieter than usual, and the scent of rain lingered in the air, mixed with the sharp tang of exhaust fumes. Echo Park never really slept, but it dozed after the stores closed and before the first evening shift workers headed out to bars and clubs in other districts.

“You doing okay?” Tudor asked as we made our way down the alley toward the trailer park, his voice quieter, as if he were lost in thought.

“I should be asking you that,” I said, eyeing how he moved slower than he used to.

“Don’t fuss.” He waved me off, though the gesture lacked its usual bite.

“You asked me to walk you home.”

“Just needed to talk,” he admitted—a rare confession that made me glance at him twice. “Got some things to say to you.”

“Save me now,” I deadpanned, trying to lighten the mood. That earned me a grunt, but I felt him lean into me a little more. Not that he’d ever admit he needed it. When I’d first arrived at the broken-down garage, it was a place I wanted to escape. Now, I wasn’t sure what I’d do without it or the family I’d found within its walls, including Tudor, the stubborn bastard.

“You were quiet today,” Tudor observed, sharp as ever.

“Working hard on that Chevy,” I lied.

He scoffed. “Lying’s a sin.”

“So is gambling, and I seem to remember you playing poker last week.”

Tudor chuckled, low and rough, and the sound eased something tight in my chest. We reached his home, a mobile home with a small garden, worn but loved. Tudor dug into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys that rattled against each other, fingers slower than they used to be. I pretended not to notice, just like I always did.

“Okay then, night,” I said, and waited for him to close the door.

“Come in for a bit.”

“I need to get back.” To Robbie.

“Ten, is all,” He said, and I glanced back in the direction of Redcars and then followed him in with a sigh.

“Make me a coffee,” he ordered as soon as I closed the door behind us, “and find a cookie in that top cupboard behind the healthy fucking cereal Logan forces on me.”

“I’m not sure I⁠—”

“Don’t even think of stopping a dying man from his caffeine and cookies.”

“You’re not dying,” I defended, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Jesus, Tudor? Are you?” I ignored the coffee and cookies thing and crouched before him as he grunted in his chair.

“We all gotta die one day.” He cackled, and I nearly thumped him. Asshole.

“Don’t mess with me like that,” I snapped, and he gave me the finger. Seriously. The fuck?

I gave him the finger right back, then made coffee and pulled down the double chocolate chip cookie bag.

“You remember the day I met you?” Tudor asked after swallowing his first bite of chocolate goodness. Usually, he’d work up to talking about the past, shooting the breeze about cars or baseball, but this time, he was going straight in. He loved talking to all four of us about where we’d come from, needling into our pasts a little more each time. Hell, he’d spent an hour talking at Rio last week, and he’d come in to drop off an envelope for Logan and hadn’t been one of Tudor’s rescues for a very long time.

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, the memory still sharp. Stepping out of prison, the heat of the sun on my face for the first time in years, and there he was—this old guy standing there like he owned my ass, waiting like he’d been doing it for years. He hadn’t offered a handshake, hadn’t wasted words, simply told me I had a job and a place to sleep.

I’d accused him of being some old, perverted bastard searching for an easy target. And then he punched me. This small, frail man—who I’d later learn was anything but frail—slugged me right in the face. I’d been too shocked to do anything but stand there, rubbing my jaw, staring at him as if he’d lost his damn mind.

Then he’d pointed at his car, standing there like a goddamn prize. A mint-condition 1969 Dodge Charger, deep black with a hood scoop that looked mean under the sun’s glare. “What do you know about these?” he’d asked.

I’d blinked, thrown off, but instinct took over. I launched into it, rattling off everything I knew—the V8 engine, the horsepower, the top speed, the weight ratio. I crouched down, running a hand over the tires, noting the wear pattern. “Paint job needs some work,” I’d told him, fingers trailing over a faint scratch in the glossy black.

Tudor had grunted, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “They said you knew cars,” he’d announced. Of course, I knew cars; I’d been boosting and chopping them up since I was eight for Stone Cross—not that anything automobile-related had finally gotten me behind bars. “Are you still affiliated with Stone Cross?”

“Fuck no,” I’d snapped, even lifted my T-shirt to show him the prison tattoos I’d added to obliterate the cross that had been forced on me as a teenager.

“They still want you.”

“I did my time, I made a deal. I’m out.”

“You’ll do,” he’d added after a pause. And that was that. I got in the car, he drove me to Redcars, and my life changed.

After that I spent every day working on cars, fixing what was broken, convincing myself I’d leave when the time was right. I kept telling myself Redcars was temporary, and I wouldn’t get stuck like the others, that I was passing through, another drifter looking for a foothold. I always thought that one day, I’d take one of the cars dropped at the garage, something worth money, and I wouldn’t have to boost it, I could take the keys from the hook and run.

Only, somehow, I’d never left.

It became home in a way I’d never expected. The smell of oil and metal, the hum of an engine finally running smooth, the way Tudor would huff at me when I got something right as if he hadn’t doubted me for a second. It crept into my bones, settled there, and refused to let go.

And Stone Cross had stayed away.

“Reckon, you’re better than you used to be,” Tudor muttered, his voice softer than usual, but the weight of his words was impossible to ignore.

I exhaled, shaking my head. “Reckon I’m not.”

“You care about Redcars.”

“I don’t care,” I snapped. “Caring gets you fucked over before you can blink.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy, although I didn’t mean them as a challenge. It was just that I knew who I was—what I was. I wasn’t kind. I wasn’t concerned. And I sure as hell couldn’t do anything other than fighting. My fists, intimidating size, and the gang tattoos on my arms were all I had.

We had an epic staring match, and then he rolled his eyes. His expression grew smug in the blink of an eye, “You see how Robbie was all tearful this morning?”

I could tell he was trying to read me, trying to gauge whether I gave a damn, needle me into reacting.

I stiffened at the question. It was my job to notice when Robbie was upset, and I hadn’t seen him get up in his head and lose his shit or hide. Hell, I hadn’t noticed Robbie was upset, and a knot formed in my stomach, which quickly turned to anger.

“Who upset him?” My voice was lower than I intended, the words coming out with more bite than I wanted. “Was it Rio? I’ll fucking kill him⁠—”

“And there it is,” Tudor said, and his expression softened, his usual hard edges melting away into something I didn’t have the luxury of showing. Compassion, concern, worry—the look you’d give a kid, someone you cared about deeply, like a proud papa.

I felt a sharp pang in my chest—pride at first, seeing how much Robbie had grown, but then something deeper, something that made my throat tighten. It wasn’t just pride anymore. It was something heavier, something that made me want to hold onto him, to make sure he never had to fight alone again.

“You care that Robbie has somewhere safe,” he said smugly. “You love that kid.”

“No.” The words hit me harder than I expected. Love? Like his big brother, like someone responsible. Or like real love, where I was vulnerable and needy and wanted to hold him and kiss him and show him the real me. What the fuck? Why was I thinking that?

I let the thoughts settle in for a moment before I responded, my voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not a kid.” It was true. Robbie wasn’t a naive kid. He was a man, not some helpless child. “He needs someone to hide behind, is all,” I said. And, sometimes, when he stared up at me with those wide eyes, I couldn’t shake the urge to cradle him close and shield him from everything, scoop him up, and hold him there, right against me. But I couldn’t say any of that to Tudor. Not while he looked at me with that knowing expression, as if he could see right through me. See that I was lying to myself about how I felt about Robbie.

“You tell yourself that, son,” Tudor murmured. “He worships the ground you walk on.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, leaning back to the wall, pushing the thoughts down.

“And you care for him, Enzo. And that’s okay.”

Tudor’s words hung in the air, soft but sharp, as though he already knew the truth.

“I don’t.” I tried to make it sound like I believed what I was saying. But even as they left my mouth, I knew I was lying. It was too damn obvious. I cared too much about Robbie—more than I should. And maybe that was the problem. Perhaps that was the thing that would tear everything apart, the thing that would get us both hurt in the end. Did I have any space left to worry about a busy garage and finances, Rio losing his shit and punching the nearest wall, or Jamie going into one of his mute psychotic burn-the-world-down moments?

“You look out for people,” Tudor pressed on, like he could see right through me. “You keep an eye on Jamie and Rio; you’re as much of the safe space as the garage itself is.”

Safe space. I hated that phrase. It felt like a burden I hadn’t asked for, a responsibility I didn’t want. My skin crawled at the thought of it. I didn’t want to be anyone’s protector, no one’s safe place. I didn’t know how to be that. I’d learned how to throw punches and knew how to keep people at a distance, but not this.

“Don’t put that shit on me,” I muttered, my voice lower than I intended. “I’m not a damn safe space.”

But Tudor just shrugged, his eyes filled with something I didn’t want to face. Maybe he saw more of me than I could see in myself, or he understood what I couldn’t admit. But I wasn’t ready to accept that. Not yet.

“Thanks for walking me back,” he said, and with that I was dismissed, and I was sure somewhere in there was a message and lesson Tudor thought I should learn.

“No worries.” I opened the door.

“Enzo?” I stopped and waited. “Love you, kid,” he added.

I grumbled a nondescript answer. “Love you too, old man.”

“Thought you said I wasn’t old.”

And when I closed the door on him, he was chuckling.

THIRTEEN

Robbie

Logan stormed into the garage, tension in every line of his body. His face was red, his eyes hard, and I knew something had happened. He didn’t glance at me as he walked past, stopped, spun on his heel, checked where the other guys were, and then stared at me, his gaze unfocused. I don’t know where he’d been all morning, but he looked as if he needed someone to help.

I could help. But he was searching elsewhere, probably trying to see if one of the others was around, but they were all out back. In the end he sighed, cursed, and then turned to me.

“Robbie, I need a favor,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Some guy might come in looking for a car. Name’s Gray something or other, tall guy with red hair and attitude. Tell him his Corolla is toast, and we’ll call him, and that’s all, no pleasantries, no nothing. I’ll be right there,” he pointed at his office. “Can you do that?”

My heart kicked up a notch. Logan’s trust in me to manage things was huge. I puffed up, straightened my spine, and gripped my notebook like a badge of honor.

“I can do that,” I said, maybe a little too eagerly.

He nodded once, then stalked away to his office, slamming the door behind him.

I opened my notebook, and made a note of what Logan had said. I couldn’t concentrate; I was going to be helping my first customer.

The garage door creaked open, and I froze behind the counter, gripping my black notebook like a lifeline. Footsteps approached, and I tried to steady my breathing. This was simply another customer, another job—no reason to panic.

“Hi, my name is Robbie. I work the reception. Can I get your name and a number to contact you on?” The words tumbled out, too fast, and I felt my face heat. Why couldn’t I sound normal for once?

The guy standing in front of me was tall, with red curls, and green eyes that widened as if I’d surprised him, and extended his hand, which I took because that was what I was supposed to do.

“Gray Davies. Call me Gray.”

I let go of his hand fast, my gaze darting to his chest where an ID hung then scribbled his name down before realizing what the initials under meant. A journalist. Fear clogged my throat, thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe. My hands shook, and I had to clutch the edge of the counter to steady myself. A journalist investigated things. Might know my name. Might have seen a Missing poster. Might be here to find me. Someone sent to drag me back. Someone dangerous. My pulse thundered in my ears, my mind racing with half-remembered nightmares. What if he knew who I was? What if he’d been digging, putting pieces together? I forced myself to breathe, but each gasp stuttered and hitched in my chest. I felt shaky, my legs weak.

“You don’t need to write it down,” he said in a kind tone, but other people had pretended to be kind and I’d fallen for it before. “I have the info you need.” He handed me a card, but I felt this deep need to have the details in my book, so I added them and then handed it back. That wasn’t how business cards worked, but I was close to losing my shit already.

“We’ll call you when your car is ready, sir,” I recited my rehearsed words, not thinking he needed to be told his car was toast, and felt relief when he nodded and turned away. But I knew better. I’d learned that just because someone looked like they were leaving didn’t mean they actually would. My stomach twisted. Maybe Gray was playing a game, pretending to turn away to put me off guard. I gripped my notebook tighter, my fingers cold and stiff. People who seemed friendly sometimes had the worst intentions. I remembered the last time someone smiled or acted casually, and then…

Stop.

Enough.

I kept my eyes on Gray’s back, willing him to step outside, to disappear so I could breathe again. But then he stopped and turned back, and I knew this wasn’t over.

“I’d like to check out the car if that’s okay,” he said.

I bit my lip. Logan said he should leave, and there had been pain in his voice. Real pain, not the usual frustration Logan had for strangers poking around. This was different. It was as if Gray had done something personal that cut Logan deep. Why did Logan hate him? What had he done? I didn’t know, but I was sure of one thing—Logan’s anger always had a reason, and whatever that reason was, I wanted no part of it.

“Logan would really like you to leave now,” I stepped back a little. Something about Gray made me nervous, not in a bad way exactly, but I knew Logan didn’t want this guy hanging around. I didn’t know what had happened between them, but it was enough to make me anxious.

“No worries,” Gray said. “I’ll leave as soon as I’ve seen my car.”

“Logan said…” I trailed off. My voice sounded thin, and I backed another step when Gray shifted his stance.

“Can I help you?” Enzo appeared from nowhere, stepping between us, his thumbs tucked into his belt in a way that meant trouble if things didn’t go his way.

“Gray Davies—you have my car here,” Gray said, extending his hand. Enzo ignored it.

“Can I help you?” Enzo repeated, voice low and sharp.

I shuffled to my left, clutching my notebook tight to my chest. If Enzo was here, everything would be okay. I knew that. Enzo wasn’t only strong—he was solid, immovable, the kind of person you could rely on to step in when things felt too big to handle. Seeing him now, standing between me and Gray, eased some of the panic knotting my chest. My breathing steadied a little, but my hands were still cold and shaky. I told myself to stay calm, to keep breathing. But still, part of me couldn’t shake the worry this was all about to go wrong.

“You have my car. A Toyota Corolla,” Gray said.

“I know,” Enzo replied. “I was the one who towed what’s left of it.”

“By hand?” Gray quipped, gesturing at Enzo’s muscles.

Enzo didn’t smile. “We’ll call you when it’s done.”

Gray lingered, peering around Enzo to where I stood. “I asked Robbie if I could see my car first.” My heart jumped, and my breath stuttered. Fear tangled with anxiety, tightening my throat. My hands shook, and I gripped my notebook tighter, feeling the paper cut into my fingers.

What if Gray wasn’t just some guy with a wrecked Corolla? What if he was here for something else—something worse? What if Logan’s anger was because Gray was dangerous? I didn’t know, and not knowing terrified me. My stomach knotted tighter. Logan would hate that I was letting this happen, but I couldn’t exactly stop Enzo from deciding things.

Enzo didn’t answer right away. He stared, assessing Gray as if he were deciding whether to throw him out or let him stay. Finally, Enzo jerked his chin toward me. “It’s okay, Robbie. I got this.”

“Thanks, Enzo,” I blurted, watching Gray follow Enzo deeper into the garage. I clutched my notebook like a shield, my breathing stayed shallow, and my heart raced. I wanted to tell Logan, but what if he was still pissed off? What if I’d only make things worse?

“What the fuck was all that?” Enzo snapped as he stormed into Logan’s office after the Gray guy had left. He kicked the door shut behind him but the tiny window over the garage was open, and with my door not all the way shut I could hear everything.

“Come into my office, why don’t you,” Logan shot back, his voice tight with frustration.

“Who the hell was that, and why do we have that not-rare-at-all piece of shit to fix when it’s clearly destroyed, and what in hell’s name did you involve Robbie for?” Enzo’s voice rose, filled with tension that made my pulse jump. My stomach twisted. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to help. I knew it.

“Gray’s a journalist,” Logan said, and Enzo cursed loud enough to make me flinch.

“No shit, Sherlock. I saw the ID hanging round his neck...” Enzo’s voice dropped slightly, almost as if he didn’t want to say the next part. “Robbie knows he’s a journalist and it’s freaked him the fuck out.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my breathing to stay steady. I clutched my book. He wasn’t wrong. When I realized Gray was a journalist, it felt like someone had yanked the ground out from beneath me. My chest had gotten so tight that I thought I might pass out.

“Shit, was that another trigger?” Logan asked, his voice quieter now. “Hell, is the kid okay?”

I’m not a kid, I thought, biting my tongue to stop the words from slipping out. But I knew they were worried. Still, hearing Logan call me that stung.

“First, he’s not a kid; he’s twenty-three.” My heart skipped when Enzo corrected Logan. “Second, you remember that filing he did last week after he spilled that coffee, and he had a meltdown over whether we were going to throw him out?” Enzo’s voice softened a fraction.

“Yeah.” Logan sighed.

“He’s refiling it.”

My heart sank further. They knew. Of course, they knew. I wasn’t fooling anyone. I hated that I couldn’t hide my anxiety when it took over like that.

“Fuck,” Logan muttered. “I didn’t mean to throw Robbie under the bus, but…”

“You shouldn’t have asked Robbie to talk to that guy. You know how he can’t handle the⁠—”

“I’m sorry, okay, I wasn’t thinking. Robbie asked me to challenge him with new stuff,” Logan defended.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. He was right. I wanted to be better, to be stronger. But this… this had been too much. Fuck!

“He meant asking him to get a coffee order or something maybe, not go toe to toe with a goddamned journalist. In our safe place? Jesus, Lo.”

They aren’t mad at me. They’re angry at themselves. They care.

I swallowed. This was a safe place. I blinked hard, struggling with the lump in my throat.

When I heard Logan’s footsteps, then the knock on my door, I wiped my eyes with my shirt sleeve.

“Hang on!” I called, my voice still shaky.

I tried to make everything look normal. Neat piles, my black book tucked away, but I knew Logan wouldn’t be fooled. When I opened the door, he didn’t push his way in but stood there, gaze soft but still searching.

“Hey,” I said, forcing a smile.

“I fucked up,” he said. “I apologize.”

“No, I’m sorry that I couldn’t…” My throat tightened again. I set the files down before they slipped from my shaking hands. “Enzo must think I’m such a mess.” Why did I default to what Enzo thought of me?

Because Enzo is all I can think about.

Logan sighed, regretful. “Not at all. He’s pissed at me for being an idiot. In my defense, it’s been a bad day.”

I almost smiled, but the anxiety still sat heavy in my chest.

“I asked you to push me out of my comfort zone, and I want you to do it again,” I said. “I won’t mess up next time.”

“It’s all good,” Logan said. “This is a safe place, and I don’t know your whole story, but I shouldn’t put my shit first. You’re worth more than me messing you up. Okay?”

“Okay.” My voice was small, but I tried to sound more assertive. “Okay,” I said again, firmer this time.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

“Please… don’t give up on me, okay?” I asked before he could leave, my voice a whisper.

“Never, kid. Never.”

I’m not a kid.

FOURTEEN

Enzo

It was bad enough that Gray was hanging around. Still, when our next arrival this morning was freaking Vinnie in a fake-ass stolen car, I about lost my shit, particularly when he started confronting Robbie, who was shaking.

“This fucking twink won’t take my money,” Vinnie shouted right in Robbie’s face. The bastard was red-faced, fingers jabbing hard enough to leave bruises.

Robbie flinched back with each poke. His face was white, his eyes wide, and his hands shook so badly his notebook nearly slipped to the floor.

“Vinnie, we don’t mod cars. You wanna sell this as a ‘68, and the cops will track it to here,” Logan said, his voice tight with tension. At least he’d come out of his office after hiding in there all day worrying about Tudor, and Cassidy, and that fucking journalist who was up in his space. He was also in pain, favoring his shoulder where a barrier had dropped on him, but the idiot wouldn’t do anything about it.

“It’s not a ‘68,” Gray blurted from the back. “What is it, a ‘69 that you’ve added a… jeez… what did you do to that poor car?”

Logan shot Gray a look so sharp it could have cut steel, subtly shaking his head to silence him. Gray zipped his lips and backed off, but I didn’t have time to wonder about whatever crap was going on between those two. Robbie was still backed into the corner, his chest rising and falling way too fast.

“I tried to explain to Mr. uh… Vinnie, that it was illegal,” Robbie stammered, voice watery. He glanced at his notebook as if the written words might ground him. “I wrote down what I said. I really tried.”

Vinnie turned to pleading, “Come on, Lo, you owe me one. Rio did it before⁠—”

“Get out,” Logan snapped.

“Then fuck you!” Vinnie snarled and shoved Robbie in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling back.

I saw red.

I didn’t think—just moved. I crossed the distance in two strides and stepped between Vinnie and Robbie, planting myself in the way. My body blocked Vinnie, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. Robbie let out a shaky breath behind me, and I wasn’t moving until I knew he was safe. Vinnie was trying to stare around me at Robbie, his eyes wide, and I lost my shit.

“Out,” I growled, voice low and dangerous. My pulse roared in my ears, my muscles vibrating with tension. Vinnie squared up to me, and I let him see it—that if he so much as twitched toward Robbie again, I would flatten him.

I don’t know what Vinnie saw in my face, but whatever it was must’ve been enough, because after a few tense seconds, he turned on his heel, stomped to his fake-ass car, and reversed down the alley with a squeal of tires and a cloud of fumes.

Jamie and Rio had joined us at some point, standing as a wall behind me, ensuring he wouldn’t stand a chance if Vinnie thought about turning back.

“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath. I turned back to Robbie, with his glassy eyes, tears barely held back. His chest hitched, his notebook still clenched in his trembling fingers.

I gentled my voice. “C’mon, let’s get you outta here for a minute.”

I led him to the kitchen and Rio pulled out a chair for me, and I tugged Robbie onto my lap to hold him and stroked his back until his breathing started to even out.

“You okay?” I asked.

Robbie leaned back, scrubbed at his face with one hand, and gave a shaky nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” His voice wasn’t convincing, and I didn’t believe him for a second.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” I said. “You were scared. That’s normal.”

“I thought he was gonna hit me,” Robbie whispered.

“I know,” I said. “I wasn’t moving. I had you.”

Robbie blinked rapidly, a tear slipping free.

“I know,” he whispered, letting me sit there with him for a while until his breathing slowed and he stopped shaking. “I thought he saw me and recognized me.”

I stiffened. “Really?”

“The way he stared at me. I didn’t like it, and he had this look. What if he recognized me?”

“Do you know him? Know Vinnie?”

“He wasn’t one of the three. He wasn’t…” He stopped, buried his face against my neck, his fists tangled in my hoodie.

“I’ve got this, Robbie, okay?”

I didn’t have this at all. Had Vinnie recognized Robbie? What even was he doing here with that bastardized car? Why did we suggest it was a good idea for Robbie to be up front, where he could be recognized? This wasn’t a game when I had Robbie trembling in my arms.

“You got cookies?” Jamie’s voice broke through, chipper and innocent as anything.

Robbie stirred in my arms. “In the container,” he rasped.

Jamie made a noise of delight and took off, and Robbie—God—he actually smiled. Small, fleeting, but it lit something in me that hadn’t felt warmth in weeks. “Which one?” Jamie asked, and after a pause, Robbie slid off my lap and headed over. That was when I clocked Rio. Just standing there, still as stone. He didn’t speak. Just a tilt of his head. No urgency, no drama—but I knew that look.

Jamie and the cookies had been a ruse. “Be right back, okay?”

Robbie nodded, eyes following Jamie and I followed Rio instead.

Rio was already moving, leading me around the side of the garage, behind the stack of rusted-out car doors we kept meaning to haul to scrap. No one came here unless they wanted to be invisible. The gravel crunched under our boots. I didn’t ask what this was about.

I already knew it wasn’t good.

Rio didn’t waste time. “Vinnie’s marked.”

The words hit like a gut punch. “You’re sure?” I asked, already fearing the answer.

“He’s got a tattoo,” Rio went on, eyes locked on mine. “Ink. Inside of his wrist. Stylized cross like a grave.”

My world went white. A stone cross?

“… the kind you only get if you’re owned. Flashed it because he wanted me to see it. He brought that car for a reason. He was showing us. Not just doing business—branding it. Branding himself.”

“I didn’t see,” I muttered. Fuck, I wanted to see.

My focus had been all on Robbie. Too busy watching the shadows behind his eyes to catch the one that walked into our space.

“I missed it,” I said.

“I didn’t,” Rio snapped. “I never miss Vinnie, and he was staring at Robbie.”

I knew there was more behind what Rio said—more than a grudge. There was blood in that voice, and betrayal. Rio never said much about the fights or the man he’d killed, but Vinnie? That name cracked something raw in him. I saw this wasn’t only business. This was old rot rising to the surface, and it was going to explode. Maybe not now. But soon.

There it was. The edge in his voice. The history bleeding through.

“There’s something else,” he murmured, and tilted his head for me to follow him through yard, which was littered with rusted-out engine parts, half-finished projects, and the smell of oil and burnt toast from next door.

He didn’t say anything as we ducked into the narrow alley that led from Redcars to Carters Bakery. The air was cooler there, the shadows deeper. He stopped halfway down and pointed to the brick wall on the right.

“It’s the same as what Vinnie had on his hand, and there was paint on his jacket. It was him.

Graffiti. A slanted cross, spray-painted in deep black with white parts. The moment I saw it, something ancient and ugly uncurled in my gut. I blinked, but the world didn’t blur—it sharpened. Too much. The red of the bricks. The oily stink from Carters back vent. The way the paint still glistened in the morning light, tacky and fresh. And in my head, I was a kid again. Blood on my knuckles. The slip of a blade in my palm as it carved into flesh. The last time I’d seen this symbol, there’d been a fight—no, not a fight. A fucking maelstrom when my life had changed forever.

I’d seen too many of those slanted crosses in my time, back when I was younger and dumber and spent more nights on the street than in a bed. Hell, I’d had one on my back now covered in crude prison tattoos blocking out any kind of loyalty to a gang I’d once been prepared to die for. It was territorial. A warning. A claim. My brother had a similar mark inked into my skin when I was too young and angry to understand what permanence meant. This symbol, this close to my place, was a message. A reminder for me? Why? I’d made a deal, sacrificed five years behind bars to get away from that life, and I hated how seeing this shook me.

“You see that?” Rio said, voice low. “This fucks me off.”

Rio didn’t know my backstory—my connection with the people who wore this mark, but this was evidence of gang activity edging closer. Encroaching. What with fires over on the mobile home park where I had a place, where Tudor and Logan lived, I was about done with this shit. And now we had Robbie.

“Gang sign for Stone Cross, my old neighborhood.”

Rio side-eyed me. “You know them?”

“I was in,” I admitted, and anger flared hot in my gut.

“I know,” Rio said, quiet, his gaze fixed on me. I didn’t ask how he knew—Rio had contacts from his days as a fighter, and he was still part of that circle.

“Mateo Delgardo runs the crew now,” I murmured.

I knew the Delgardo family, and not in a six-degrees-of-separation way. Mateo was my childhood best friend, the only son of SC’s head, Sonny Delgardo. There were summers as kids when we’d shared ice pops and stole cigarettes from my older brother, and as soon as he’d turned thirteen and the SC stole him from anything like innocence, there were years where we didn’t speak at all, not without an undertone of threats and a knife in his hand.

Seeing this mark here—this slanted cross not ten steps from Redcars—felt like a betrayal wrapped in gasoline. Delgardo senior was dead now, Mateo stepping up to take over, and I’d made that deal for five years of my life for the SC to stay well away from me. I’d done time for Mateo, and he owed me.

“You wanna expand on your connection now?”

“I don’t have one. I was in, now I’m not, that’s all you need to know.”

Rio crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. There was a tightness in his jaw, the kind he got when he was angry but trying not to show it, but his gaze was fixed on the graffiti as though it had insulted him, and it wasn’t focused on me not telling him anything. “Thought you should see it before Logan does. You know he’s worried about Cass.” We exchanged glances—we were worried about Logan’s daughter—she was family.

“Keep this between ourselves for now, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll cover, but⁠—”

“We need to get extra cameras pointing this way.”

“Sure, but you think this is connected to Robbie? Why is Vinnie doing this shit?”

“That’s a stretch it has anything to do with Robbie. SC is mid-level—drugs, guns.” They strutted around like some knock-off Mafia, all swagger and intimidation, but the SC kept their focus narrow. Controlled. Confined to the shit they could sell or threaten. But prisoners? Human trafficking? That was a different game. That wasn’t their remit. Not before. If they were branching out into that kind of depravity now, either Mateo—the boy I knew—had rotted from his core, Vinnie was working off-plan, or new players were calling the shots. None of those options sat well with me.

“You think Vinnie’s back to settle something with you?”

Rio laughed, sharp and humorless. “Vinnie has nothing to settle. It was me in the cage, fighting. Him behind the curtain, counting cash, playing big man. I broke my hands for him. I kept my mouth shut and I owe him nothing.” Rio’s jaw tightened. “But, I see his face around here, and I feel it in my bones—he’s after something and it’s not me or cars. He’s claimed by a gang marking up our wall space, carrying that SC mark like it’s nothing, and fuck, he stared at Robbie like he knew something, watching, looking for weaknesses. I know him Enzo, and I don’t like his face around here. He’s always been small time y’know, only this time, he’s got backup. This Mateo you know might run the SC, but Vinnie’s doing his errands. Lighting fires. And if he knows anything about Robbie, if he has any idea…”

“You think he knows who Robbie is?” My world shifted, and Rio’s silence was answer enough.

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna find him and then I’ll find out,” Rio snarled.

“I need to go higher.”

“You’re going to front the SC.”

For my family? For my home? For Robbie? “Yeah.”

“I’ll get Jamie to stay over, and fuck, that journalist, Gray… we need to keep this away from him. And Logan, away from him and Cassidy.”

“She’s visiting today.”

“I know. No Tudor. No, Robbie. Tonight.”

“Just us,” Rio said, and we nodded.

Just us.

If it all went to hell, it’d be on us to bleed first.

To keep Robbie safe.

FIFTEEN

Robbie

A small whirlwind barged into my room as if she owned the place. An armful of books pressed to her chest, messy blonde hair escaping from beneath a kid-sized Redcars cap, this was obviously Cassidy. Enzo had said she would be visiting today, and I’d hidden in my room like an idiot.

Who the hell was scared of a six-year-old?

She was wearing a tiny replica of the Redcars overalls, and the confidence she radiated was borderline terrifying.

“Hi! I’m Cassidy. I’m six.” She beamed then plopped herself right on the edge of my bed.

I stiffened. Froze. My heart pounded. What now?

“I’m Robbie,” I managed.

“I know. Daddy said so. You’re Robbie the Reader and you like books! So, I did bring you some.” She grinned and handed me a stack of three.

I looked down. One was a brightly illustrated children’s book called Milo the Cat and the Happy Moon. The other two were battered paperbacks of old spy thrillers, the kind with silhouettes of men holding guns and dramatic titles.

“I like this one,” she said, tapping the kids’ book. “You wanna read it?”

“Now?” I asked, cautious.

“Yeah!”

So I opened it up. Page one. Tried to read like I wasn’t nervous, like my voice didn’t wobble.

She stopped me every so often.

“That’s not the right voice. Milo’s a cat, not a pirate.”

I corrected myself.

“Nope. The moon sounds too happy. It’s a spooky moon.”

I tried again. And again. And after a while, she let me keep going without comment, leaning into my side and swinging her little legs. When we were done, she made me read it a second time—I think it was a test to see if I’d get the words right.

After the second read through, she pulled a stuffed blue dinosaur from her Dora backpack and held it up. “This is Blue. Say hi.”

“Hi, Blue,” I said.

She gave me a big, satisfied nod and poked the toy at my face as if he was nuzzling me. “He likes you.” I loved the feel of the soft fur, of her gentle touch when she guided my reading, the innocent smile she threw me.

Somehow, I wasn’t shaking anymore, and when Logan came to get her, I didn’t want her to leave. She was good, and bright, and fun, and she made me feel lighter.

“Bye, Robbie the Reader,” she said, and gave me a hug, which I returned.

“Bye, Miss Cassidy Book-Bringer.”

I didn’t realize I was grinning until Logan smiled at me as she skipped out of the room.

“Okay?” he asked. I wish people didn’t ask that all the time, but then, why wouldn’t they.

“Cassidy is lovely,” I murmured, and I’d said the right thing if his broadening grin was anything to go by. I felt happy and at peace.

The nightmare came back. It always did.

I’d barely drifted off to sleep with memories of Milo and his moon, and Cassidy’s happiness, when the darkness swallowed me whole, slammed into me like a fist to the chest, dragging me down before I had the chance to fight. My lungs forgot how to work, my body going rigid with remembered terror. Cold sweat burst across my skin, my fingers curling into the sheets as if they could anchor me to now. But they couldn’t. Not when three distinct voices echoed through my head.

“Look at the twink.” John.

“We can break him!” Gruff voice, tall, dark hair skinny, old.

“Let me have a go.” Angry, short, blond hair, nauseating scent.

“Don’t fucking break his head!” John.

“It’s my turn.” Gruff voice, tall, dark hair skinny, old.

“Stop fucking crying!” Angry, short, blond hair, nauseating scent.

I was in the room again.

Four walls. No windows. Three men. The stale smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey in the air. The bulb flickered above me, casting twisted shadows across the concrete floor. A chair. A desk. A safe in the corner. And him. Always him.

The other two disappear, like smoke and it’s just John.

His presence looms behind me, but I don’t turn. I know better.

“Tell me,” he asks, his voice calm, expectant. “If they find out, we’re dead, you fucking shit!”

“Let me go! I won’t tell you,” I plead, wishing I could wake up. Nightmare-John is pulling at my clothes, ripping them until I’m naked, and I can’t fight him.

“If I didn’t need you, kid, you’d be in pieces on this floor!”

My stomach twists. No. Please, not this. Not again.

I try to hold the numbers I’d found back. To keep them locked away. But he grabs the back of my neck, his fingers digging in, forcing me still—my breath stutters, my pulse hammers so hard my vision blurs.

“Don’t make me ask twice.”

He pushes inside me, nothing to ease the way, pressing my face to the tile, but I know better than to scream. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ground myself, trying to free myself. But the nightmare holds me tight, and he’s warning me that I don’t get to wake up yet.

The pain comes sharp and fast—a warning. Not enough to damage, just enough to remind me that he could. That he would. He shoves tablets in my throat, I can’t breathe, I have to swallow.

I gasp, and some of the routing codes and a mess of numbers fall from my lips before I can stop them. John snarls at me, digs his fingers in, and ruts against me, knowing I have more locked inside my head.

It’s the only reason I’m still alive.

“Good,” John murmurs, almost pleased. He finishes, shoves me away, and smooths a hand over my hair like I was some pet. “I want more now.”

I want to fight. I want to scream. But I can’t because I know what happens when I refuse.

I can’t tell John everything… he’ll kill me.

Please kill me!

I woke up—gasping, choking, tangled in sweat-damp sheets. My fingers scraped at the blankets, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The room swam, too dark, too close.

I screamed. “Please kill me!”

I pressed a shaking hand over my heart, trying to calm the wild panic clawing up my throat. My mind was still tangled in the dream, in John’s voice, in the cold grip of knowing if he ever found out I still remembered numbers I should never have seen—if he even suspected how much I’d taken from him⁠—

I was dead.

“Robbie?” Enzo called, knocking once. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, staring at the far wall, trying to force my pulse to slow. A thousand thoughts tumbled through my mind, tangled and heavy. I wanted Enzo to come in and wrap his arms around me, grounding me with his steady presence. But that wasn’t how I handled things. Instead, frustration rose in my chest, thick and suffocating, turning inward until it boiled into anger—at myself and how easily I’d lost confidence. All it took was one asshole calling me a twink and I lost my shit.

“Robbie? I can’t hear you. I’m coming in if you don’t talk.”

“No! Stay outside!”

“Robbie—”

“I’m okay. I’m reading books.” If he came in, he’d see me like this—upset, shaken—and that would be one step backward. One step closer to Enzo seeing me as nothing more than fragile and needing protection. And I couldn’t have that. I needed him to see me as capable, as strong. So I forced my voice to steady, pushed the panic down, and pretended I was okay.

“Are you okay? I heard you scream! Do you need anything? “

“For everyone to leave me alone! I’m a grown fucking man, Enzo!” I shouted, the anger spilling over. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter!”

Silence. It was a heavy, suffocating beat stretching long enough that my stomach twisted.

Enzo’s voice softened, “I know you don’t, Robbie. I know.”

I crawled to the door, pressed my ear to it. The only thing separating us was a thin layer of metal and wood. My fists clenched to my chest, and my breathing was shallow.

Please come in and hug me, but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t let myself need that.

Enzo was still standing there. I could feel his presence, steady, waiting. But then—footsteps. Fading. My chest tightened as the moment slipped through my fingers. The chance was gone.

I hadn’t appeared weak.

No. I’d appeared deranged.

I counted to a thousand, slowly, deliberately, pretending I’d be fine by the time I reached a thousand and exasperated that the only thing which could calm me was a hug from Enzo. I opened the door a little, saw Enzo sitting on a pile of tires, watching my door. I scrambled to him, sat on his lap and buried my face in his neck.

I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “I know it’s dumb. But that man, he was looking at me as if he saw me from back then, but I don’t know him, and then, when he called me twink, I think it’s a trigger like the book says⁠—”

Enzo stiffened. “That asshole is a dangerous idiot, Robbie. If he comes back, you stay away from him, okay? You get in here and you lock the door, and you hit that alarm.”

“Yeah, sure, I mean…”

“I know you’re a grown man, okay, and I’m sorry if you feel I don’t treat you right… but it would kill all of us if something happened to you, so promise me.”

“I promise,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His warmth and the solid weight of him under me melted something inside me. Slowly, I turned my head, resting my forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in. A mix of motor oil, soap, and something that was all Enzo. My lips brushed the curve of his neck, just a ghost of a touch, unintentional, but enough that I felt how he inhaled, sharp and sudden.

Neither of us moved for a second, caught in something fragile. Then, Enzo exhaled and held me a little tighter, and I felt safe.

Enzo was quiet, but then he sighed, “I get triggered by the sound of the gates shutting here. I have to make sure I can see it happening, otherwise…”

I blinked. “What?”

“Locks,” he repeated. “Hearing the gates slide shut. Sometimes, it just… it takes me back. And for a second, it’s like I’m there again. We all have things that make us want to run.”

I pulled back from his hold, and he released me enough to study his calm expression. But I didn’t want to move too far away—I wanted to stay close, to let myself sink into his safety. I wasn’t used to this kind of longing, this wanting that wasn’t tangled up in fear.

“You never make me want to run,” I admitted, tracing the strong lines of his face, memorizing them. I could get lost in his dark eyes, which brightened at my touch. His beard was bristly beneath my fingertips and his lips were soft and right there.

I wanted him to be the first person I kissed because I asked for it, not because it was taken. Because this was mine. A moment I got to choose, a piece of myself I gave freely, not one that had been ripped away. And in choosing Enzo, I was taking back something I thought I’d never get to own—my voice, my desire, my right to want. I wanted Enzo to be the first in everything that would make me new. And how was it fair to dump this much on him?

“It’s not fair,” I blurted. “I can’t.” I thought to twist off his lap, but he held me, and I didn’t freak out, it felt good for him to care enough to hold me.

“Can’t what?” he murmured.

My throat worked, but no sound came at first. I glanced down, heart thudding so loud I was sure he could hear it. My fingers curled into his shirt, and the fear tangled with want in my gut. I wasn’t used to being allowed to ask for things like this.

“I… I want to kiss you,” I finally whispered, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep.

“I want you to kiss me.” He wriggled under me and I could feel he was so hard. “I want it all.”

“It’s okay?” For real?

He didn’t answer with words. Just nodded, slow and sure, and the warmth in his eyes made everything else fall away—the garage, the noise, the fear. It was him and me.

I was on his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, my palms flat on his chest. I could feel every breath he took. My heart was pounding so hard I thought he must feel it too. This was my first kiss. My first everything. And it was him.

I leaned in before I lost my nerve, pressing my lips to his. Soft. Careful. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and tasted of coffee. A shiver ran through me at the contact, nerves buzzing under my skin. My chest tightened in that sweet, aching way I’d only read about, and I swore I could feel every beat of his heart reverberating into mine. His hand slid to the back of my neck, grounding me. His touch was warm, his fingers calloused from years of work, but gentle as they curved around me. The roughness of his skin on my nape sent a shiver down my spine. He held me like I was something breakable and precious all at once, as though I were the most important thing in the world and he couldn’t risk letting go.

I pulled back an inch. “I wanted that,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, forehead resting to mine. “So did I.”

“Can I have more?”

“Always.”

When our lips met again this time, there was no hesitation. His mouth moved against mine with a hunger matching the ache building in my chest. I felt his fingers tighten in my hair, tugging enough to tilt my head back. The slight sting sent heat cascading down my spine.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, his breath warm and ragged.

“More than okay,” I whispered back, my hands finding their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath thin cotton.

He made a sound, half groan and half sigh before claiming my mouth again. This kiss was deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before slipping inside to taste me properly. I opened to him, meeting each stroke with my own, learning the shape and the taste of him that made my knees weak.

Am I doing this right? The question flared in my chest, loud and panicked, even as my body moved on instinct. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel or how to respond, only that I didn’t want to stop. But what if I was messing it up?

Enzo must’ve seen it—felt the tension in how I hesitated and stiffened for a heartbeat. He pulled back and framed my face with his big hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

“Is this okay? Is this the right way to do it?”

Something flared in his expression. Surprise, maybe that I’d made it to twenty-three and was asking that kind of question. I was suddenly ashamed, but he wouldn’t let me fail. “Fuck yes,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re perfect.”

He made me believe.

His hands slid down my sides, resting at my waist, fingers digging in enough to draw me closer until our bodies pressed together. I could feel his heat through our clothes, the solid wall of his chest pressed to mine, his heartbeat racing to match my own, and he was hard against my ass. I wriggled, uncertain, worry creeping in again.

He traced my bottom lip with his tongue, and I copied, delighting in his sharp intake of breath. The sensation sent a warm jolt through me, low and urgent, like a lit fuse curling deeper into my body. My lips tingled from the contact, and when I dared to push forward with more confidence, it emboldened me. I could feel myself shifting—less unsure, more present, more wanting. Every reaction from him fed something new in me, a connection building in the heat of our kiss, deeper and stronger than anything I’d ever imagined. When I caught that lip between my teeth, the sound he made was raw, primal. His kiss turned demanding, consuming.

One of his hands moved to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheek with surprising tenderness although his kiss remained fierce. The contrast made me shiver—how he could be so gentle and hungry at the same time.

“God help me, but I’ve thought about this,” he confessed, voice rough. “Dreamed about how you’d taste.”

“And?” I asked, my fingers sliding up to tangle in his hair, needing something to anchor me as the world spun around us.

“Reality’s better,” he whispered.

I could feel his smile before he kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. His tongue slid in a rhythm that made heat pool low in my belly, made me imagine other ways we might move together.

I pressed closer, emboldened by the hardness I felt against my hip. His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, palm hot at the small of my back, fingers spreading wide, pressing into my skin as if he couldn’t get close enough. My breath hitched at the contact, my spine arching, every nerve ending on high alert. The contrast of cool air and the heat of his hand sent a ripple through me, and I clung to him, needing more. fingers splaying wide as if trying to touch as much of me as possible. The contact of skin on skin sent electricity sparking through me.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, trailing kisses along my jaw, down to the sensitive spot below my ear that made me gasp.

“Don’t,” I gasped, pressing my forehead to his. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as he searched my face. “You sure?”

I nodded, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. I’d never been more certain of anything.

“We should slow down,” he said as his fingers traced patterns on my skin that made me shiver. “I don’t want you to regret⁠—”

I silenced him with another kiss, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it. My inexperience, my want, my trust. When I pulled back, I found my voice again.

“I won’t regret what this does for you. I won’t regret making you feel good, Enzo.”

Something in his expression broke open, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before. This man who always seemed so sure, so steady was confused. His hands moved to my hips, lifting me slightly, adjusting our position so we fit together more perfectly. I gasped at the sensation, at how right it felt to be held like this.

“I want to make you feel good, too,” he whispered, his voice rough. “But we don’t have to rush.”

I swallowed hard, my inexperience making me both eager and terrified. “I want that too. I just—I’ve never⁠—”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, so tender it made my chest ache. “We go at your pace. Always.”

“I can’t get… I don’t…I can’t get properly hard,” I whispered, each word a blade of shame slicing through the warmth we’d built. The heat curling between us fled, chased away by fear and memory. My chest tightened like I was bracing for ridicule, for disgust, for something that would confirm every terrible thought I’d had about myself. Instead, Enzo’s gaze didn’t flicker. No pity. No revulsion. Just patience. Just care.

He cradled me tighter, his hand firm at my back. “Hey,” he murmured to soothe my panic. “This—what we’re doing—it’s not about that. It’s about you. And kissing you, holding you like this? That’s everything.”

His words didn’t fix the ache completely, but they softened it, made it bearable, and made me believe—for maybe the first time—that I wasn’t broken. My voice cracked on the last word, shame turning all the heat between us into something colder. I thought he might laugh or, worse, be angry. Instead, his expression stayed soft and patient, and his arms wrapped around me tighter, sheltering me from embarrassment.

“Holding you in my arms is enough,” he said

I believed him because of the way he kissed me—slow and deep and consuming, like I was all he wanted, as though I could be enough if I wasn’t perfect. He held, kissed, and touched me as if we had endless time to figure it out.

The garage was hardly romantic—tools hanging on the wall, the faint smell of motor oil and metal—but in that moment, it felt like the most intimate place in the world. It was just us, cocooned in our own universe, where nothing else mattered.

His thumb traced my bottom lip, and the kisses were gentle. The shift from urgent to tender made something twist low in my belly—a warm ache buzzing under the surface of my skin. I wanted to chase that feeling, to let myself be swept up in the tide of it, but a flicker of fear tugged at the edges of my thoughts. Could I want this and still be safe? Could I give in without losing myself?

But Enzo’s kisses didn’t demand. They offered. And with each soft press of his lips, the fear faded a little more. Maybe it would have become more, and I could have helped him come.

I was on sensory overload, too much self-doubt making me spiral. The best thing I could do was leave him to do his own thing now—no point in me being here if he wanted to get off.

Why would he be turned on because of me?

I slipped off his lap.

“Night, Enzo.”

“Night, Robbie.”

I was only safe when I shut my door and curled up in my bed.

Breathe.

I exhaled, stepping inside my room and shutting the door behind me. The familiar weight of solitude settled over my shoulders, but it didn’t bring the usual sense of relief tonight. It felt… off. Like my skin was too tight, my thoughts too loud.

I picked up my well-worn copy of The Hobbit, settling onto my cot with the small lamp giving me enough light to read. Losing myself in a book was easy. The words, the world, and the characters always swallowed me whole and let me disappear for a little while. But tonight, the kissing with Enzo, the weight of his arms around me, the storm of emotions I wasn’t ready to name—it all pressed in, making the letters blur.

I tried. Flipped a page. Then another. But I wasn’t absorbing any of it. My brain kept circling back to how Enzo had held and kissed me, how his breath had hitched, and how he hadn’t pulled away.

How he’d tugged me to sit on his lap.

My throat felt dry, a leftover consequence of too many emotions. I sighed and lasted an hour past hearing Enzo head upstairs before and swung my legs off the cot, padding out into the quiet of Redcars. The shop was silent, apart from the hum of the security system, as I made my way to the small kitchen at the back. The fluorescent light flickered on as I stepped inside.

I grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and took a long sip, letting the cold seep into me and hoping it might make me think less about Enzo.

But it didn’t work.

The image of Enzo—his steady hands, the way he’d held me so carefully as if I mattered—stayed in my mind, impossible to shake. I exhaled sharply, turning off the light and letting the darkness settle around me. But as I turned, something flickered in the corner of my vision—a small, bobbing light moving outside in the courtyard.

My breath hitched. The security floodlights should have clicked on if someone was out there. My pulse hammered as I leaned toward the window. Probably a cat. Maybe a car’s headlights bouncing off something metal. Something normal. Something explainable.

I stepped closer, peering through the glass, my breath fogging it. The courtyard was empty. Silent. But then⁠—

A shadow moved.

My stomach dropped. A face appeared at the window, only just visible under the hood of a sweatshirt, the fabric casting deep shadows over their features. My brain didn’t have time to register it before a light flicked on, the glow bouncing off the glass, catching on a glint of something metallic⁠—

A knife? A flashlight? I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

Glass exploded—shards flying inward like shrapnel. A brick slammed through the window with a crack that felt like a gunshot. I stumbled back, arms thrown up too late, the sting of tiny cuts already biting into my skin. Wind surged in behind the impact, and through it—arms. Hands. Someone trying to reach in.

Panic swallowed my breath. I hit the floor, heart hammering, scrambling backward on instinct. My back slammed into the wall.

“You fucking shit!” a voice roared from outside, vicious and unhinged. “Where’s my fucking money!”

It was movement, rage, and broken glass crunching under their boots. My chest tightened so hard it hurt. I couldn’t get air in. Couldn’t think.

John?

He’s here for me.

A scream ripped from my throat as I stumbled backward, my heel catching the edge of the counter. My shoulder slammed into the cabinets, pain jolting up my arm, but I barely felt it. My hands scrambled over the wall, my fingers searching, desperate. The panic button—I had to reach the damn panic button⁠—

My fingers finally found it, and I slammed my palm against it so hard I felt something crack beneath my hand. The alarm triggered, a high-pitched wail splitting the silence of Redcars, and I didn’t have time to gasp before the fear swallowed me whole.

SIXTEEN

Enzo

An explosion of glass, a scream, then the sharp, piercing sound of my phone alarm yanked me from sleep.

Redcars Emergency Alarm Activated.

Cold horror gripped me, and still fully dressed, sneakers and all, I threw myself down the stairs.

Robbie!

Danger!

“Robbie!”

The flashing security lights painted everything in sharp, unnatural bursts of red and white, shadows jerking and twisting around me.

My heart pounded, as I landed at the bottom of the stairs, in a crouch my muscles tight as I scanned the dimly lit garage, searching, desperate. A cool breeze through an open window? Open? No, smashed clean through.

Robbie had triggered the alarm. Robbie screamed.

But I couldn’t see him.

The bright, artificial glow of the alarm caught on the scattered tools and half-finished projects. My gut twisted, and every inch of me was on high alert.

“Robbie!” I shouted, voice raw. No answer. Just the flash of the alarm, the pounding of my pulse. I killed the flashing lights just as the front door swung open again, and I spun to face Logan, who slammed the door shut behind him, panting from running from his place.

“Robbie?” he asked, and I shook my head. “Where is he? Is that glass! What the fuck happened⁠—”

“I don’t know.” Were we too late? Had someone come for Robbie and taken him?

Jamie and Rio arrived, out of breath, moving in sync as if they were meant for this kind of chaos.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Robbie?” Rio demanded, his voice sharp, scanning for a threat.

“I thought you were looking out for him,” Jamie snapped as his gaze was locked onto every shadow and darkened corner as if he could see through them. If Rio was passion, Jamie was precision.

And me?

All I wanted was Robbie.

Let them handle whoever the hell else was in here—I needed to find him.

“Robbie!” My voice came out raw, desperate. “Fuck! Robbie!?”

By unspoken agreement, we all went quiet, listening, and then I heard it—a muffled whimper, my name barely more than a breath, but enough to have my stomach twisting into knots.

I moved toward the sound, my heart pounding in my throat, the others shadowing me. I scanned the space, my breath sharp, pulse hammering, eyes darting between the workbenches, the dark corners, and shadows. Someone flicked on all the internal lights, and I heard another sound—a sharp inhale. And then I saw him.

Robbie was tucked under a workbench, curled into the smallest space possible, his back pressed to the wall, knuckles white around a wrench. His entire body shook, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He looked so small, so damn terrified, and something in my chest cracked wide open.

“Outside,” Jamie said to Rio, and then sprinted past me.

“Robbie,” I breathed, dropping to one knee, hands up in surrender, slow, careful movements like I was approaching a wounded animal. “It’s just us. You’re safe. I swear.”

He was chanting something soft and low, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It sounded like a name.

John, John, John…

His eyes flicked to mine, wide and unfocused, his entire body rigid with fear. He was lost, drowning in whatever nightmare had dragged him under.

“It’s okay, Robbie,” I said, softer now but firm. “We’re here now.”

I didn’t know if he could hear me, but I wouldn’t stop trying. Not until I got him back.

I spoke again, lower this time, voice steady as my pulse thundered. “Logan, Jamie, and Rio are here too. They cleared the building. It’s just us now, Robbie. You’re safe.”

I saw the briefest flicker of awareness in his eyes, but he was still locked in fear, curled in too tightly.

Behind me, I caught the murmur of Jamie and Rio returned, talking low with Logan, confirming that whoever had been here was gone. But none of that mattered to me right now. The only thing I could focus on was Robbie.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Can I come under there with you?” I asked, although I knew there was no way I’d fit. But if I could wedge part of myself in, get close enough to reach him, to remind him I was here⁠—

He didn’t answer, but his breathing hitched as though the idea of someone near him wasn’t as terrifying as whatever had driven him under there in the first place. I took that as a yes and, with no real plan, awkwardly forced my way under the bench. I was twice Robbie’s size and it felt impossible to fit in the tiny space he’d folded himself into. But somehow, I managed. My back scraped the underside of the bench, my shoulder wedging against a toolbox, but I didn’t care. I needed to be close to him.

There wasn’t much room between us, close enough he could feel I was here, solid and real. I kept my hands loose, my posture open, making sure he knew I wouldn’t touch him unless he wanted me to. His breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped the wrench as if it were the only thing anchoring him.

“You did good, Robbie,” I murmured, keeping my voice soft and steady. “You hit the alarm; you got yourself safe. We’re here now. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

His eyes flickered, another breath hitching, and I could see when the words started to reach him. He wasn’t all the way back yet, but he was listening. That was enough. That was everything. I kept talking, my voice a steady murmur, filling the space between us with words that didn’t have to make sense, something to keep him tethered. I rambled about nothing special, talking nonsense, but it didn’t matter—it was about the sound of my voice, the connection.

And then I played my card. “Frodo is the hero,” I whispered, letting the sentence hang, pausing long enough for him to catch up, focus, and ground himself in something familiar.

“No. Sam,” he whispered, voice so faint I almost missed it, but it was there. A thread of recognition, something real.

I nodded. “Frodo,” I half teased.

Robbie swallowed hard, blinking at me, still shaking. “Sam’s the hero,” he murmured. His hand relaxed on the wrench, then, with a shaky exhale, he laced our fingers together, holding on like I was the only solid thing left in his world. His skin was cold, unsteady, but he didn’t let go.

“He was here.”

“Who, Robbie? Who was here?”

“John. He was here. I can’t, Enzo,” he murmured, voice raw and exhausted, little more than a whisper. His breath shuddered, and I felt every ounce of weight behind those words. “No,” he keened, his eyes glassy.

I squeezed his hand, firm and steady, letting him take whatever he needed. “I got you, Robbie. Always.”

He leaned into me, his breath still shaky but evening out, blinking under the harsh light. The wrench slipped from his grasp, clattering on the concrete floor. The sudden noise made him flinch, and in an instant, all eyes were on us.

Logan was the first to move, crouching in front of us, his expression equal parts concern and caution. Rio and Jamie stood behind him, attempting to look as unthreatening as possible, although Rio had his knife out, and Jamie was flicking his lighter.

Logan’s voice was steady, but I barely registered it over the blood pounding in my ears. Robbie shook, his grip tightening on my shirt, his breath uneven against my chest. I kept my hold steady, not pushing, letting him feel I was there, solid and real.

Robbie swallowed hard, his throat working as he tried to form words. I felt him tense again, the tremors in his fingers growing stronger before he forced them to loosen their death grip on my shirt. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“I thought… it was John… the window… there was a face.”

My stomach turned to ice. My grip tightened around his hand, steady but firm. “What face, Robbie? John? Who is John?”

He shook his head, his free hand pressed to his throat, fingers curling into the collar of his sweatshirt as though he was trying to hold himself together. “Not him. I don’t want it to be him,” he said over and over, and then his breath hitched again, and it killed me that he was struggling like this—so fucking terrified, so rattled. “The lights outside didn’t come on… a cat… I saw…”

“No lights at all?” Logan asked.

“No… then when they did, I saw him right there, and the glass… he broke the glass and he tried to get me,” he whispered, his voice breaking, staring down at his shirt as if he could see a handprint there. It was torn—that fucker actually put hands on Robbie?

His voice wavered, and he sagged into my arms, his forehead pressing into my chest.

“You’re sure the lights didn’t come on?” Logan asked him to clarify.

“No,” Robbie murmured.

“No lights,” Jamie repeated to Rio, who swore under his breath, his grip on his knife tightening. Jamie didn’t move, but his entire body went rigid, his jaw tight as he processed what that meant. Logan’s expression darkened, sharp, and calculating.

“No lights means someone’s tampered with security,” Logan said.

I didn’t listen to them, not when Robbie was in my arms. His fingers twisted into my shirt, clinging as if I was the only thing keeping him grounded. I didn’t hesitate. I held him tighter, tucking him in, my hand pressing his head, letting him feel every breath I took.

“It’s okay, Robbie,” I murmured, my lips brushing his head. “You’re safe. We’ve got you. No one is touching you.”

“I’ll stay until we’ve got some daylight,” Rio said.

“Same,” Jamie added, and the two of them exchanged meaningful glances.

Logan nodded at them, then held out a hand to help Robbie and me out from under the bench. It was easier for me to get out once Robbie had moved, but he was back against me as soon as I stood, fucking small and clinging to me.

“And I’m staying with Robbie,” I announced, leaving no room for argument. He sagged and I held him tighter.

“We’re gonna watch a movie,” I said.

Robbie blinked up at me, dazed, crying hard. “We are?”

“Yeah,” I murmured, squeezing his hand. I tugged him toward the stairs, guiding him to the loft space above the garage. I could still feel the tremor in his fingers, but he followed without hesitation, trusting me to hold him together.

I settled onto the sofa, pulling him down with me, and before I even had time to think about how close we were, he curled into me, tucking himself to my chest. No hesitation. No second-guessing, simply seeking out warmth and comfort as if he belonged there.

I hooked my foot around the quilt folded at the edge of the bed and pulled it over us, tucking him in and ensuring he was warm. Downstairs, I could hear Jamie and Rio murmuring low, discussing next steps, security, and whoever the hell had been out there watching. They had this covered.

And Robbie? Robbie had me.

He was quiet for a while, his fingers twitching where they fisted in my T-shirt. Then⁠—

“He found me,” The words were broken, as if they’d scraped their way out of his throat. He clung to my shirt like it was the only solid thing left, his body rigid with fear one second and trembling the next. I pulled him closer, but he didn’t relax—he just shook harder, like something in him had snapped and couldn’t be put back together.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered, but he wasn’t hearing me. He was somewhere else—back in whatever hell John had dragged him through. His breath hitched, short and sharp, and then the tears came fast, wild, no control left. Full-on panic.

“Don’t let him take me,” Robbie gasped, his voice cracking. “Please. Please don’t let him⁠—”

“I won’t,” I said, firm, fierce, holding him like I could shield him from everything. “I swear, Robbie. He’s not getting near you.”

But the words felt hollow.

Because I’d failed him.

I held him now, whispering promises like they could stitch him back together, but a brick had come through our window. A man had reached in—tried to grab him. Tried to take him. And I hadn’t stopped it. I hadn’t seen it coming. I hadn’t protected him.

How could I say he was safe when I didn’t even see the threat until it shattered glass and tore through his world?

I squeezed my eyes shut, guilt crashing over me in waves. I was supposed to be the one who kept him safe. I’d told him he could trust me. I’d told myself I’d be enough. But tonight proved I wasn’t. I couldn’t undo what happened. Couldn’t take away the terror. All I could do was hold him and hate myself for not being faster, stronger, smarter.

I kept saying I’d protect him. But how many times could I say that before it became a lie?

And if I couldn’t keep this promise…

What did that make me?

Sobs broke loose, his fingers gripped like claws, and my shirt bunched in his fists, damp with sweat and tears and panic. I rocked him, helpless against the storm ripping through him, only able to be the anchor.

His terror was alive, thrashing, choking. And all I could do was hold him tighter and promise things I’d die to make true.

“We’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. I mean it Robbie. I’ll tear him to pieces.”

That promise wasn’t made lightly. It came from somewhere deep and raw, from a part of me that hadn’t known fury like this until now. If I ever laid eyes on John again, he’d die. Simple as that. No second thoughts, no hesitation. That man had reached through the broken glass into our world, into Robbie’s trembling, shattered space, and tried to steal him back into hell. He’d touched him.

He’d made him bleed terror.

So yeah, I’d kill him. Because what else was left to do? What justice could possibly match what Robbie had been through? This wasn’t rage—it was something colder. Steadier. A storm building silent and relentless inside me, and John? He was the center of it.

I held Robbie as if I could fuse us back together. My arms around him, my cheek pressed to his hair, his tears soaking into me. He clung to me, smaller than he should’ve been, wrecked, wrecking me.

Hours passed like that.

“He touched me,” Robbie said every so often, broken, his breath hitched, unsteady, and he held himself rigid against me, as if he moved too much, he’d come apart.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Robbie.”

His sobs didn’t come all at once anymore—just the occasional hitch in his breath, the soft tremble in his chest. He hadn’t said anything in a while, and I didn’t ask. I just kept holding him, kept promising silently that I’d never let him fall again.

And finally, finally, the tears stopped.

He was quiet. Still. Not asleep, not calm. Just emptied out.

And he hadn’t let go of me.

“John had me,” he whispered. “He and two others…” He stopped. “One of them had a really gruff voice, tall, dark hair skinny, old, and the other one was always angry, he was short, had blond hair, and he was drenched in aftershave. But it was John who l-l-let them…”

His voice broke, and I felt something hot and wet soak through my shirt. The tears had started again, but he kept going as though the words had broken the dam and were spilling through the cracks.

“I wanted to go home. I didn’t even know where that was anymore. I didn’t know my name. I didn’t know if I was alive. And he’d laugh. He’d tell those other two that I was a good one, that my brain was good, told them not to hurt my head, that’s why I had the collar—they could hold onto it and…”

Fuck. FUCK!

“I tried to stay quiet. Obedient. Told them to keep me alive as if he was on my side.” His voice cracked again. “But he wasn’t.”

“Robbie…” I breathed, arms tightening around him.

“They didn’t know what he made me do, remembering the money trails, the evidence he had on them, the deals he made behind their back, and I wanted to live, but I fought,” he said, eyes wide and staring somewhere far away. “The first time. And the second. More… but then, I stopped fighting. And that’s worse. That’s worse, Enzo, because I just… let them hurt me.”

“You didn’t let them,” I was fierce. “You survived them.”

“I don’t feel like I did.” His whole body shook. “I feel like they’re still inside me. Like I never left.”

I kissed the top of his head. Held him tighter. “But you did. You’re here. You’re safe. And I swear to God, anyone who tries to take that from you again⁠—”

He buried his face to my chest and sobbed. Raw, awful tears that soaked through fabric and skin and dug into my bones.

“I’ll find them. I’ll keep you safe. I promise you.” As his world shattered, all I could do was hold him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “I’m so tired.”

“I’ve got you. You can sleep now,” I whispered into his hair, running a slow, careful hand up and down his back.

And he did. Before I could even start a movie, his breath had evened out, his body melting into mine as exhaustion dragged him under. I held him close, listening to the steady sound of his breathing and feeling the faint, almost absent-minded way his fingers curled against my shirt.

I should have stayed awake and thought about what this meant, the name that had left his lips—John—and the other two he’d described.

I should have been thinking about how someone had tampered with Redcars’ security and gotten their hands close to other half of my heart.

But instead, I sat there with Robbie safe in my arms and somehow, I slept too.

SEVENTEEN

Robbie

I woke up in Enzo’s arms, and he hugged me before letting me go, then waited outside the bathroom door as I showered and dressed before shadowing me downstairs. I was mortified and exhausted, every muscle tight, my skin prickling with the sense something—or someone—was out of view. And then last night…

Maybe it wasn’t him?

A face in the window. Just a glimpse. Half-lit. Half-shadow. Gone in a blink, but it had been there. Then another face, or had I imagined that?

The brick through the window.

The other face, grinning, pointing…

Jamie and Logan were already tearing into the security system as if it had insulted them. We were in the garage office, the air heavy with stale coffee, solder smoke, and the thrum of tension. Jamie was checking every wire, every junction box, muttering as he traced the network as if it were a map to something buried.

“Two,” I murmured to Enzo.

“Sorry, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart?

The endearment gave me strength. “There was someone else out there with John.”

“One of the other men?” he asked gently I wanted to cry again.

“No… it looked like… he…I don’t know”

“They hacked the wires to pieces,” Jamie called in, crouched outside the back door. “Cut the feed at the junction behind the breaker.” He pulled a laptop closer and tapped a few keys.

“How do you know this shit?” Rio asked.

“I know computers and I know wires,” Jamie said, and huffed in disgust. “but our system wasn’t killed pretty, it was hacked with a fucking machete. The only usable footage we have is this.” He turned the laptop, showed us something grainy, timestamped. “Backup camera,” he added. It showed the far edge of the yard where the chain-link met the alley wall. Two figures slipped through the gap—hoods up, shoulders hunched, faces hidden. One of them moved as if they belonged there, the other was clumsy, hesitant.

“That’s the only frame where we catch them,” Jamie said, voice flat. “Everything else is dark.”

I stared at the screen, pointing at the taller of the two. “John,” I said on a breath, my heart pounding. The image was nothing more than shadow and suggestion, but the chill crawling over my skin was real. That was the same silhouette I’d seen at the window. Same height. Same tilt of the head. John had been trying to get to me—at me. “And that… it’s the man with the car.”

“Who?”

“Vinnie.” I remembered his name, his face, and the fact he’d scared me.

Rio cursed.

“Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

You’re sure no one got in?” My voice cracked, and I hated that it did.

Jamie stared at me, his blue gaze steady but grim. “They didn’t get inside.”

Enzo tightened his hold briefly, “Sweetheart, do you remember anything about where this John guy held you?”

I shook my head. Everything was a haze, broken, tiny pieces of nothing at all. “Dark, a warehouse, cold, one room. When I ran, I crossed the freeway, but I didn’t see outside.”

Enzo hugged me, “I want that man dead,” he said in a dead tone.

I clung to Enzo, but I couldn’t hold onto him all day, and finally I had to step away and pretend I hadn’t lost my shit. Whenever he was near, I was hyperaware of him, and I wanted to sit with him, and kiss him, and then regretted feeling that, and I was caught in this endless loop of questioning what the hell I was doing.

Jamie was glued to his laptop, Rio fixed the window, welding bars across the space, Logan paced and talked to his ex on the phone about not visiting with Cassidy at the weekend, citing work—lying to her.

Me being here was fucking everything up.

Even Tudor visited, limping, leaning on his cane, exchanging clipped words with Logan before walking straight over to me. I winced, bracing for the inevitable—this was it. The part where he told me to leave. That I was too much risk. That I was endangering the people at Redcars.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he found Enzo, eyes sharp and filled with a fury I didn’t expect from someone who was so frail and recovering from an accident.

“Enzo,” he said, voice low and controlled, but lethal. “Find whoever did this to Robbie. Find who scared him. And finish it. You don’t stop. You don’t sleep. None of you let this lie.”

Enzo nodded, jaw clenched, silent and deadly. I saw Rio nod as well, but Jamie was still tapping away.

Then Tudor pushed himself upright with a soft grunt and made his way to the couch where I sat like something broken. He lowered himself next to me, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me gently to his side.

“We’ve got you, Robbie,” he said, his voice gentler now but no less fierce. “You’re our family, and we’ve got you.”

That broke something in me. The tears welled again, not just from fear, but from the unbearable weight of being cared for. Every part of me wanted to pull away, to disappear into the shame and the self-hate. But I didn’t. I let myself lean in. Just a little. Because something in me, something small and bruised and still alive, wanted to believe him.

Maybe they really did have me.

Maybe, this time, I wasn’t alone.

He left then, stopping one last time to talk to Enzo. I heard the name Killian—that was the lawyer guy who’d helped Logan, which meant nothing. I didn’t need a lawyer, I needed to be safe.

“Fucking asshole,” Jamie snapped, his mouth a tight line, as he tipped his laptop screen so everyone could see.

Enzo stiffened. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling.

“Vinnie,” he snapped.

“Didn’t know about the bakery cameras. Rookie mistake,” Jamie said.

“So we can’t find this John guy, then we track Vinnie down,” Enzo said. “And get him to talk.”

“People like that deserve what’s coming to them,” Rio said, cold as winter steel. “We find him, and I swear to God, I’ll skin him.”

I blinked.

“I’ll drag him into the alley behind Carters,” Rio went on, calm and brutal. “Take his goddamn kneecaps out one at a time, and when he’s screaming, I’ll ask him what the fuck he was doing sniffing around Redcars and where this John guy is. Then I’ll bury him in a pothole so deep they’ll build a Starbucks on his grave and never know.”

“That’s enough, Rio—” Logan began. He glanced behind him as if he expected someone to be there—maybe Gray, who’d been hanging around a lot.

“He threatened Robbie, Logan,” Rio’s mouth twisted. “He came into our house, and I know that fucker. Slimy, out for the money, and he’s affiliated.”

“Affiliated to who?” Logan asked, stiffening.

Rio glanced at Enzo, lips thin, regret in his expression as if he’d said something he shouldn’t.

“Stone Cross,” Enzo murmured.

Logan shot him a glance. “Your old crew?”

“Yeah.”

I swallowed hard. Vinnie wasn’t one of the three who’d hurt me, well, not then, but what if he was now? Who was Stone Cross? Were they connected to John? I felt sick.

Jamie’s expression didn’t change, but he stepped closer to Rio as if he were bracing for something in case Rio snapped in the other direction. “We’ll find Vinnie. We’ll fix this,” he said.

“I want Vinnie gone,” Rio said, so quiet I almost missed it. “Not scared. Not warned off. I want to get the information from him, and away from my family.” He shot me a glance. “I want him off the face of the earth.”

Enzo looked up. His voice cracked like stone against stone. “Then we find him, we do this clean. No cops. No trail. We find him, and we end it.”

I didn’t need to ask what “end it” meant..

All I knew was that these men—these hard, broken, beautiful men—had somehow claimed me as their family. And if Vinnie came back, if that tattoo on his wrist meant what they said it did, if he’d come sniffing around for reasons none of us could name yet, some connection to John, he’d regret it. Then they’d find John.

And they would kill for me.

Enzo would protect me, kill for me.

That truth hit somewhere low in my gut, sharp and overwhelming. No one had ever chosen me, protected me, threatened violence for me. Not like this. Not with the full weight of history and fury behind it. It made something unravel inside me, something cold and tight I hadn’t even known was still coiled there. I was used to running, hiding, surviving. But this? This was war in my name. This was love wrapped in blood and vengeance.

It terrified me.

It made me feel safe.

As for Jamie and Rio?

They’d make it hurt first.

There was something terrifying and comforting in that too. In the way they closed ranks around me without question. Like I was worth it. Like I belonged here, at the heart of all that rage and loyalty. I wasn’t just some broken thing they’d taken pity on. I was family. I was theirs.

And maybe—for the first time in forever—I wanted to be.

EIGHTEEN

Enzo

It was only after Jamie stated he wasn’t moving out of Redcars and leaving Robbie alone, a glint of madness in his eyes, and Logan said he’d stay to back him up, that I even thought of tracking down Mateo because if Vinnie was affiliated, and the man who’d hurt Robbie had actually been on Redcars property…

“What are we looking at with this Stone Cross shit?” Rio asked from the shotgun seat, turning his knife over in his hands and staring ahead with deadly focus. He hadn’t needed to come. I’d told him to stay back, to keep an eye on things at Redcars, to watch over Robbie. But Rio? He didn’t take orders like that. He just gave me this look—steady, certain—and said, “You’re not doing this without me.” That was who he was. Solid. Always there when I wished he’d stayed safe, stayed clear. I didn’t want him anywhere near the shadows I used to walk in. But Rio wasn’t going to let me face them alone. Not now. Not ever.

“Three generations-deep by the time I got close to it. Started small—boosted cars, corner deals, intimidation. My uncle ran with them back in the nineties, my cousin until he OD’d, and by the time I was old enough to be useful to them, they’d got a stranglehold on the district. Mid-sized gang by numbers, but they punched above their weight. Controlled the streets, even had a couple cops on payroll.”

“You got pulled in?” Rio asked. He wasn’t judging—I didn’t know his backstory in full, but he knew what the streets were like.

I sighed. “I had no choice.”

“And?”

“It was run by Sonny Delgado, all swagger and chaos. He’s dead, two years back, so we’ll be talking to his son Mateo.”

“And what do you know about Mateo?”

How much did I tell Rio? He was driving into this with me, but none of us ex-cons at Redcars sat around talking about our histories. We’d all done time, knew what we’d been into, but we’d forged a new family of friends who didn’t dig into this shit. But Rio should know what he was walking into.

“He was my best friend before we killed a man.”

“‘We’?”

“I had the knife—Mateo held him still. He was threatening Mateo, I snapped. Mateo had his hand on the knife. He ran when I told him, and I ended up locked away. I had a deal with his dad. I did time for murder, and kept my mouth shut about his son being anywhere near what went down, and he agreed to release me and leave me, and then Redcars when I got here, alone.”

“You think the deal is over now Sonny’s dead? That maybe Mateo’s the one pulling strings with Vinnie?”

“Fuck knows.”

“We’ll end it,” Rio said evenly.

But I didn’t look at him in a moment of buddy solidarity, instead, I focused on cutting across a cracked parking lot, steering toward the far corner. The bar up front used to be a dive with loud music that made your teeth hum, but now it was shuttered. The neon sign that had once screamed OPEN 24/7 hung crooked, and the windows were boarded up. I killed the engine and sat there for a second, the silence thick in the car. What if they’d moved on from here? Fuck. If I had to start on the streets asking questions…

“You should stay in the car,” I said, eyes still fixed on the shell of the bar.

Rio snorted, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a set of brass knuckles he’d never admit to owning. “Fuck that,” he said. “If you’re walking into this, I’m not letting you do it alone. You don’t get to play the lone-wolf act today, my friend.”

His voice didn’t waver. That was how I knew he was serious.

“They’ll be armed,” I murmured, watching the entrance as if it might sprout teeth.

“I assumed,” Rio said, voice clipped, his fingers brushing the inside of his jacket where he’d put his knife. No gun, but he didn’t need one. Rio was the kind of guy who turned a wrench into a weapon at half a second’s notice.

I side-eyed him. He was ready, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He’d seen what I’d seen. Maybe more.

“Last chance to back out,” I said, keeping my voice low.

He didn’t flinch. Just opened his door, climbed out, and met me in front of the car. Unzipped his jacket with one quick jerk, hooked his thumbs in his belt like he was showing he had nothing to hide. Like that made him less dangerous.

The one thing we’d all sworn to Tudor when we got out was no more heat, no more cops, no more crawling back into the shadows we’d clawed our way free from. Stay clean. Stay smart. But look at Tudor now, telling us to stop the shadows creeping closer? Trouble had found us anyway and standing still wasn’t peace—it was surrender. We weren’t chasing trouble, but we needed to draw a line in the sand. We weren’t the threat. We were the stop sign.

I walked with purpose, cutting between shadows and old dumpsters, bypassing the front door and heading around back. The place was cleaner than I remembered—no smoke in the air, no trash in the alley and no one was standing guard, which hit me as being all kinds of wrong.

It was too clean. As if someone had scrubbed the history out of it.

The side door opened with a creak. The hallway inside was more like an office building now than a gang HQ. Painted walls, flickering fluorescent lights, cameras tucked into the corners. Legit. On paper, maybe. Not in reality. Rio nodded once at the nearest camera, and we kept walking. Past the empty rooms. Past the silence. Past the ghost of who my brother had once been.

We stopped at a steel door at the end of the hall. I stared at the camera above it and waited.

The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open.

The room beyond was quiet. A long table sat at the center, surrounded by chairs.

“Lor.”

The voice dragged me out of my thoughts. Mateo stood from the table with a grin that hadn’t changed in ten years. He was tall and wiry, with dark hair buzzed close to his scalp and pale silver eyes that missed nothing. Dressed down in jeans and a faded black T-shirt that read Los Angeles in bold block letters, he didn’t look like someone who ran most of the west side with a grip of steel. But then there wasn’t much left of my childhood friend ether. A mix of Italian and Puerto Rican blood, with a healthy overdose of swagger, Mateo was dangerous in any language.

“Enzo.” I corrected because fuck if this asshole got to call me by my childhood nickname now we were all grown up.

He was carrying, of course—holster strapped tight to his ribs like a second skin, the glint of a familiar gun handle catching the light. The design carved into the grip wasn’t for show. I recognized it as the one his daddy used to wear, back when Mateo was a punk kid trailing after one of the most feared men in the community. That handle was a family legacy—and a promise of how things could go sideways. The men flanking him weren’t here to make polite conversation. Both strapped. Both watched Rio and me like we were walking threats.

He rounded the table, Goons One and Two stiffening. “And you brought a friend.” Mateo said and his grin widened. “Rio Villareal, fighter, killed a man in the third round, eight years in High Desert. Right?”

Rio stiffened, took a step forward, Goon Two’s hand rested on his weapon.

I held up a hand in front of Rio. “Why the fuck are you messing with my neighborhood?”

Mateo’s grin faltered, but it soon returned and he motioned to the table. “It’s good to see you Lor. Have a drink. It’s cocoa. Like Momma used to make.” A sense memory of creamy cocoa hit me. Mateo’s mom used to make it taste so good—probably adding love or some shit like that. I remembered one time—just one—when she’d made it for both of us after we’d gotten caught stealing cigarettes from the gas station. She hadn’t yelled. Just sat us down, handed us mugs, and told us we were better than this. That we had choices. Yeah, so many fucking choices. Mateo had laughed it off, always wanting to be the big man, to go places, to be like his dad. That one moment stuck like a splinter under the skin. Still there, still aching. Now Mateo was out here, making moves, marking territory on our doorstep. Why come anywhere near Redcars?

“Answer the fucking question, Mateo.”

Mateo sighed like I was being difficult. “You won’t drink cocoa; you’ve brought muscle; We’re nowhere near Redcars, so I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Lor.”

I stepped up to him, close enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his eyes; he still had a few inches on me, but I didn’t give a fuck.

Goon One moved, but Mateo waved him back.

“I had a deal with Sonny,” I snapped, unable to keep all of my emotions in check. “But you’re creeping around my home as if that deal didn’t mean shit.”

Both goons stepped closer, subtle, hands flexing.

Rio moved one step. I didn’t want a fight, but for my family… for Robbie… I’d fucking take them all down.

“I don’t break deals,” Mateo said, voice flat. “I’m nowhere near your garage.”

“Vinnie Rizzuto ring a bell?” I asked, watching his face.

Mateo didn’t flinch, but I saw it—a twitch, a tic in his jaw—and then Goon One opened his mouth.

“One of Luca’s new hires, boss.” And there it was—the slip. And if looks could kill, then Goon One would be dead right now.

I leaned in. “You owe me. I want Vinnie. You hear me, Matty?” Two could play at the childhood nickname game.

Mateo tilted his head. “The deal stands.”

I didn’t blink. “Then fucking fix your shit and bring me Vinnie.”

The room stayed still. Silent.

Mateo chuckled, low and slow. “You haven’t changed, Lor. Still playing alpha like it’s in your blood.” He flicked his fingers, that lazy little kingpin motion that sent people scattering. “You can go now.”

For a second, I thought he meant me, but the goons shifted. Goon One made for the door without hesitation. Goon Two hesitated, loyalty digging its heels into hesitation.

“Boss? This isn’t a good idea.”

Mateo shook him off like swatting a fly. “Fucking go,” he said again, and this time it was laced with threat. Then his gaze slid back to Rio and me like a slow knife. “I want to talk to my old friend alone.”

Next to me, Rio tensed, jaw grinding. I could feel the heat rolling off him.

“I’ll be five minutes,” I said, pulling the keys from my pocket and offering them like a peace token.

“Fuck no,” Rio barked, not even looking at the keys. “Vinnie is my problem too.”

Mateo dropped into a chair with deliberate calm, his voice silky with venom as he tapped his lower lip. “Ah, yes. Rio was Vinnie’s little plaything way back. Right”

Rio lunged the room in a heartbeat, grabbed Mateo by the collar, and yanked him upright, blade at his throat. Fast, efficient, no bluff.

Mateo didn’t flinch either, moved like someone who’d done this dance before. Pulled a gun from beneath his jacket, pressed it against Rio’s gut.

“Where the fuck is the little asshole?” Rio snarled. “I’ll kill him slow—inch by fucking inch—and then I’ll come back here and gut you from belly to throat.”

Mateo smiled, teeth white, and cold. “Are you offering me a good time, fighter?”

I shoved my way between them, palms up, heart hammering. “Talk,” I snapped, eyes pinned on Mateo. “Now.”

“What do you want to know? You know I’m an open book?” The lies just fell from his lips.

“Vinnie.”

“Talked the talk, didn’t do the walk. Came out yesterday talked some shit about this missing link, how he had a line on a million dollar payoff. This person who knows passwords to some big crypto, ran off from his benefactors.” His mouth twisted on the word as if he knew there were no benefactors, just kidnapping abusers. “He swears to me he saw this guy with you.” He blinked all innocent. “You wanna comment?”

My blood turned to ice.

A million dollar payoff. Passwords. Missing link. A guy who’d run off?

Robbie.

My insides twisted up into knots of nausea and rage. My temper flared hard and fast, sharp enough to taste blood. Somehow, Vinnie had known who Robbie was. Or he’d seen something, and Mateo was pinning his hopes on the cash. And worse—he was smiling. That fake-innocent blink, the same one he’d used on teachers when we were kids right after he’d stolen something from their desk drawers. Except this wasn’t candy or test answers. This was about Robbie. My broken, healing, brave-as-fuck Robbie.

Mateo reached into a pocket, and Rio was on him. “Easy fighter, just going for my phone.” He pulled it out and thumbed through the screens. “Crypto’s a big world, Lor. Lotta people on the dark web want their wallets unlocked. Especially when they’re full of Bitcoin some dumbass stashed back in 2013. If you’ve got a line on the kid with the passwords, you’re sitting on a goldmine.” He passed me the phone, and I took it and turned it to see Robbie. Maybe fifteen or sixteen, untouched, blond hair, mismatched eyes, staring at the camera, but it was definitely him. “That kid is the key, and allegedly, if we track him down, it’s a fuck-ton of money from concerned former employers.”

“Traffickers, abusers,” I spat as I saw red. Not metaphorical. Actual red. Behind my eyes, at the edges of my vision. “Is that who you are now, Mateo? Taking victims back to their abusers for money?”

Mateo was silent, and then he tilted his head. “I didn’t say that.”

I thought about Robbie, the scars, the pain, the fact he was only just coming back to life. “Then what are you doing?”

“Nothing, I ordered him to back off,” Mateo said.

I stepped forward so fast that Rio flinched. “Who put this call out and offered this reward?”

Mateo shrugged. “Dark web, anon shit, how the fuck do I know?”

But I caught it—that fraction-of-a-second flicker across his face. A tiny hitch in the corner of his mouth, a faint shift behind his eyes. Most people wouldn’t see it. But I wasn’t most people. And I’d known Mateo since we were kids pulling cons for candy and cigarettes. I’d seen every version of his lies, and that twitch was the tell.

He knew more.

He might’ve built on his daddy’s empire and probably buried bodies since then, but some truths never got old. Mateo was holding something back. He folded his arms over his chest, his lips thin, that was him done for the day.

“You’re crossing a line with me, Matty,” I warned. My voice was quiet, deadly. “And if you come near me or mine again, I’ll make sure you burn.”

He huffed. “You can try.”

“If me doing five years for you means anything, then hear me now—give us Vinnie, or we’ll take him out and leave the pieces where you can find them.”

“Give you one of my men?” he asked, faking shock. “And what do I get in return?”

“Nothing. This isn’t a warning, it’s a final fucking courtesy.”

Mateo raised his hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes was sharp. Too sharp. A million dollars. Crypto passwords. Someone who thought Robbie was some tool to be passed around and used. Like he hadn’t already been through hell. Mateo didn’t know it, but I would set the entire fucking world on fire to keep the man I loved safe.

“I’ll get him here for you, as a courtesy.” He threw the word back at me, then smirked. “I’ll call you, and you’ll owe me.”

“Fuck you.”

He grinned then and I wanted to punch him in the face. “Well, fuck you back, Lor.”

As we left, Rio first, Mateo called my name, and I turned back to face him. There was a softness in his expression. “Good to see you, old friend.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

Fuck him. Fuck the SC.

I’m going home.

When we got back to Redcars, Jamie inclined his head at me in that quiet way he had, like a nod that said everything okay? and I’ve got this all at once. I returned it, grateful.

Robbie’s door was open, the soft glow of a lamp spilling across the hallway floor. I slowed, heart hitching a little, and peeked in. He was curled on the bed, legs folded underneath him, a book that looked way too heavy for comfort balanced on his knees.

“You okay?” I asked.

He glanced up at me. “Are you?” His voice was shaky. “I was worried.”

“Nothing to worry about. We’re fixing things.”

“You can’t if…” He stopped, and I didn’t push.

I leaned against the doorframe, keeping my voice easy. “What’re you reading?”

He held up the spine. “Family Law and Custodial Disputes in the State of California.”

“For real?” It was a brick dressed as a book.

Yeah, it was left here, and I … well, Logan’s got some issues with Cassidy. Thought I’d see if I can find some stuff to help.”

My chest pulled tight. “That’s… kind of you.”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but I could see the way he clutched the book—gentle, careful. Like it was more than paper and ink. Like helping Logan, helping Cassidy, meant helping himself in some quiet way he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Enzo?”

“Yeah?”

He opened the book to the front and showed me, scrawled on the page was ‘property of Killian McKendrick. “Do you know this Killian? I heard you and Tudor talking about him. Or at least someone called that name, but how many people called Killian can there be?”

I was confused for a moment. “Oh, yeah, he’s some lawyer Tudor says we should call. I told him we don’t need a lawyer, we need to find Vinnie, then let the rest fall.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m good. Jamie went out for more cookies and⁠—”

“He left you alone in here?”

Robbie blinked at me. “Logan was here, it’s okay.” He frowned then, “I’m safe here, right?”

My angry response died in an instant. “Of course you are.”

NINETEEN

Robbie

Three whole days I did what I had to do for work, and then hid back in my room, and Enzo watched me go each time with an unreadable expression. It could have been relief or regret for all I know, and not once did he ask about John, but not once did he leave me alone.

At night, I’d lie awake, replaying that freaking alarm, and the man I’d seen and trying not to freak out that after Enzo and Rio went out to do whatever, Rio had disappeared for two entire days on business. In however long I’d been here, none of the guys had disappeared for that long, and no one would tell me where he’d gone in anything more than vague answers.

I was fucking this up, panic attacks and fear, when all I wanted was more kissing.

But then if we did that again, if he wanted me to sit with him and…

… I couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t bring myself to think about touching him. I thought too much about how his hand brushed my back when he passed by and how his voice softened when he said my name. I wanted those moments to mean something. To be real, not just my imagination twisting things into something they weren’t. But if they were real, what would I do with them? What could I possibly offer in return?

Doing or saying anything, even letting myself hope—if I reached for more and it all crumbled, I’d lose the one person who made this whole mess of life feel survivable.

So I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Wanting Enzo—wanting something I could never have—wasn’t worth the price of losing him.

But I wanted my body to work. I tried to ease the tension that vibrated in me whenever I looked at him. Forced proximity was a thing—all the romance books said so—and attraction to Enzo could be nothing more than this. I needed intimacy…

I think…

And finding someone other than Enzo to have it with so I could practice or learn or something.

I had to shut down my obsession with what his touch would feel like because he was my rock, and not think about how since the face in the window he was treating me like I was fragile again.

You are fragile.

Useless.

Sexless.

Enzo was steady. He was safe. And every time I let myself forget that, even for a second, the ground shifted. I refused to need more than what he was willing to give, so I shoved it all down, pretending I didn’t notice how my heart tripped when he brushed too close or his words settled in my chest, allowing me to breathe through panic.

Stupid fucking panic.

I wanted to sit on his lap. I wanted to be able to tell him that.

I can’t touch him.

I read my self-help books as if they were instruction manuals for fixing the broken pieces no one else could see. One of them said something about setting goals—about taking small steps toward the things you want. It made it sound simple, like all I had to do was name what I wanted and then build a staircase to get there. So I tried. Ultimate goal? Sex with Enzo. Or was it? A connection, maybe. Something real. Kissing, touching. Snuggling. Being close to him without my skin crawling, without my mind spiraling. Just… breathing next to him. How high did I shoot? I made a plan with tiny steps. Just one thing at a time. Like holding eye contact. Like standing close without flinching. Like asking for something without my voice shaking. Like not breaking when he said my name in that voice that made everything else go quiet.

Enzo didn’t know it, but every time he smiled at me, every time he said, “You’re safe,” I put another step in place.

I didn’t know where the staircase led, or if I’d ever make it to the top. But I knew who I wanted to find at the end of it.

Enzo.

And maybe me too.

The version of me who could reach for what he wanted without fear.

I had to believe he was in there somewhere.

So, I read.

TWENTY

Enzo

I loved staying in the apartment at Redcars. It wasn’t much, but it was near Robbie. That first night Robbie arrived, I didn’t leave his side. He wouldn’t let go of my hand, fingers curled around mine like a lifeline, terrified even in unconsciousness. And every night after that, I was happiest knowing he was safe. But last night there was no sleeping at all. I was anxious, grumpy, fell asleep at the kitchen table, and was tangled up in my damn head. I hadn’t heard anything from Mateo about Vinnie, and I couldn’t forget the fear at hearing Robbie scream when John had crashed into the window. All I wanted to do was hold Robbie and kiss him and keep him safe from everyone.

Including me.

Robbie needed safety, stability, someone who wouldn’t make it about their own selfish feelings. I mean, fuck, look how frightened he’d been when he’d pressed the alarm.

I raked a hand through my hair, muttering a curse. Robbie didn’t need confusion. He needed safety, comfort, a place where he didn’t have to be afraid. All of this meant I was awake at dawn, restless and guilty, Logan walking into the kitchen equally exhausted.

“You look like shit,” I greeted him.

Logan laughed. “Back at ya.”

“Late-night calls with Gray?”

He shook his head, drained. “Wish it was that easy. Lawyers are asking me to accept my ex and her new man taking Cassie to Switzerland for fucks sake, and I can’t afford a lawyer of my own and… fuck my life.”

Silence filled the kitchen as we waited for the coffee machine, both tangled in our worries. I jumped when Logan spoke again.

“So that’s me. What’s eating you?”

Frustration boiled over. “Finding Vinnie. Finding John. The others.” I rubbed my eyes. “Wanting more with Robbie, more kissing, holding him, completely fucking things up.”

Logan didn’t look surprised, just amused. “About damn time.”

“Not helpful.”

He shook his head, serious now. “Enzo, anyone with eyes can see how you look at him.”

I sighed, heart aching. “It’s complicated. Robbie trusts me. Depends on me. And after what happened with this John guy, I want to protect him, not confuse him.”

“Robbie’s not fragile,” Logan said, his tone gentle but firm.

“But he is… he’s scared and needy and looks to me to help and I should be doing that and not perving on him.”

“Jesus, Enzo, that’s a lot to unpick.”

I exhaled sharply, frustration curling through me. “It’s not—it’s not what you think. It’s not real. It’s just—” I gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. “We both know he’s running from something, and yeah, I’ve been there for him, but that doesn’t mean this—whatever makes me want to hold him is real. He thinks he needs me because I was the one who found him, and I make him feel safe. That’s not attraction. That’s survival. I’ve Stockholm Syndrome’d him. “

Logan huffed a quiet laugh. “Robbie isn’t a prisoner; you’re not his jailer.”

The side door creaked open, interrupting us. Jamie stood there, bleary-eyed, suspicion flickering across his face.

“Why are you two up?” Jamie asked, eyes narrowing, then he frowned. “Kid okay?”

“Not a kid,”

“Word on Vinnie?”

“Nothing. What are you doing here so freaking early?”

Jamie huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Rio went to a fight, and brought home a guest,” he said, using exaggerated air quotes. “Walls are thin.”

I knew better than to ask for details. Rio was a revolving door of hookups and half-hearted relationships, with each new encounter leaving a subtle ripple of tension. Though he rarely voiced his frustration, Jamie often got irritable with his roommate and best friend, his patience thinning with every restless night. Still, we had an unspoken agreement: Jamie kept his grievances private, I resisted prying even when I could smell smoke on him, and Rio remained a mystery wrapped in underground fights, random hookups, and bad decisions.

With a sigh, Jamie trudged toward the kitchen and planted himself in front of the coffee machine, glaring at it as if it had personally wronged him.

“I spotted someone leaning against a beat-up sedan across the street like he had nowhere better to be.” He pressed a button. The machine hissed, sputtering in defiance, but finally, all three of us had coffee, and Jamie’s statement had time to percolate as well. “Thought it was Vinnie and nearly leaped a car to burn the fucker.”

“But you didn’t.”

Jamie showed us his hands. “No accelerant,” he joked, and it was enough to get me to smile.

I took a slow sip of my coffee, jaw tightening.

Logan finished his first coffee, going in for a second. “We’ll keep all security recordings, okay?”

“Yep.”

Logan thumped the wall next to my head which dragged me right the fuck out of daydreaming. “Listen up, work as usual, okay? We’ve got two cars in today—a ‘67 Mustang and some piece-of-shit Civic that barely made it here last time. The Mustang’s got potential. The Civic? Not so much.”

Jamie smirked. “I call the Mustang.”

I snorted, all thoughts of drugs and drama and worry about Rio and Robbie forgotten. “In your dreams.”

Jamie smirked, setting his coffee down. “Oh, I think you mean reality.”

I nudged him lightly, grinning. “You’ve got nerve, kid. I’ve been here nine years. You? Barely three. That makes me the boss.”

“Boss of what?” Jamie shoved back, laughing. “The coffee machine?”

“Exactly,” I shot back, bumping him again. “Show some respect.”

Our laughter echoed around the kitchen, bouncing off cabinets and countertops until a sleepy Robbie appeared in the doorway. His hair stuck up at odd angles, the edges of his sweatshirt crumpled as he rubbed his eyes. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Jamie and I chorused.

Robbie muttered something unintelligible, shuffling sleepily back into the hallway. He probably hadn’t even fully woken up yet, but he didn’t look scared,

Fuck, he looked cute this morning.

“I have updates on security, you want to take this coffee upstairs? I can brief Rio when his dick dries.”

The three of us headed up to the apartment, and Jamie fiddled with his laptop and the TV screen lit up with security views.

“So walk us through it again,” I said, leaning back in the sofa, as Jamie clicked through the options.

“Cameras on every corner—indoor and out. We’ve got motion sensors at every window and infrared perimeter alarms. Reinforced door locks on the main and side entrance, and the yard bay door. All connected to a central system that logs every blip. Manual override, our access. No one’s getting through unless we buzz them in.”

“Good,” I said. I needed that part to be perfect. I needed to know that if someone came for Robbie again, they’d never make it anywhere near him.

Logan asked the first question, ever practical. “What about the fire escape access?”

Jamie nodded. “Sealed. Double-locked and under camera now. Any tampering, we get alerts.”

I leaned forward. “What if someone gets past what you’ve set up—what’s the reaction time?”

Jamie didn’t hesitate. “Thirty-five seconds to full lockdown, faster if one of us hits a panic button. And those are in every room, now, even bathrooms.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t done. “And if they come for him when he’s not here? What do we have in place for extraction?”

Jamie looked at me, serious now. “Then we go to plan B.” He held up a small device, no bigger than a fingernail. “Robbie has this, it’s a tracker and we move. Fast.”

We stopped talking when Robbie came out of the bathroom. He was dressed in sweats and a Redcars T-shirt—mine by the way it hung on him, and he hovered by the door. I patted the couch and it dipped beside me as he curled into my side, his body warm and quiet against mine. He didn’t say anything, just tucked himself in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. He still startled at noises, still scanned rooms like there was always a threat waiting—but when he was next to me like this, something eased. I felt it in him. The way he sighed into my side. The way his fingers curled into whatever I was wearing.

He was breathing easier.

“Jamie has made this place impenetrable,” I said.

But Robbie sighed. “Like a different kind of prison,” he mumbled.

Jamie turned to face him fully. “Not for long Robbie. You’re not alone in this. We will find them all.”

That made him breathe out again.

He was safe here.

Because we’d made damn sure of it.

TWENTY-ONE

Robbie

After months of nothing I’d woken up hard for the seventh day in a row, and it was getting tougher to deny why. Yesterday afternoon, I’d seen Enzo welding, and I’d found myself staring at the bright sparks illuminating the lean lines of his muscles, the way sweat trickled down his neck, dampening his dark hair and clinging to his skin. Then this morning, he was standing chatting with Jamie and Logan, and it had been him I’d stared at.

I was battling fear and exhaustion, but above all that I wanted Enzo.

I’d gone and developed a crush. A small one at first. Then something bigger. Something that consumed me.

And yet, Enzo was always the one asking if I was okay. If I needed anything, but what I wanted was for Enzo to stop smothering me in kindness, push me up against a wall—gently, of course, in case it was another one of my fucking triggers—and kiss me blind.

Was that wrong?

Should I let him? I mean, he deserved something for everything he did for me. But no… I didn’t owe him sex because he was kind.

Chapter seven of the self-help book told me so. It discussed how people who’d been hurt could mistake kindness for interest or affection or feel compelled to repay goodness with something they weren’t comfortable giving. It warned that survivors sometimes tied their self-worth to pleasing others because that was how we’d tried to stay safe.

Kindness isn’t a currency.

Don’t fuck everything up. They’ll make me leave. Sex is a weapon.

And repeat…

I was attracted to Enzo—and not only because he was kind. Right? It was more than that. I wanted to taste his skin, feel his heat, trace his muscles with my fingers, hear the sounds he’d make if I kissed his throat. I wanted to drop to my knees for him, not out of gratitude, but because it felt like freedom—like choosing something for myself.

When he’d held me in his arms that night and let me cry myself out, something had changed, and I wanted him.

But did I know my own mind?

I glanced at Jamie—handsome, blond, blue-eyed—and wondered if I’d feel the same about him although I’d have to ignore the chaos in his gaze. Half a heartbeat later, I dismissed it. Rio and Logan were good-looking too, solid and safe, but only Enzo set me alight. Just thinking about his touch made my pulse race. I’d fantasized for so long about desire without fear, being touched until I trembled with pleasure—not panic.

Had John at the window forced me out of my apathy and on to a dangerous path where I imaged a different life for me?

What would it feel like if Enzo touched me that way?

In my fantasies, he took me hard, until I was breathless and lost. The pain was different—better—than the kind I knew. But he’d never hurt me. In real life, he’d probably be too careful, afraid of breaking me. I’d end up frustrated, exposed. A mess of fear and want, of past and future, of something I couldn’t have.

What if I couldn’t have sex without pain and reward? What if my body locked up? What if wanting him wasn’t enough to drown out the fear? He’d probably do it if I asked—but not because he wanted me that way. He’d do it to keep me safe. But asking him for that? Letting him touch me? That might destroy me.

Maybe I needed someone else. Someone I didn’t care about.

I had this fantasy where I was fixed and normal and Enzo didn’t pull away. But that meant I wouldn’t flinch if he touched me. And if I did… would he still look at me the same? Or would he step back, let the distance grow, and prove I was too much? Too broken?

God. Broken.

The word clung to me, suffocating. I was trying so hard to believe I was more than what John had done to me. But how do you erase a word carved into your soul?

I wasn’t sleeping. I thought about pills—but then I’d sleep too deeply. What if something happened and I didn’t wake up?

I leaned back against the bathroom door and shut my eyes, my thoughts spiraling.

Chapter ten, paragraph fifteen. I am enough. I am worthy of love, not because of what I can give, but because of who I am.

I repeated it until my breathing slowed, and the panic eased, leaving behind a fragile calm.

I was still hard.

I locked the door, then started the shower,

I let my feet soak for a while, then unplugged the bath, stood under the shower, and stared down at my erection through the falling water; I closed my hand around my cock. The sensation was strange—parts of me felt nothing, and other parts screamed with hypersensitivity. This was the first time since forever that I’d wanted to touch myself.

My fingers trembled as they traced the scars, the ridges, and the valleys that hadn’t been there before. I winced as I hit a sensitive spot. The steam from the shower clouded around me, but it couldn’t mask the evidence of what had been done to me.

“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice echoing against the tile.

I tried to stroke myself the way I’ve seen in porn, instinctive, but my body wasn’t responding right. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel the metal, the constriction, the pain when John had locked me away as a punishment, putting that key out of reach with that smile on his face.

“You’re mine now,” he’d said. “All of you.”

My hand froze. The memory was enough to make my stomach turn, but my erection didn’t fade. I took a deep breath and tried again, more gently this time, avoiding the worst scarring.

The scars weren’t just physical; they ran deeper than skin, through muscle and nerves.

I leaned on the shower wall, feeling the cool tiles beneath my shoulder blades. The contrast with the hot water made me shiver. Each touch brought pain where I expected pleasure, numbness where I needed to feel. The water ran down my chest, tracing patterns around my scars before continuing its journey downward. I closed my eyes, trying to remember what it was like before. Before John. Before the cage. Before I’d become this fucked up version of myself. My breathing quickened as I found a rhythm that worked with my damaged flesh rather than against it. The steam enveloped me like a cocoon, and I could pretend I was whole again.

I kept my movements slow, testing. A jolt of pain shot up from a gnarled patch of skin, making me hiss through clenched teeth. But I didn’t stop—not this time. I worked through the pain, and my knees buckled when I found a spot that felt good and focused there. My breath came faster now.

I can do this

It’s mine again.

Every stroke was a battle between pleasure and memory, between sensation and scar tissue. I leaned harder to the tile and thought of nothing, focusing only on the feeling. Not John. Not the cage. Not the night Enzo had found me half-dead in the garbage, my body ruined and fever-hot from infection.

Nothing happened. I wasn’t anywhere near close. I couldn’t do this.

I winced, adjusting my grip, finding the places where feeling still existed without pain. My forehead pressed against the cool tile as water cascaded down my back.

“Come on,” I whispered to myself, to my body, like coaxing a frightened animal. “Come on.”

The mechanics were there—I knew what to do—but my body had forgotten how to respond. Doc had told me about nerve damage, about scar tissue forming where it shouldn’t. “The physical wounds will heal,” he’d said, cleaning blood from places that should never bleed, “but the rest… you’re fucked.” Doc was blunt as hell, but he’d kept me alive, and for that, I’d forgive him for telling me the worst of everything.

A sudden flash of memory: John’s voice, the click of the lock, the way he’d tap the cage with his fingernail and threaten me when I kept my secrets and cried. I shuddered, nearly losing my erection altogether.

“No,” I growled, forcing the memory away. “He doesn’t get to take this from me!”

But it was already too late. Nothing came. My arousal faded, leaving only emptiness. I curled up under the pounding water, slid to the bottom of the tub, and cried until I couldn’t breathe. Knees to my chest, arms locked tight around them, I wept like I hadn’t since those first broken days after Enzo found me. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, lost in the stream of water swirling toward the drain.

“Fuck,” I choked out, the word sharp in the echo of tile. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I slammed my fist against the bath—not enough to bruise, just enough to remind myself I could still feel something. The water turned cold. I didn’t move. Time blurred. My forehead rested on my knees, and I let the cold seep in, too numb to care, but a thump on the door jolted me back to reality.

“Robbie?” It was Enzo’s voice, gentle but concerned. “You okay?”

I swallowed hard, my throat raw from crying. The water had gone cold now, my skin prickling with goosebumps.

“Yeah,” I managed, the word scraping past my lips. “Fine.”

“I’m coming in unless you tell me not to.”

“I locked the door! Go away!”

I clambered out of the bath, grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped myself in it, and then struggled into the robe on the door, rough against my hypersensitive skin. I pushed my feet into godawful bright orange shower slippers and let myself out. I couldn’t look at Enzo or bear to see the pity I knew would be there.

“Robbie?”

“I’m fine,” I snapped, scurrying down the stairs to my room.

I shut the door.

In here was order and control, which meant nothing could surprise me. I needed to lose myself in the order of things and after a few minutes of organizing piles of paper, I opened my door to the day, ready to handle work. Jamie headed over first.

“I can’t find paperwork for a part,” Jamie announced from the filing room doorway.

I inhaled, my pulse kicking up for a split second before I forced it down. I glanced at my wrist—it wasn’t even eight a.m., and he was already asking questions. Had Enzo sent him over to check on me? He didn’t act as if he was here to dish out empathy, nope, he was serious, focused, and intense, his piercing blue eyes sharp as he scanned my room as though he was checking I hadn’t taken the paperwork he was searching for. His blond hair had a liberal oil streak, but the rest was messy, as if he’d just stepped off a surfboard.

Not that he went surfing because it was hard to learn, he said, when he’d spent most of his teenage years in prison.

All four guys at Redcars had done time, but I didn’t know all the details. I never searched on Enzo’s phone, and I never asked. Jamie had a silent, precise way of moving, making him seem as if he could disappear and reappear at will. His piercing blue eyes missed nothing, and that quiet focus made him unpredictable. He also had this habit of holding a lighter, turning it in his hands, flicking it every so often and staring at the flame.

Creepy as fuck if I hadn’t known he was one of my newly found family.

Jamie and I had come to terms early on—he wouldn’t use his creepy ninja moves to startle me, and I would learn to bake cookies and make him as many as he could eat. It was an odd truce, but it worked for us. Beneath the sharp edges, there was sometimes a smile, and he bristled whenever anyone attempted to be mean to me, but that didn’t excuse the fact the man was freaking useless with paperwork and relied on me to fix his mess-ups.

“Which paperwork?” I asked after a brief pause, waving at the piles of loose papers that had been dumped on me.

“The piece-of-shit Civic.”

“What about it?”

“I’m missing the paperwork.”

“So you said.”

“Do you have it?” He frowned.

I masked the irritation creeping in. It was too early for questions. “What paperwork are you missing?”

“For the piece-of-shit Civic. I said that⁠—”

“Exactly what part for the piece-of-shit Civic,” I said with exaggerated patience.

He gave me an upward nod. “Plugs.”

I sighed, closing my eyes, letting my mind filter through the endless pages I had processed over the last few weeks and the papers I’d already flicked through this morning. Purchase orders weren’t just papers to me—they were imprints in my memory. I could see them as clearly as if I were holding them. The torn edge of the top left corner, the faded blue ink, the slight smudge where someone had dragged their finger over wet numbers.

Two weeks ago, Enzo placed a purchase order for a set of Civic plugs. The invoice number had a small grease stain on the top right. I opened the correct folder, pulled out the invoice, and the amounts matched.

That was the result of having a photographic memory. Although it was a burden most of the time, it was sometimes helpful, as it was now.

“Got it,” I said, handing Jamie the invoice without looking at him.

“Your brain is freaky,” he muttered, but there was no heat. Instead, he said it with something close to awe.

I huffed, shaking my head as he left. Maybe I was a freak. I’d spent too long being treated like a tool, a means to an end, a thing instead of a person.

Don’t let the past sneak in.

Breathe.

I returned to the filing, trying to concentrate, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before someone came over to interrupt me with a question. It was inevitable. I made a silent bet with myself that it would be Enzo. It was always Enzo—checking in, ensuring I was okay, asking if I needed anything.

But that was wishful thinking, and I lost the bet.

“Hey, Robbie, you got a second?” Rio’s voice cut through my thoughts, and I swallowed my disappointment before facing him.

It was ridiculous that my stomach had already started flipping in anticipation of seeing Enzo. It was worse that I even wanted to see him and waited for him. “Earth to Robbie, come in, Robbie,” Rio said, waving a hand in front of my face. “You back with us?” He wasn’t teasing me, he was genuinely worried, and somehow that made me squirm.

I blinked, my face heating as I realized I’d been lost in thought. “I’m here,” I muttered, though we both knew that was a lie.

Rio smiled in encouragement, but that worry was still there. “Sure. Are you gonna tell me what had you zoning out, or do I get to guess?”

Not John. Not that Vinnie guy. Certainly not Enzo.

All lies.

“I was thinking about work,” I defended.

“Yeah, right.”

“At least one of us does that,” I joked—anything to lighten this weird stare-off Rio and I had going on.

Rio took the joke and ran with it, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Wow. A direct attack. And here I thought we were friends.”

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. I knew Rio worked hard—probably harder than most people gave him credit for—but that didn’t mean I would let him off easy.

He grinned, dropping the act as fast as he’d started it. “Talking of non-work…”

“What have you done now?”

“Let’s start again,” he said. “Morning, Robbie.” Rio’s voice carried the confidence that set him apart from Jamie. Where Jamie was controlled and deadly quiet at times, Rio was wild and unpredictable, his energy shifting constantly, but his smile was gorgeous. It wasn’t as beautiful as the ones I got from Enzo, but it was very nice.

“Morning Rio,” I deadpanned. “What can I help you with?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, exuding the kind of effortless cool that made people gravitate toward him. In doing so, he revealed tattoos climbing up his forearms and disappearing beneath the short sleeves of his shirt. Jamie had tattoos, darker, more intricate, woven like secrets across his skin. But Enzo’s tattoos were my favorite because…

Well, it was because they were on Enzo.

Then he pouted, “The coffee machine is snapping at me.”

“Seriously, Rio, what did you do to it?”

“Nothing! I swear. It’s just in one of its Jamie-type kill-everyone moods again…” He waggled his finger, a knowing smirk on his face. Jamie might be quiet most of the time, but avoiding his propensity to burn things when something got under his skin was best.

“And?” I encouraged.

“And what?”

“You’ve just come to tell me that the coffee machine spat at you?”

Rio huffed. “It didn’t just spit at me—it launched a scalding revenge mission. It’s personal now.”

I smirked, setting my pen down. “You do realize it’s a machine, right?”

He pointed at me with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s what it wants us to think. But I swear it’s evolving. One of these days, it will form a union and demand better working conditions.”

I rolled my eyes, but I knew where this was going. It was always on me—from staples to complicated mechanical parts that seemed to break more each week. Keeping the coffee hub running was becoming a full-time job, and every request felt like solving a new puzzle. It wasn’t just frustrating—it was impossible. Sometimes, I wondered if it malfunctioned to test my patience or if the guys secretly enjoyed watching me struggle to hold everything together. Still, I accepted it. This was my role, my part in keeping Redcars functional. “What do you need for it?”

Rio tapped his temple. “It needs a new filter, an exorcism, or a blessing from a young, sexy priest—whichever we can get first. Preferably all three.”

I snorted. “Pretty sure an exorcism is out of the question.”

Rio threw his hands up. “Then how do you explain its unholy vendetta against me? It hissed, sputtered, and then shot a stream of molten lava straight at my hand. This is how horror movies start.”

“It’s a no on the priest as well,” I said with exaggerated sadness. “And I doubt we have any holy water lying around.” I almost enjoyed this banter, as if everything were completely normal.

No Vinnie. No John.

“Shame,” Rio deadpanned. “That would have been my next request.”

“I’ll order the part.”

“It’s that flicky part, with the thing on it, the…” He shrugged.

“PT67/M with the chrome case,” I finished.

“I was going to say that,” he lied. Then he lowered his voice. “I think Jamie broke it.”

“Sure.”

I was only just back into my work when, this time, it was Logan who appeared, worry making him frown, exhaustion in his posture. There was sadness in his eyes, a quiet resignation that made my stomach twist.

He rubbed a hand over his face before checking behind him, then whispering. “Can you cover the phone for an hour?” His voice was steady, but something was fraying at the edges underneath it. “I need to head out to the docs with Tudor.”

I hated answering the phone, but I nodded, and Logan hesitated, then exhaled, glancing toward the floor as if debating something. Finally, he met my gaze again and lowered his voice even further. “Also, can you do your thing and research private care facilities in LA? Keep it to yourself.”

My stomach dropped. The way he said it, the quiet defeat in his tone, told me everything I needed to know. This wasn’t precaution—this was inevitability. We all knew Tudor wasn’t getting younger, and after a prolonged fight with developers who’d wanted the land he lived on had left him with a permanent injury, plus his refusal to eat healthily, he was slowing down way too much. I didn’t have to be a genius to work out that Logan was researching San Diego care facilities, placing Tudor somewhere safe near where Logan’s partner, Gray, worked.

Logan was with Gray now—the sharp-eyed journalist who used to freak me out with how easily he saw through people. But when it came to Logan, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn away from the scar that slashed from temple to lip, which gave Logan that hard, dangerous edge even when he was being soft. Gray looked past it. No, through it. And sometimes, I think he loved Logan more because of it, not less. Like the scar told a story only Gray had the patience and heart to understand.

They were stupid in love. The kind that made people softer around the edges without them even realizing. I’d seen it more than once—Logan’s hand on Gray’s lower back as they moved around each other like they were still learning how to share space and didn’t want to get it wrong. Gray’s eyes tracked Logan when he spoke, as if every word mattered. The way Logan smiled at him—really smiled, rare and warm and unguarded.

Sometimes, I watched them with a twist of envy I didn’t want to admit to. Not jealousy exactly—more like hunger. A dull ache in my chest whispered, I want that. Not their exact story, not their perfect moments. Just… to be seen, known, and loved like that.

Maybe one day, someone would look at me and not see the mess or the scars. Maybe one day, they'd see me.

But that was a thought for another day.

Now, all I could worry about was what would happen if Logan left to build a new life with Gray in San Diego. Did that mean he was leaving us? Leaving Redcars behind? And if he was—what did that mean for the rest of us still trying to hold this place together?

This was my home. My safe space. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Here, the world outside could wait. Here, I wasn’t running from ghosts—I was Robbie, and after Enzo holding me, saying he’d kill for me, it had almost begun to feel like enough. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over the rows of labeled folders. The scent of old paper, ink, and the faintest trace of motor oil clung to the air. It smelled like safety. It smelled like mine.

This was my space. My order. No one came in unless I let them.

And outside, I had four big men who watched out for me. Men I trusted now, who would do anything to keep me safe.

Jamie. Rio. Logan.

And Enzo.

“Of course I can,” I whispered back, reaching for the last notebook on my shelf, which I used to keep personal notes. Logan passed me the handset, and I took it as though he were handing me a live grenade. I tried hard, but dealing with customers could go one of three ways: moderately okay, bad or really bad.

I was almost done shelving the latest batch of paperwork, trying to make sense of Jamie’s latest attempt at filling out forms, and there had been no calls yet. His careful block capitals were neat, but matching them with purchase orders was a nightmare. Did no one at Redcars listen to me about the information I needed? All purchase orders were required to link to the invoice, yet somehow, I was expected to piece it together like a puzzle.

“Hey.”

Finally, Enzo was here.

He was built like a mountain, solid and strong, but his presence never made me feel small. He moved with an easy confidence, never looming, never crowding. His deep brown eyes were warm, filled with quiet patience that made my breath catch, and his hands—large, calloused, capable—handled delicate engine work with the same gentleness I’d once seen him use to scoop up a stray kitten outside the shop.

He was everything that should have sent me running, yet somehow, he was also the safest place I’d ever known.

He protected me. He stood like a wall between me and the world, and I hid behind him because he never asked why. He just was. And in his presence, I felt safe in a way I hadn’t in years.

“Hi,” I said, my voice softer than I intended, a rare, unguarded smile tugging at my lips as I looked up at him.

“Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out to pick up a car.”

“Sure.”

“It’s a Pontiac 1970 GTO.”

“Okay.”

“Jamie and Rio are both here.”

“I know.”

I know you won’t leave me alone. I know you look out for me.

“Later,” he murmured and then vanished.

I missed him as soon as he left.

TWENTY-TWO

Enzo

The Pontiac was a pile of rusty shit held together with a hope and a prayer.

It was beautiful.

Everything started out okay. The air in the private garage smelled like old oil and rusting metal, which should’ve been familiar but only made my skin itch because it wasn’t Redcars and I wanted to get back to Redcars. Fast.

“Two thousand,” I said, my gaze running over the battered Pontiac. The once beautiful machine had seen better days—its black paint dulled by years of neglect, rust creeping along the wheel wells, and a busted headlight that gave it a lopsided glare. The engine had seized, the carburetor needed a complete rebuild, and the exhaust was barely hanging on. But under all that wear, the bones of a beast remained, and I knew Redcars could bring it back to life. Rio loved this shit, and Jamie was always good with a rebuild.

The man in front of me—Albie, a grease-stained, half-retired hustler who’d been around long enough to think he had leverage—scratched his chin, unconvinced. “Yeah, well, Logan said we could make a deal.” I knew for a fact he hadn’t even spoken to Logan.

“You’re dealing with me,” I said, arms crossed over my chest.

“Logan and I always had an understanding,” Albie muttered, running a hand over the dull, fading paint job of the old muscle car.

I didn’t have time for this. “Bottom line, you want to sell or not?”

The door swung open behind me, and two guys stepped in. Big. Purposeful. No gang tattoos I could see but these were heavies who were intended to intimidate.

My pulse kicked up, my hands flexing at my sides, muscles coiled and ready. My breath shallowed, a deep-rooted instinct whispering that something was off. Every nerve in my body braced for the next move; for the moment, things would shift from tense to dangerous.

Was this a set up? Was this Stone Cross and Mateo? Vinnie? Was this John pulling strings? I shouldn’t have left Robbie. Hands loose at my sides, I kept my stance wide enough that if this went sideways, I’d have room to move. The tension crackled in my chest, an old instinct kicking in whether I wanted it to or not.

Albie waved a hand. “Relax. They work for me.”

I didn’t relax. I stayed as I was, watching them flanking the exit, checking me over as though taking stock of what it’d take to put me down.

I didn’t appreciate being stared at in that way.

“We all need protecting,” Albie tilted his head, narrowing his gaze, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Heard Redcars got some trouble coming their way. Stone Cross making moves?”

My heart stopped.

I was on Albie in an instant—hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. The guards beside him moved, but I shoved them back like they were nothing—children trying to hold back a wildfire.

“What did you say?” I growled, face inches from his, voice low and lethal.

Albie gasped, caught off guard, the smugness vanishing as he clawed at my wrist. I didn’t let up. Didn’t blink. He’d said too much.

“Nothing, rumors is all,” he scrabbled at my hands.

“What do you know?”

“Nothing, I swear, just heard from some guy called Vinnie⁠—”

“What about him?”

“Tried to sell on a boosted car! Fuck! Let me go.”

“Where is Vinnie?”

“I don’t know! This was weeks ago!” I choked him harder, but let the two big guys pull me away.

“If I find out you’re getting up in Redcars business I will end you. Right here,” I snapped as I shrugged them off.

I let the silence stretch and get heavy enough that Albie blinked first. I was outnumbered, but I could do severe damage if pushed. Then I exhaled—I wasn’t going to lose my temper on a job and put myself in harm’s way— slowly, deliberately, I turned back to Albie. “You taking the offer on the car or not?”

He hesitated, glanced at his guys, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we got a deal.”

The tension in the room eased.

“Load her up, boys,” Albie said, and the two thick-necked men hurried to get the 1970 GTO onto the back of the Redcars truck.

As soon as I was heading back to Redcars and away from Albie, I felt the tension ease from my shoulders and when I parked up in the yard, Rio was there in a flash, eyes lighting up at the Pontiac on the back of the truck, but he must have caught my expression.

“What?” he asked under his breath.

“Vinnie causing shit about Stone Cross moving in around here.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Nope.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Jamie interrupted, climbing onto the truck bed and running a hand over the rusted hood, tracing the faded lines of what had once been a beast of a machine. “This is going to be a kick-ass project. What are we working with?” Wrench in hand, he pried the hood open. He whistled low as he took in the engine. “Damn, rough as shit. Carburetor’s shot, belts are cracked to hell, and that exhaust is a lost cause.”

Rio and I exchanged glances—nothing more to talk about here. Lets’ change the subject.

Rio clambered up to join Jamie. “It’s got good bones. We swap out the carb, reinforce the frame, get a new set of wheels on her—she’ll be a monster again.”

I watched them both, the weight of the earlier encounter easing slightly. “How fast can we flip it and turn a profit?”

Rio snorted, wiping grease from his hands. “A month? More like two if you want it done right.” Then he grinned. “Unless you let me take some creative liberties.”

I shook my head. “No nitrous.”

“No promises,” Rio shot back with a wink. I needed this. I needed normal.

“What’s this one?” Robbie asked, and I damn near jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t expected him to be interested, not in cars. That had never been his thing. But lately, he’d been trying, asking questions, listening when I talked shop. And hell, I was more than happy to talk about cars rather than confront the shadows in his expression. It kept me from saying something stupid—and I didn’t mean about killing anyone who hurt him. I mean, like how much, when this was all over, I wanted to take him on a date, kiss him again, or hold him as he fell apart in my arms.

I ran a hand over the faded black hood, the dull sheen of the Pontiac showing hints of the power it used to wield. “1970 Pontiac GTO,” I said. “They called it ‘The Judge’ back in the day—one of the baddest muscle cars to ever hit the streets. This one’s seen better days, but she’s got a solid frame. Needs a full rebuild—carb, belts, exhaust, the whole nine yards—but once she’s done, she’ll be a beast again.”

“A loud one,” Rio added with a grin. “This thing, stock? Already had three hundred and seventy horses under the hood.”

Jamie, half-buried under the open hood, let out a snort. “But you know we’re not leaving it stock.”

“Exactly,” Rio said with so much enthusiastic hand-waving he nearly wiped Jamie out. “We get the right setup; this baby’s gonna roar. Dual exhausts, new headers, maybe an LS swap if we’re feeling ambitious.”

Robbie nodded as if he understood, but I could see the crease in his brow, the way he was trying to piece it all together. “So… you’re bringing it back from the dead?”

“Exactly.” I leaned against the truck, watching Jamie tinker and Rio throw out modification ideas with the excitement of a kid in a candy store. “Then we sell it on, and it’s all gravy.”

Robbie huffed a small laugh and stepped closer, brushing his fingers along the door. “It looks… kinda mean. Like it has a story.”

“Oh, it does,” Rio jumped in. “These things were made for the streets. They were fast, loud, and not afraid to throw down. This one? We’re giving her a second life.”

Jamie wiped the grease from his hands and looked up. “Hey Robbie, you like it?”

Robbie hesitated for a second before glancing at me. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

“She’s gonna be beautiful,” Rio said all wistful before turning back to Jamie, already elbow-deep in the engine.

“This intake manifold is a mess,” Jamie muttered, gesturing at the grime-caked component. “Looks like someone tried to swap out the original carb for a four-barrel but botched the job. Might explain why the engine seized.”

I turned to Robbie, ready to explain. “The intake manifold distributes the air-fuel mixture to the cylinders. If it’s cracked or clogged, the whole system chokes.” I gestured with my hands as if that made my explanation any clearer.

Robbie nodded, eyes sharp. “I read a book about it,” he said, tilting his head as if he were thumbing through cards in his brain to find the right one. “So if they mismatched the carburetor, it would’ve thrown off the fuel-to-air ratio, starving the engine or flooding it, depending on how bad the setup was.”

Rio and Jamie both paused, eyebrows raised. I blinked. “Uh, yeah. Exactly.”

Robbie smirked, but then his expression faltered. He dipped his head, looking uncertain, as if he’d overstepped. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I meant to listen to you explain. I just—” He shrugged, fidgeting. “Yeah.”

I crossed my arms and eyed him. “Okay, Mr. Brain,” I teased. “What do we do next?”

Robbie blinked at me. “You want me to answer?”

I nodded. “Go for it.”

He hesitated for a beat, uncertainty flickering in his eyes as if he were weighing the risk of speaking up. Then, with a quick breath, he squared his shoulders, determination settling over him like armor. “Well,” he began, counting each item on his fingers, “first, we need to remove the old Rochester Quadrajet 4MV carb and check the condition of the intake manifold gasket—if it’s brittle or cracked, we’ll replace it. Next, we must clean any varnish or sludge from the intake runners and check the vacuum lines for leaks. The fuel lines should be flushed, and the inline fuel filter—probably a GF416—should be swapped. There’d be issues if we slapped a new Edelbrock 1406 on there without first ensuring a clean fuel delivery system.”

Silence. We all stared at Robbie.

“How the fuck do you even know that?” Rio asked, and I sent him my best shut-the-fuck-up stare, which he ignored. “You’re like a walking encyclopedia!”

The damage was done. Robbie’s face was scarlet, and he dipped his head, embarrassed, as if he’d overstepped. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I meant to pretend to… I just—” He trailed off, and stared up at me, his eyes wide with fear. “I remember things I read. It’s kind of my superpower, I guess. I’m sorry to overstep... so sorry.” He stepped back, but something compelled me to stop him. He should be proud that his brain was so freaking full of clever shit, own it, use it. I know I felt proud of him.

“Ignore Rio, he’s an asshole,” I reassured and punched Rio in the arm.

“I’m not an asshole; I’m just observant!” Rio snapped, rubbing his elbow.

“‘Observant’?” Jamie scoffed. “Yeah, sure, let’s call it that. More like you have the subtlety of a jackhammer and no brain.”

“Excuse you, I have plenty of brain. I choose not to use it.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “And that’s why nobody trusts you with their coffee orders.”

“That was one time!” Rio shot back, throwing his hands up. “How was I supposed to know oat and regular milk weren’t interchangeable?”

Jamie smirked, reaching out and smearing an oily hand across Rio’s mouth before he could say another word. Rio yelped, stumbling back, cursing between muffled grumbles.

I left them to their nonsense, shaking my head as I turned back to Robbie, who was watching with wide eyes. “Okay. So what do we do next?”

Robbie’s gaze flicked to mine, uncertainty flashing across his face. “I haven’t read that far yet,” he said, sounding so disappointed it made me smile.

“Best get to it then,” I teased. Robbie glanced from me to the car and back again, and then, with a small, nervous huff, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the file room—his room—leaving us watching him go.

Jamie clambered down from the truck, smears of oil streaked across his face, looking smug.

“Kid’s a fucking genius! Imagine how much money we’d rake in with his card-counting at a poker table!”

My temper flared hot and fast before I even had time to think. One second, I was standing there; the next, I was on Jamie, shoving him back against the wall.

“Don’t you even think of putting him in that position,” I growled, voice low and sharp.

Jamie’s eyes widened, staring at me unfazed—freaking psycho—studying me as though I was a bug on a pin. He didn’t try to push me off because he knew I’d let nothing slide where Robbie was concerned, so instead, he let me posture and threaten him.

“Jesus, Enzo,” he muttered, hands raised to tap my arm. “I wasn’t gonna⁠—”

“He stays here where he feels safe⁠—”

“I get that⁠—”

“And that doesn’t mean you bring the poker game here!”

“No, shit, I was joking. I would never hurt the kid or put him in that situation.”

Rio moved in beside us, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Toss-up: would he try to break us apart or let me get my point across?

Jamie let out a slow breath. “Look, I get it. Robbie’s your guy. But I swear to you, man, I wouldn’t mess with him. He’s a good person.”

I studied him for a long moment, then let go, stepping back, all while trying to ignore the comment about Robbie being my guy. “See that you don’t.”

Jamie patted my chest, then tilted his head a little, his gaze hardening. “And I’d never let anyone else hurt him.”

But before I could spiral too far, Rio stepped in, his voice calm but firm. “The three of us here, Logan—we’re looking after the kid, okay? All of us. It’s just that one of us is more gone than the rest. Okay?”

I clenched my jaw, angry and something deeper I couldn’t put a name to. Rio shifted, stepping enough into my space to ground me. To remind me of where we were and what we were doing.

Jamie huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “Man, you’re intense. I was joking, all right? And I meant what I said—I’d never let anyone hurt him.”

I exhaled, forcing my hands to my sides. “Good. Make sure you don’t.”

“And when we get our hands on Vinnie, we’ve got your back,” he added.

“And John, when we find him.”

“And the others,” Jamie added. “Whoever the fuck they are.”

Rio clapped a hand on my shoulder, giving me a slight squeeze before stepping back. “All right, now that we’ve all had our dramatic moment, get back to fixing the damn car?”

Jamie lowered his voice, “And can we all agree that we’re looking out for Robbie, but for the rest of us, it’s purely platonic?”

Lucky for him, he ducked before I could take him out.

Asshole.

TWENTY-THREE

Robbie

I’d finished for the day and was hunched over a work bench, flicking back through the pages of Classic Pontiac Repairs: A Practical Guide by Everett J. Monroe, rubbing at my temple as I skimmed page 23 again. According to Monroe, the best way to fix a misfiring engine on a ‘69 GTO was to adjust the timing chain tension—he made it sound like a straightforward fix.

However, on page 129, the same guy claimed that factory-set timing on those same models wasn’t the issue and that people should “avoid unnecessary meddling.” So which was it? Adjust or don’t touch?

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. I’d learn this stuff if the book wasn’t so poorly written.

I heard Rio making exaggerated footsteps outside the door to let me know he was coming to see me. “That was a big sigh,” he said from the doorway.

I looked up and smiled despite myself. “I think the people in this book are wrong.”

Rio held out a hand, and I passed him the book. He flipped through a couple of pages before snorting. “Yeah. This is shit.” He snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the counter.

“I want to learn, though,” I said, frustration creeping in. I had to learn.

Until I’d ended up in the group home, I’d never had the label for how my brain worked, but it had always been this way—relentless, seeking, needing to piece together information in a way that made sense. When a question surfaced, I had to find an answer to slot alongside it, something solid that fit. Unanswered questions gnawed at me and left me restless, my mind buzzing with the discomfort of not knowing. It was never unhappier than when it was stuck in uncertainty, spinning in circles, trying to make connections that weren’t there. And this? This was maddening.

For the first time in so long, I had the urge to learn something new, but instead of excitement, I felt lost.

I hated it.

Rio tilted his head, considering, then he paused as if he was going to say something—probably asking me if I was okay—but then his gaze flickered over my face. Whatever determination he saw there must have been enough to shut his reaction down. His expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable before he shrugged. “You learn through doing.”

“I’d probably mess it up before I figured out how to fix it,” I muttered, regretting the self-deprecating remark. The frustration curled in my chest. I hated how easy that kind of doubt escaped me, always leaving an opening for someone to swoop in, to try to fix me like I was something broken instead of someone figuring things out.

“Jamie and I were talking that maybe you’d want to work on the Camaro with us Sunday? Beers maybe, pizza, I dunno, us just showing you some stuff?” He paused. “You up for that?”

Excitement fizzed through me, bubbling up, and before I knew it, the questions spilled out, tumbling over each other in a rush, my words unable to keep up with my racing thoughts.

“For real?” God, I sounded like a kid who’d been told they were seeing Santa.

“For real,” Rio said with a grin.

“Okay, You’ll explain what happens if the timing belt snaps? Like is it always catastrophic, or can it be fixed? What if it’s just slightly worn—does that mean the whole thing is doomed? And when you rebuild an engine, how do you tell if a part is salvageable or too far gone? How do you know when to replace it? What about the carburetor—how can you be sure it’s the issue and not something electrical? And is there a way to test if a fuel pump is bad before you replace it?”

My pulse raced as I fired off the questions, my hands moving, my excitement building with every thought that surfaced. The idea hit me like a spark—maybe I could be a mechanic. Perhaps this was something I could do. I’d never had the chance to choose before, never been in a position to decide my path, and now, the thought of trying, of figuring out what I loved, gripped me hard. The happiness, the sheer exhilaration of wanting something, bubbled up inside me, impossible to suppress. I wanted this. I wanted to learn, to get my hands dirty, to throw myself into something that could feel like mine.

Oh wow, I’m seriously overreacting.

“So it’s a yes then?” Rio asked, his grin widening.

I forced a breath, steadying myself. “Yes,” I said, keeping my voice even, though my pulse still raced from all the possibilities.

Rio grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “And in answer to the question you’re dying to ask—I’ll get Enzo to join in as well.”

I floundered, heat creeping up my neck. “I didn’t— I wasn’t— That’s not—” I straightened, clearing my throat. “I didn’t say anything about Enzo.”

Rio’s smirk deepened as he saw right through me. I wished I could roll back time and nod along instead of making a spectacle of myself. My face burned, and I struggled to will away the embarrassment, tightening my chest.

Rio raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocence, but before I could argue, a voice interrupted us.

“I heard my name?”

I turned, stomach flipping. The man himself. Tall and strong, a streak of oil smeared across his Redcars T-shirt, his lips curved in a small, easy smile, his arms crossed over his broad chest, muscles popping. He was magnetic, and it was impossible to turn away as he stared at Rio and me, his usual concerned expression settling over his face—a look he seemed to reserve only for me.

Rio grinned. “I told Robbie he could help us work on the Camaro on Sunday, and he wanted to know if you’d be there, too.”

I felt the heat crawl up my neck to my ears. I did not ask that. But I couldn’t deny it now without making it seem like I didn’t want Enzo there—when the truth was, I did. I wanted him there more than I probably should, more than I could ever admit without giving too much away. I wanted to sit on his lap again, but since the night with the window I’d been nervous to initiate anything, and he was handling me with a gentle care that was infuriating. The idea of spending time with him, fixing up some old car, caused a different kind of excitement. Attraction? Hero worship? Whatever it was, I wanted to spend as much time with Enzo as possible.

My excitement waned when he didn’t smile in encouragement. Instead he stared at me for a second, his gaze steady, unreadable. My stomach did a slow, ridiculous flip, heat curling in my chest and the air between us felt charged, thick with something I wasn’t sure I was ready to name. Butterflies churned, an embarrassing, helpless reaction to the fact he was staring at me and, for a moment, nothing else seemed to exist. My brain scrambled for something—anything. A joke, a calm reply, or a standard response that wouldn’t make me sound like a total idiot. But all I could do was stare, my throat dry, my heartbeat too loud. Say something. Anything. My mouth opened, then closed. Dammit.

“You really want to work on the car?” Enzo asked. “Is that your thing?”

“He said he wanted to,” Rio cut in before I could respond.

“I was asking Robbie,” Enzo corrected, his eyes not leaving mine. Then he frowned.

I felt my chest tighten as the excitement slipped away. I didn’t know what I’d do if he asked me if I was okay. I already knew I wasn’t—had known it for a long time—but I didn’t want to hear it from him, didn’t want the weight of his concern settling over me again. I wanted this to be normal. To be treated like I wasn’t fragile, like I could handle myself without being watched for cracks ready to split me open.

“I want to learn,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. Why did I feel like I needed his approval?

Enzo studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

And that was that.

Except it isn’t.

No one moved away from me, and the silence stretched too long, turning thick and awkward. I could feel Rio’s amusement, Enzo’s gaze, my pulse thudding loud in my ears.

Then—

“Yo! Rio!” Jamie called.

Rio winked at me and then ambled across the garage to where Jamie was brandishing a tailpipe. On the other hand, Enzo didn’t move.

“If Rio pressured you into helping out…” he said, his voice careful, measured, as if I didn’t know my own mind, as if I’d been tricked into agreeing. It made my skin prickle with frustration. I wanted to do something normal—just once, without him watching me like I might break.

“He didn’t pressure me; he thinks I can do it.”

His concern felt suffocating, winding me up more with every second that passed. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my irritation in check, but the exasperation swelled inside me, a mix of anger and helplessness I couldn’t shake. I knew what I was, knew that I was a victim, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be treated like one. And yet, the one person I wanted to see me as something more—as a man, as capable—was the same one who kept watching me as if I were seconds from falling apart. It grated, sharp and unbearable. My fists clenched at my sides, my jaw tightened, and I swallowed against the frustration clawing up my throat.

Enzo exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, but, I know what Rio can get like, and if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. You don’t know cars…”

My jaw tightened. “I can learn.”

Enzo held my gaze, steady, unreadable. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“But you thought it!” The words slipped out, raw and heavy with the weight of something too big to hold inside. My chest felt tight, my breath shallow, and I hated how overwhelmed I felt—how small. All that time sitting with him, letting him hold me, I’d been sharing my vulnerabilities and he was throwing it back in my face.

“No—”

“I was so excited, I wanted to do it, and you’re… you’ve ruined it… and I’m not… I’m…” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, my fists curling not in frustration but to keep myself from shaking.

Enzo hesitated, his expression softening. A flush crept up his neck as he reached back to rub at it, his tell when he didn’t quite know what to say. “It’s just… the guys can get rowdy off the clock.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Maybe I need rowdy,” I whispered. “Maybe that’s who Robbie Ellwood is now. Maybe that’s who I must be for you to stop treating me like I’m pathetic. I know I broke down after John tried to get in, but I’m allowed to do that. It’s real, and I felt it, and I was terrified, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely broken!”

His eyes widened, and he looked as though my words had knocked the breath from him. His lips parted as if he wanted to argue, to say something that would fix whatever had cracked between us, but no words came. Instead, his hesitation stretched a second too long, his uncertainty deepening the space between us.

“I don’t… I try…” he started, his voice softer.

I shook my head, unwilling to hear whatever careful thing he was about to say. “Please, don’t,” I murmured, then turned and headed straight for my room, yanking the door shut behind me. My breath shuddered as I pressed my back to it, my pulse still too fast, my thoughts too tangled. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the wave of emotions to pass, but the ache only deepened.

Enzo knocked. I didn’t answer, my fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt as I tried to steady myself. For a moment, silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Then his voice filtered through the door, hesitant. “Shit, Robbie⁠—”

“I’m working!” I called to stop him, attempting to sound indifferent, but the tightness in my chest betrayed me. A soft thud followed—Enzo’s head meeting the door, maybe. I squeezed my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek, torn between wanting him to go and wanting him to push, fight for me, and see me as more than someone who needed saving.

“We’ll talk later,” he said, his voice lower, uncertain.

“Go away, Enzo, and let me work.”

I felt hollow, as though something vital had drained out of me, leaving behind only exhaustion. My chest ached, my mind spinning with too many thoughts I didn’t want to untangle. Frustration gnawed at me, but beneath it was something close to grief. I wanted Enzo to see me differently, to treat me like I was capable, not fragile.

I’d been so fucking excited, and I’d wanted him to be happy for me. But when I thought about it, why wouldn’t he be concerned? When I jumped at every sound, when I hid in this fucking room, when I flinched at things that shouldn’t bother me—how could I expect him to treat me like I was fine when all I did was prove otherwise?

I wanted to be angry at him, but the truth was, he had every reason to worry. I barely slept or let myself exist outside safe spaces, and I knew I still carried the weight of what had happened like a shadow that refused to let go. Maybe I wasn’t fragile, but I sure as hell acted like I was. I was tired of it, tired of feeling like I was stuck in a place I couldn’t escape, but I couldn’t blame him for seeing it too.

I swallowed hard, frustration warring with the deep, aching truth I didn’t want to admit.

I opened my door, and there was Enzo, leaning against the wall. The second he saw me, he straightened, his expression shifting from unreadable to something softer, something almost regretful.

“I know you can work on the car. You can do anything you want to do,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You’re so fucking clever, Robbie. Smarter than any of us, and I’m sorry I ruined it for you.”

The words knocked the breath out of me, not because I didn’t believe him, but because I wanted to. My chest ached, my throat tight, and before I could think twice, I stepped forward, closing the space between us.

I walked right into his arms.

Enzo didn’t hesitate. He wrapped me up in that steady, grounding way of his, solid and sure. I inhaled the familiar scent of him—motor oil, clean soap, something undeniably him—and rested my cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my skin.

“Fuck,” I murmured, my voice nothing more than a whisper.

His arms tightened around me for a second before he exhaled. “Don’t ever think I don’t believe in you. Because I do.”

“I know.”

I buried my face in Enzo’s shirt one more time, letting myself have this moment of quiet, of safety before we separated.

He cupped my right cheek with his hand before clasping my shoulder and squeezing.

“You staying for dinner after work?” I asked, same as every end of day.

“I’d love to,” he said. Same as every time I asked.

“Chicken parm, tonight,” I said, to break the silence and the chaos in my head. “With garlic bread, maybe some roasted vegetables.” I’d retrained my stomach after years of nothing—years of gnawing hunger, of desperation. Now, I could eat anything I wanted, no longer limited by survival or scarcity. Cooking had become a quiet victory, something else I’d taught myself through books, through trial and error. Every meal proved I was here and choosing to take up space and live.

Enzo had been there through it all. He stayed every night, sitting at my table, eating whatever I made as if it was the best thing in the world. I wasn’t skin and bones like the near-dead man Enzo had found behind the dumpster, though I was still thin. But I was more than I’d been back then. Stronger. And tonight, I’d make something that reminded me of that and show Enzo again what I could do.

Enzo smiled. “Sounds good.”

I was cooking while Enzo fiddled with an engine after everyone else had left for the night—Rio and Jamie were back at their place, and Logan was heading off with Cassidy to see Gray for the weekend. I was drained from the emotional rollercoaster and couldn’t stay awake through dinner.

Enzo managed to rouse me just enough to pull me into a hug, told me he’d handled the dishes, and teased that he had to pull me out of my food. As he pulled away, he kissed me as a goodbye, when I looked up, he was already checking the locks and then headed upstairs.

I wanted more kisses, more hugs. I wanted to climb onto his lap again, although I’d gotten out of the habit, or maybe his body language told me he didn’t want me there.

I just wish I could sleep.

TWENTY-FOUR

Enzo

I’d handled that all wrong and ended up acting like a fucking idiot. I’d taken all his sunshine and hope and crushed it in my fist, and guilt was heavy.

“Fuck,” I muttered and I couldn’t shake the feeling I was leaving behind something important and that I’d messed up too much.

Why was tonight so different? I’d walked away from him many times, telling myself he was okay, safe inside, protected. But had things changed after how he’d looked at me earlier? Or was it just my stupid ass driving to fix what I’d done, even when I knew I didn’t have the right words?

All I knew was I was abandoning him when he needed someone the most.

“He’s asleep, you fucking idiot,” I grumbled. I didn’t want to be that needy guy who thought they could be someone’s savior, but maybe that was what I was trying to be when I couldn’t make a difference, no matter how hard I tried.

Fuck.

Fuck this shit.

I sent a message out before I could change my mind, then headed out to the yard behind the garage, waiting for Jamie and Rio to arrive, watching cameras blink and show they were coming, watching them enter codes, seeing the system work as it should.

“What did you do?” Jamie asked, on a yawn as he rounded the corner, Rio on his heels. It was a dumb move when I knew they’d take one look at my sorry ass and laugh. But using them as a sounding board was the only thing that made sense.

“You didn’t press the alarm?” Rio asked. “Is Robbie okay?”

Jamie watched me in silence—the complete opposite of Rio’s concern.

“Robbie’s okay,” I lied, but Rio raised an eyebrow, and I crumpled like a rusted car frame, buckling under the weight of my bullshit. I sat on a pile of tires, gesturing for the other two to sit, glancing to make sure the back door was shut. “Okay, so he’s not doing so well, and it’s on me,” I admitted, my voice rough. “He was excited about the Sunday thing, and I got all serious because you know he doesn’t do well with chaos. And you remember how loud it got last month, and he hid in his room, and I had to…” I stopped and scrubbed a hand through my hair. “I broke his heart,” I said, slumping onto the sofa.

“Jesus, you’re ridiculous,” Rio said, shaking his head with exasperation. “You couldn’t break his heart if you tried. None of us could.”

He was right; everything had shifted since Robbie had entered our lives. Our world had turned into a careful balancing act of watching over him. My world was even more so because he was mine to protect.

Mine.

Rio smirked. “So I’m guessing you called us to help fix whatever dumbass thing you’re figuring out tonight.”

I rubbed my hands over my face, frustration clawing at my chest. “I don’t know where to start.”

Rio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You like Robbie.”

“But you don’t know Robbie,” Jamie added, insightful and dead-on.

“Robbie never told us about John, or the other, but fuck, we agreed when he got here not to dig too much, right?” I said after a pause. “We didn’t want to shine any light on him that might get him caught. But fuck, man, sometimes I wonder what kind of evil he was running from and whether we’re any better.”

Rio exhaled, his jaw tight. “We’re better.”

“Human trafficking, slavery,” Jamie murmured, “Not the same as us.”

“I know.” The words were heavy on my tongue.

He hugged me. I protected him. I tugged him onto my lap and held him close.

Rio frowned. “I hate thinking about that. Maybe one day, this John guy will show up here. That all this—” he gestured around, “—all the locks, the alarms, the precautions—it still might not be enough.”

Jamie finally spoke, low but firm. “We’re close by, protecting him.”

I sighed and nodded. “What kills me is that we haven’t heard from Mateo yet and…

Rio cut in, his tone knowing. “It kills you because you love Robbie.”

I nodded. “Is it because I want to protect him? What can I give him?”

Jamie, leaning against the wall, arms crossed,. “You can kill for him,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet menace.

Rio held a hand up. “What Jamie and me have is that big-brother-protector-a-little-bit-fucked-in-the-head vibe. What you have… well, jeez, that’s love.”

I shook my head. “It’s not fair to put this obsession on Robbie⁠—”

Rio snorted, “It sure looks like he loves you back. Fuck—look at the way we handle things. Jamie and I? We watch Robbie. We check out customers and look for threats while keeping our distance and letting him breathe. But you?” He pointed at me, eyes sharp. “You’re the one he needs in the middle of the night when the nightmares get too bad. You’re the one who tells him he’s stronger than he thinks. You’re the one who sits outside his door, waiting for him to feel safe enough to open it, but when he does, it’s because he’s choosing to, not because he needs you to fix him. And yeah, you’re the one he looks to when he needs reassurance, but he’s the one who keeps going, even when the world keeps trying to knock him down. He’s not just surviving, Enzo. He’s fighting every damn day.”

“Fuck,” that was all I could manage. Since when did Rio talk such a good game?

“And hell, you’re the one who makes him smile, laugh, and look all kinds of hopeful,” Rio added.

I shook my head again, but the words cut deep. “He needs all of us.”

Rio didn’t back down. “Yeah. But he leans on you, and you’re in love with each other. You don’t know it yet. Soulmates. Amiright, J?”

“Yep,” Jamie said.

Rio was on a roll. “He’s your guy, your person, your man, and you’re his.”

“Shit.”

I swallowed hard. “He depends on me. That’s all. He trusts me to keep him safe and ensure nothing happens to him.”

Rio arched a brow. “Yeah? And you think that’s where it stops? That’s all it is? What’s with you pulling him on your lap? You’re his protector, Enzo. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And since John came here? It’s different.”

Jamie shifted, arms still crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable. “He’s frustrated. Sad. Angry at himself.”

Rio nodded. “Yeah. And not only because of what happened to him. He wants more. He wants to do more. And you know what? He wants you.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “That’s bullshit. He doesn’t⁠—”

“He does,” Rio cut in, his expression softening. “You don’t see it because your focus is protecting him. But he looks at you like you’re the one thing holding him together. The one thing he’s too scared to reach for.”

Jamie finally spoke, his voice quiet but confident. “He’s waiting for you to see it too.”

My mind raced, my chest tight. This wasn’t a conversation I was ready to have. I don’t know how to be that person for him. “Look at me—and look at him! He’s small and vulnerable. I could hurt him, and⁠—”

“Oh fuck off, Enzo,” Rio interrupted, rolling his eyes. “He’s a grown man, and Jesus, you’re a goddamn teddy bear.”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Right. A teddy bear with a criminal history. That’s real soft.”

Rio stared at me, unimpressed. “You ever seen yourself with him? The way you look at him like he’s something special. You’re warmth. You make him feel safe. You’re patient as hell with him in ways you aren’t with anyone else. You don’t just protect him—you make him feel like he’s worth protecting. And that? That’s why he looks at you the way he does.”

“But love?”

I stared at my friends, but they shrugged. What the hell did I know about love? My mom survived on bad choices—drugs, men, whatever numbed the pain. My father? Could’ve been anyone. Love, as I’d seen it, was need twisted into control. Obsession. Survival.

Was that what this was? Because I needed Robbie like I needed air. But love? I didn’t know what that was supposed to feel like, let alone how to give it to someone who deserved more.

They couldn’t answer that part. That was all on me.

I wanted to pull him into my arms and swear I’d never let anything touch him again. But what if I pushed too hard, broke something fragile? What if he didn’t want that from me? The fear twisted in my gut.

But what if he did? What if he was waiting for me to show him this wasn’t just protection—that I saw him?

I wasn’t soft. I was built to take hits. But maybe he didn’t need soft. Maybe he needed someone to stand with him when the past came clawing back. He was strong in ways I’d never be—surviving the unimaginable, still finding space to laugh, to hope.

If he could fight for himself, maybe I could fight for us.

“It’s the secrets,” Jamie murmured, more serious, his voice quieter than before, as though he was working through the thought as he spoke it. I glanced over at him, waiting for him to continue, but he was all casual, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, and it was left to Rio to continue.

“You don’t know what’s out there wanting to hurt him. None of us do,” he said. “And he needs to tell someone. Maybe that’s where you start. You tell him your truth, and maybe he’ll tell you his. That’s how this works, Enzo. You stop waiting for the right moment and just”—he gestured—”be what he needs.”

“And what if I fuck it up? What if I push too hard? What if it’s too much?”

“What if you break him with your enormous magic peen?” Rio deadpanned, then sighed, shaking his head. “You won’t. Because despite whatever you think about yourself, you don’t push him. He trusts you. More than anyone. More than himself sometimes. Maybe it’s time you start trusting yourself too.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “Since when did you two become all-knowing?”

Jamie smirked, radiating the smug confidence of someone who knew they were right. “Some of us just have natural wisdom, Enzo. Comes with being ridiculously good-looking and always right.”

Rio raised an eyebrow. “Or, you know, from actually paying attention.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right, because you two are so clever.”

Jamie grinned. “Damn right.”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face, feeling as if I’d walked straight into a trap of my own making. “I regret everything. This is the worst intervention I’ve ever willingly invited people into.”

Rio just laughed. “And yet, here you are, finally listening.”

“We’re gonna go now, so fix this shit,” Jamie said.

Easier said than done.

TWENTY-FIVE

Robbie

I’d managed to doze, but the nightmares came back and John’s voice echoed where it didn’t belong, dragging me under. I kicked off the blankets, too hot and then too cold, my skin crawling, wrong. In the end, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders like armor and slipped out into the garage. I paused in the doorway, staring back at the room—the twisted sheets, the stale air. The walls felt too close, but out here, the scent of oil and steel in the air, I could breathe.

I loved my room—it was more of a home than I’d known in so long—but right now, it was too...

Too much.

Pull yourself together.

I’m safe.

I needed to talk face-to-face with Enzo in the morning. I’d tell him all about my overreacting about his overprotectiveness and apologize, and he’d also tell me he’d overreacted. We’d laugh about it, hug, and it would be over.

Well, kind of over

It wouldn’t be truly over, not really. Because he was worried about me. All the freaking time. And deep down, I knew he had every reason to be. The last time I’d tried spending a Sunday with them all in the engine bay, pizza boxes stacked high, a small crappy TV blaring with some car race—it had all been too loud.

The noise, the chaos—Rio chanting as if it was life or death, Jamie cracking a rare smile and whooping when his guy took the lead, Enzo hollering his support, Logan cackling when Enzo’s driver crashed out in a blaze of slow-motion defeat. It was supposed to be fun. Harmless. But the energy swallowed me whole, too loud, too much, too fast. I couldn’t find my footing in the surge of voices, the rise and fall of cheers and groans. It was like drowning in sound, like the parties John used to throw, where laughter hid danger and every loud moment might end with pain. I didn’t belong in noise—I’d learned to disappear inside it.

I hid. I lost my shit, and I hid.

For fuck’s sake.

I started to sing—not well, and my pop music repertoire was limited to whatever Rio played on his radio when everyone was working. Usually, it was some oldies station on a low volume in the background. I started humming, landing on “We Will Rock You”, humming through the parts I couldn’t keep up with. Rio had shown me the video for this on his phone once, and I remember how mesmerized he was, talking about Freddie Mercury like he was some god. He said confidence wasn’t just about having talent but about owning the stage and making people believe in you. He said Freddie had that in spades, and I envied that kind of power, the ability to take up space without apology, to be larger than life when everything inside me felt small.

I wondered what taking up space was for me. Maybe it was standing in the middle of the garage without flinching at every loud noise, or laughing without second-guessing if I deserved to be heard. Maybe it was letting someone touch me and believing I was worth the softness. Someday, I wanted that. I wanted to exist without apology.

I stopped at the Camaro, pulling back a corner of the cover and trailing my fingers over the cool metal of the hood. The car was solid, unmoving, and the smooth curves left after I discounted the rust, were cold beneath my touch. I sighed—I was losing my shit tonight. I traced a slow path along the edge of the hood, following the lines and thinking about how the car would look when we’d finished. I let myself revel in that anticipation for a moment, and a thrill of excitement ran through me. This Sunday, I wasn’t going to hide. I was doing something positive.

I’d stood there too long, and my knees ached, and I was getting cold—enough of this messing about. I need sleep.

I circled back past the kitchen to get a drink, rolling out the tension in my shoulders. Someone was slumped over the table. Shock hit me, sharp and sudden, sending a jolt through my chest, and I backed away, stepping into the shadows, my breath catching in my throat, taking a beat to process. Enzo was there.

Why was he slumped at the table?

He had his head resting on his folded arms, his breathing slow and heavy—fast asleep. His tattered Redcars hoodie was pulled up a little, revealing the tattoos marking his back, traces of dark disappearing under the material, and a tantalizing sliver of tanned skin. His legs were sprawled this way and that as though he’d sat down and passed out mid-thought. I hesitated, wondering if I should wake him or leave him be

Enzo stirred, a slow inhale before he shifted, lifting his head. His dark eyes, like melted chocolate, blinked sleepily at me, and then he smiled—soft, lazy, the kind of smile that made something in my chest tighten.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“What are you doing down here?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

He yawned, rubbing at his face with one hand. “Couldn’t sleep.” His voice was thick, drowsy, like he hadn’t been aware of where he was until now. He squinted at me. “Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, mirroring his words.

For a moment, we looked at each other, the quiet stretching between us, easy but weighted. Then his expression softened even more. “Are we okay?” he asked.

I turned to the sink, filling a glass with water, using the movement to gather my thoughts. “Of course, we’re okay.”

I turned back to face him, watching as he stretched, his arms reaching high above his head, his hoodie lifting enough to reveal the taut muscles of his stomach, more of the inked designs curling along his ribs. Strong, solid. And yet, despite the hard lines of his body, there was something gentle about him—something safe.

“Why aren’t you in bed,” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go up now,” he said through another yawn, pushing himself to his feet. He stretched again, rolling his shoulders, and for a brief second, his hoodie rode up further, exposing more ink, more skin.

“Night, Robbie,” he murmured, voice soft as he turned to leave.

I stood there, gripping my glass, watching him go, but something made me call his name, to stop him. “Enzo?”

He turned to me, his brows lifting. “Yeah?”

I hesitated, then rounded the table, placing the glass down with a soft clink. I ended up standing maybe two feet from him, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t define. “Do you worry about me with working on the car on Sunday? Am I being stupid thinking I can do it?”

His expression shuttered for a second, and I hated that—I hated that my doubt made him hesitate. Then before I could take it back, he closed the gap between us.

I didn’t step away. This was Enzo.

His hands found my upper arms, a gentle, steadying grip. His touch was warm and grounding. I shivered as his fingers tightened for a moment, a silent reassurance. My body betrayed me, a low heat curling in my stomach, the ache of something I didn’t understand. I was half-hard, needing something from him that I didn’t know how to ask for. Enzo closed that last bit of space.

“You’re the best person in this garage,” he said, voice low, the words curling around me. “The way you handled the wiring last week, the way you try so damn hard every single day—you put us all to shame. And you’re strong.”

I blinked up at him, then let out a sound—half breath, half disbelief—and flexed one arm, trying to make light of it. “I’m not strong.” The muscles barely moved. My body still felt as though it didn’t belong to me most days.

But Enzo didn’t laugh. He didn’t let me brush it off.

He reached out slow and deliberate, and pressed his hand flat to my chest, just left of center, right over my heart. “You’re strong in there,” he said.

I froze. Everything in me stilled. His palm was broad, fingers warm through my shirt, grounding me the way nothing else could. My breath came shallow, like my lungs didn’t quite know how to work with that kind of touch. “That’s the part that matters,” he added, not moving his hand.

Enzo’s gaze didn’t falter. It never did.

God, I wanted him so much.

I pushed him back to the chair, watched the moment he understood what I wanted him to do and when he was sitting I clambered onto his lap, and straddled him

His thighs were warm beneath mine, strong and solid when I settled my weight against him. I could feel the heat of him through our clothes, the tension in his muscles as he gripped my hips to steady me.

“I missed this,” I said.

“Robbie,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

I pressed my forehead to his, breathing in the scent of him and when I leaned back his eyes met mine and his hands found my hips, steadying me as I pressed closer.

I rolled my hips, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. The friction between us was exquisite, even through our clothes. I could feel him hardening beneath me, matching my own arousal.

“I want this,” I said.

Enzo pulled me down into a kiss. It started gentle but quickly deepened, becoming hungry, desperate. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him with a soft moan

We rocked together, finding a rhythm that had us both gasping. His hands slid down to cup my ass, pressing me harder, and I was so close, so safe. Enzo groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me

“So small, so perfect for me, your skin is so warm,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper that sent shivers racing down my spine.

His hands moved from my ass, sliding under my shirt to touch bare skin. The sensation jolted through me—warm, unfamiliar, too much. It was the smell of bleach on a tiled floor, the echo of footsteps in a hallway. My skin prickled, my breath caught. Enzo’s touch wasn’t wrong, but my body didn’t understand that yet. Not when the ghosts of old hands haunted the memory of every touch. His fingertips were warm, almost hot, as they traced up my sides.

Something inside me shattered, and ice flooded my veins.

I’m ugly there.

So ugly.

They made me ugly.

I froze, every muscle locking tight. My breath caught in my throat as unwanted memories flashed behind my eyes—hands touching me, but not these hands, not gentle ones. The world narrowed to just that point of contact—his hand on my bare skin—and I couldn’t breathe.

“Robbie?” Enzo pulled back, confusion clouding his eyes. His hands stilled on my skin. “What’s wrong?”

“Me! I’m so fucking wrong—” My voice cracked. I scrambled off his lap, nearly tripping in my haste. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, reaching for me. Talk to me, Robbie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No! You don’t know what I did! What they made me do!” I stumbled back and away and shut myself in my room, shoving my chair under the handle.

Curling into a ball on my bed, I was stuck between the urge to cry and the frustrating numbness that prevented any tears from falling.

“Robbie?” Enzo asked outside the door. “I’m just gonna sit here.”

I just wish…

I wish I was normal.

TWENTY-SIX

Enzo

I sat with my back to his door, gutted that I’d messed up, and that the past had intruded. Guilt consumed me that I’d touched him.

But he wanted to be touched.

I hated it that Robbie thought he wasn’t deserving, that somehow he was worse than us, but he didn’t know what we’d done, and I didn’t want to tell him. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because the weight of my past was like a stone in my chest. I’d spent years convincing myself I was different now, that I’d built something better, something solid, a life that wasn’t defined by violence or survival.

I couldn’t shake the fear that if I told Robbie everything, I’d lose him too.

I’d scared him, told him he was small and perfect, and maybe that was a trigger. I swallowed hard, feeling the words’ weight before speaking them. For a moment, memories swelled—Luis calling my name, the cold pavement under my knees, the slick warmth of blood on my hands. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself back to the present. “I’ve killed people,” I said, and leaned my head on his door. Had he heard me? He knew we’d all done time—it wasn’t a secret, but Robbie had never asked. It was quiet from inside and I waited a beat longer. “Robbie?”

“Who?” he asked, his voice distant.

I imagined him on his bed, lost, all because I’d fucked up somehow. How could he feel strong when he never saw that he was better than us in a lot of ways? Surviving what he had and still finding the courage to trust—to reach for something better—took a strength most of us didn’t have. We knew how to fight, sure, but Robbie? He knew how to heal. That kind of strength, the kind that chooses softness after pain, was rarer than anything I’d ever known.

“That’s not where the story starts,” I said, and turned to face the door, legs crossed on the cold floor, resting a hand on the wood. “When I was in…”

“In where?”

“They called themselves Stone Cross, a gang, drugs, guns, intimidation, that was me… I was one of them.”

“Okay?”

“Jesus, I don’t know where to begin this.” I cursed in my head. “The last time I guess. The violence was already spiraling before I even got there,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be, and I cleared my throat and raised the volume a little. “I could hear it before I saw it—the shouts, the sound of fists hitting flesh. The kind of fight where you already know someone’s not walking away the same, and I’d seen it so many times, because that was life where I grew up.”

I paused a moment. Silence.

So I carried on. “The gang was my family. I didn’t have a father. He could be dead. Could be alive. Who the hell knew? My mom, though… her addiction ended up killing her.”

“How old were you when your mom passed?”

That was what he wanted to focus on? What about my admission that I’d killed people?

“I was nine? Ten, maybe? I don’t even know if I remember right,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Luis was my older brother by three years or so. We didn’t have a home anymore, and we were separated and farmed out to families. Luis had a run of shitty families, and as soon as he aged out of foster care, he fell through the cracks. Maybe deliberately. Maybe no one wanted to see him.” I exhaled. “He got pulled into the Stone Cross, took running jobs, delivering product, watching on corners, that kind of shit. The SC were the only solution for people who couldn’t get out, like Luis, and my best friend Mateo. For them, joining the SC wasn’t just survival, it was protection, a way to have family.” I heard movement inside and a thud against the door—was he sitting the other side of the door to listen?

“But you didn’t join this SC gang?” he asked, and yeah, he was so close to me that if the door wasn’t there, I could touch him. I’d always told everyone I’d had no choice but join, but that wasn’t entirely true.

“Not at first. My caseworker found me a good family—the Alvarez family—who took me in, not just for the money but because they genuinely cared. I fought every step of the way, wanted the respect it seemed my brother had. You know, I did shit. Hurt people, used my size, my brother as back up. Killed a couple for disrespect and… shit… I wasn’t a good person. I’m not a good person.” I stopped, what else could I say? I didn’t want him to think I’d hurt him. “The Alvarez family was on the periphery of my life from fourteen to eighteen, pushing me to finish school, work hard, and believe I could be more than my past if I worked hard. Hell, sometimes I even tried, but the freedom, the cars I could boost, and the protection stuff I did, hell the money was more in one job than I could make in a month washing dishes… Momma and Papa Alvarez wanted normal life to work for me, but Luis was my brother, and my best friend was in the life, and I wanted what they had.”

My breath stuttered. The chair scraped inside, the door opened, and I scooted to one side, so I didn’t fall in as Robbie slipped out to sit opposite me.

“You don’t have to tell me it all,” he whispered.

“I do, I need you to see all the bad bits of me, of who I am, so you can see that however we got here to Redcars, not one of us had a journey as bad as yours. Okay? I want you to see how strong you are for surviving whatever happened to you, how far you’ve come, how much more you could do.”

He wouldn’t meet my gaze and then he shrugged.

“Mateo called me and said he and Luis needed help, that they were backed into a corner. What could I do? I couldn’t leave them hanging; when I found them, things were bad. There was this fight between the Stone Cross and some startup MC shit who called themselves the Devil’s Drift for God’s sake, and this one asshole biker—Spider—was beating on Mateo, and Luis was in a standoff with a gun at his head. Everything happened so fast. I tried to pull Mateo out of the fight to get him away, y’know, to regroup and shit, but Spider came at Mateo with a knife, and we both grabbed Spider’s wrist and turned it on him,” I whispered. “I felt it too late. One second, I was trying to help; the next, Spider was bleeding out on the ground, and everyone except for Mateo and Luis ran. Him and Luis had already done time, seen trouble. I made them leave, I told them to run.”

“You took the fall.”

Silence stretched between us. Robbie wriggled forward until our knees touched, and then he held out a hand, and we laced fingers.

“I took the fall, yeah, feeling like a goddamn hero. Hell, I wiped off the knife, then held it so it was just my prints.” I sighed; some of the weight of what I was telling him eased. “I was charged, and the photos they had, the blood, and what I’d done…” I rubbed my hands down my face. “Self-defense didn’t hold up, not with my brother’s record and who he ran with, and despite how many lies the Alvarez family told about how I wasn’t gang-affiliated. Fuck knows why they were telling the cops lies because I wasn’t a good guy. The law dealt with me as connected with the gang, and the DA offered me a plea deal—ten years reduced to five if I pleaded guilty. With a public defender who barely looked at me and no real way out, I signed the papers, and that was it. I never admitted shit, but I never named Luis or Mateo.”

Robbie shifted, pressing his lips to my shoulder. His voice came out choked, thick with emotion. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

I let out a breath. “Me too.”

“Mateo is still in the Stone Cross?”

Robbie’s question was innocent, but it hit like a punch to the chest. My breath caught, and I swallowed hard and forced the words out. “Mateo was a legacy, his dad led the gang, still in and running the whole show now his dad is gone.

“And Luis?”

“He was killed a month after I got put away, drive-by shooting. Retaliation ‘cause they couldn’t get to me I guess, or maybe it was other shit my stupid big brother thought was cool.”

Robbie let out a soft sound, tears in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. He held my hand, stayed close—that was strength, too. Then he moved into my lap and kissed me, slow and sure. I kissed him back, letting the chaos in my head settle.

When we broke apart, the silence between us felt steady, not heavy. I thought of Luis—my brother, my protector—already lost long before he died. But my family was here now. In Robbie. In Redcars.

Robbie had earned his place. He trusted me, even with the worst of my past. His strength wasn’t loud—it was in staying, hoping, refusing to let pain close him off. That kind of bravery? It was fierce in its own way. Certainly braver than ours.

Robbie settled against my chest again, making my heart ache with how right it felt. He was warm and snug in my arms, his breath slow and steady. I wanted to wrap myself around him, sink into this moment, and never let go. He shifted off me, took my hand and tugged me up to the apartment, then waited for me to sit on the sofa before climbing onto my lap.

I pulled a blanket over us, tucking it around his shoulders, sealing us into this small, safe space. He sighed in contentment, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my skin. His touch made me forget anything outside this room existed.

I could stay here forever, my hand running up and down his back in slow, soothing strokes. Just the two of us, locked away from the past, nothing but warmth and quiet between us. He shifted slightly, pressing in closer as though he could burrow beneath my ribs and stay there.

“You okay?” I asked, wondering if this was the calm before the storm and if he’d walk away as soon as he processed what kind of man I was. “You’re very quiet⁠—”

“How did you end up here at Redcars?”

That was the easy part of my story. “Tudor took me in.”

“Yeah, but… how did you meet Tudor?”

I let out a dry laugh. “Momma and Papa Alvarez never gave up on me. They genuinely saw good in me, tracked down this man in Echo Park who took in ex-cons with a knack for learning, and they told him about me. Told him I worked hard in prison and that I had a gift for engines. They said I deserved another chance.”

Robbie lifted his head, looking at me in the dim light. “They were right.”

I huffed. “Did you forget the part where I killed someone?”

He smiled, pressing his forehead to mine. “No.”

“Yeah, well, when I stepped out after five years, I was a different man, new tattoos over the Stone Cross, new anger, the weight of doing my time was dirty and hard. The world had moved on without me, and I didn’t know where I was supposed to fit or where I’d go. But there he was. Standing by an old truck, hands stained with oil, white hair curling slightly at his temples. Tudor Barrera.” He’d seen beyond the tattoos, the prison stink, and the fight that still drove me. Almost as if he understood what five years locked up could do to a man.

“What happened then?”

“He didn’t say much at first; he just gave me a once-over, and all I could think was that this was a setup. In prison, trust was low—too low to survive without suspicion. Every offer or smile came with danger, and I thought he was some asshole looking to take advantage of me.” I paused. “He said he had a safe place for me to stay, and of course, I got defensive and told him my ass wasn’t for sale. He rolled his eyes at me and was all, ‘do I look like I want your ass?’. There was also some punching, from him not me. Anyway, I took the keys he handed me, climbed into the truck, and drove.”

I didn’t know where I was going or what I’d do. I’d turned twenty-four inside, and stepping back into the world felt loud, sharp, and fast. I got to Redcars, met Logan, had a chance at a different life, end of story. I’d spent so long believing I was just another lost cause, another name in a system that didn’t care whether I made it.

I glanced up at Robbie. “He saved me.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you still speak to the Alvarezes?” he asked softly and yawned, burying his face in my neck, growing heavier as he relaxed into me.

I swallowed hard. “Papa A died soon after I was inside,” I said quietly. “Pancreatic cancer, quick. Momma A died not long after. Her sister wrote me a letter to tell me. Said she passed and called it a broken heart.”

I paused, catching my breath. “I wrote back, but her sister never answered. I guess… I wasn’t part of the family after they’d gone. But I have Redcars, I have my brothers. And now…” I stopped, uncertain. “I have you?” It was a question.

Robbie shifted and chuckled. “The demanding little brother you never knew you needed.” His weight grew heavier against me, breath slowing. I felt the exact moment he gave in, falling asleep in my arms like he belonged there, but he didn’t let go of my shirt.

“No, Robbie, not my brother. You’re more than that.” I tapped my heart, then his. “You’re in here. Mine.”

I sat a moment longer, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, committing it to memory. Then I stood slowly, careful not to jostle him, and carried him downstairs to his cot. He curled into the blankets without waking and I tucked him in, smoothed the hair from his forehead, and pressed a kiss there—a promise I hoped he felt, even in sleep.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Robbie

I woke up warm, in my own bed, but I didn’t open my eyes straight away as I remembered everything from last night. The story Enzo had told me, all the pieces he’d handed over. What he’d done. What he’d lost. What he still carried. He said I was strong. That I was brave. I hadn’t believed him—not at first. I wasn’t like the others at Redcars. I wasn’t hardened, or clever with tools, or sure of myself. I still flinched sometimes at shadows, at memories that felt too close. I’d cried in front of him so many times, but he’d looked at me as if none of that made me weak. He’d held my hand while he told me about the blood on his. And he’d still called me strong.

And now, in the quiet, I tried to let myself believe him because he didn’t say those words lightly. He saw something in me—in my trying, in my staying—that maybe I hadn’t known was there.

Maybe I could be strong. Not the way the others were—but in my own way. For surviving. For still wanting.

Because I wanted Enzo, and I needed to be not quite so broken and ugly before I could do that.

Today, Doc was coming to the garage with his Monte Carlo. He was hard, unapproachable, rude, and apart from a love of cars, and his sideline in under-the-table medical care, I knew nothing about him. Today, I needed him. I didn’t have money to pay him, but I could do a weekly payment. I was nervous when it got closer to eleven a.m., and the rumble of his Monte Carlo entering the garage pulled me from pretending to work. After exiting the car and exchanging nods with Enzo and Jamie, I waved him over. He glanced behind with an expression of hope I wasn’t waving at him, and then sighed.

“What?” he said as he approached me.

I shifted on my feet, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Can we talk?”

Doc scanned me from head to toe, cataloging everything I wasn’t saying. “You can’t afford me.”

“I can pay you.”

“With what? Buttons?”

I thought about the money I’d hidden away from John, that I could access if I needed, but said nothing.

His mouth pressed into a tight line, then he exhaled. “Ten minutes and it’s coming off my bill for the car.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t up to me to agree that, and I hoped I could arrange something with Logan—I’d rather owe money to him than to Doc.

Heat rushed up my neck. “Can we talk in here?” I asked, pointing at my room.

His brows lifted, but he gave a curt nod. “Clock’s ticking.”

He hovered at the threshold, waiting. I had never had people in here. It was my space, my walls, my safety. The idea of letting someone inside, and closing the door felt foreign—too much, too exposed. But this was private. I needed privacy for this, despite how this made me feel. “Can you come in?”

“Jesus Christ, this is a shoebox,” he muttered, eyes sweeping the room with an expression as though he’d smelled something rotten. His lip curled, disdain dripping from him.

My heart hammered. I could feel the walls pressing in, my hesitation curling around me like smoke. I hadn’t thought this through. What if saying it out loud made it real? What if I panicked when the door shut and needed to run? “Can you try shutting the door?”

“You never let people inside,” Doc’s frown deepened, his attention sharpening. “Enzo will kill me.”

I went to the door and called over to Enzo, “Doc is inside with me!” Enzo started to come over, but I tugged Doc inside and shut the door, trying not to freak the hell out at someone being inside with me.

“I need to have sex?” I blurted, too loud in the quiet space.

Doc stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. His mouth opened, then closed again. “What the actual fuck, kid?” he said, voice sharp with disbelief. “Jesus…” He scrubbed a hand down his face, horrified and stunned. “I’m not fucking you?”

“Not with you! I mean I wanted to be able to have sex. Can I? Will it hurt? Will I freak out? Will I ruin it?”

“The fuck?” Doc snapped his expression hard. “I’m not a fucking therapist, kid.”

That pushed me over the edge. I shoved him hard and caught him unaware so he ended up stumbling to my bed and landing on his ass. He was up again snarling but I held out a hand. “I’m not a fucking kid, and I’m fucking paying you for this shit!” God, where had that come from?

“Jesus! Who do you want to fuck?”

“No one.”

His gaze grew calculating. “So not Enzo then?”

He tilted his head, thumbing toward the door, and my stomach turned to lead. Heat crawled up my neck, a full-body flush that burned. It frustrated me that he could see it so clearly—that I wasn’t as subtle as I had imagined.

“No.” My voice was immediate, firm. The word came too fast, too sharp, like a slammed door. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t let him discover the truth because I wasn’t ready to confront it. Enzo’s name surged up my throat, but I swallowed it down. Did I feel safe? More than with anyone else. But did I trust myself? Did I trust my body to want and not panic and shut down?

Doc let the silence stretch, studying me and waiting for me to take it back, to admit what we both already knew.

“Can you get it up?” he asked.

My face went hot, shame curling in my gut. I knew this was just a doctor asking a medical question, but it still felt humiliating, as if every inch of me was under a microscope. “I do… sometimes. But I can’t keep it and get off. Not really. It just… stops… and there’s no… um… end to it.”

“There’s a pill for that⁠—”

“No.” The word shot out before I could stop it. “Sorry, I don’t want pills. I need agency.” I tilted my chin. “I read about agency and it applies to me.”

“Save me from self-help shit,” Doc grumbled.

“I need my body to work itself, not because of chemical enhancements to force my body to respond.”

“Fuck,” Doc said.

“And sometimes,” I pushed on, ignoring how my voice wobbled, “sometimes I’ve been getting hard, and it doesn’t hurt now.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “They had a cage on me. You saw…”

“Yeah, I remember,” Doc muttered, and for a second, something flickered in his eyes—anger, maybe. Probably pity, or maybe he didn’t even care at all. “You’re not dead. That’s what matters.”

I exhaled, pressing my palms to my knees like I could ground myself.

“I have scars,” I murmured. “Inside and out.” My voice dropped to almost nothing. “When I get hard, they’re so obvious. You said I was fucked when you first saw them. The skin stretches… it feels wrong. Like I’m not even in my own body.”

“Jesus,” Doc muttered. “Okay.” He tapped his fingers against his knee as if this whole thing was a waste of his time. “Medically, you’re healed. You’re not in pain? Your junk works?”

“I guess.”

“Then the rest is mental.” He waved a hand like it was simple. “Look, you overthink everything. You want a magic switch to flick everything back to normal, but you’re too stuck in your head.”

“I know,” I muttered.

“Your brain’s gotta get there before your dick does.”

I cringed. “Yeah… okay.”

“I’m not a therapist,” Doc added, shifting in his chair, “but there are ways to, you know… test the waters. Toys.”

“‘Toys’?” I blinked at him, horrified. My voice cracked around the word as though it didn’t belong in my mouth.

“Yeah. Toys,” he said as if we were discussing the weather, not me and the crater in my chest where sex was supposed to live. “Silicone. Rechargeable. Realistic. Or not. Whatever floats your boat. You wanted advice—I’m giving it.”

I was mortified and I swear I was burning up.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, gaze steady and unflinching. “Look, some people—survivors—fuck. If you’re serious about wanting sex then start with your hands. Then maybe try a plug, small at first. Lube’s your best friend—don’t be shy with it. Then a vibe if you can stand it. Maybe something that looks like a cock. Maybe not. Some people find the shape’s a trigger, so you keep it abstract.”

I squeezed my knees together. I felt as if my brain had short-circuited.

Doc kept going like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb between us. “No goal. Not orgasm. Not penetration. Just… sensation. Can you touch yourself without dissociating? Can you breathe through it? Can you stay present? That’s the test.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. My cheeks were burning.

“I…” I couldn’t get words out. My stomach was in knots. “So… me getting erections now… after everything… that’s normal?”

“Yeah,” Doc grunted. “It’s normal. Your body’s working. Get out of your own way.”

“Okay.”

“We done here?” Doc asked, staring at his watch and probably making a mental note for how much to charge.

“No. Wait.” I had another question that I couldn’t bear to ask the others. “So, I wanted to ask… I mean… how do I even go about maybe hiring someone?”

“What—”

“Not just anyone,” I hurried to add. “Not someone forced into it. I mean someone who’s there because they want to be, someone who cares about what they’re doing. Someone who might be… patient. Experienced. Like a high-class escort, I guess.”

“Jesus Christ,” Doc muttered, staring at me as if I’d suggested something obscene. “Are you serious?”

“I mean… yeah.” My voice wobbled, but I forced myself to stay firm. “I don’t want… mistakes. I want to be sure I know what I’m doing.”

“Christ.” Doc shook his head and laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Look, Robbie, that’s… fuck this.” He stood, grabbing his keys off the table. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” I grabbed Doc’s arm, desperation clawing at my throat. “Just… listen. You help people, right? People who need it? Well, maybe some guy out there is the opposite of me. Maybe they need… I don’t know, tenderness and shit. Maybe they’re looking for a way to find control too. Maybe… maybe I just need someone who knows what they’re doing.” My face burned. My throat felt raw. And all I could think was that I’d proved everyone right. I was a mess. A fucking embarrassment. A kid, just like Doc said. Having this attraction to Enzo—it fucking terrified me. I’d never felt this before. Never dated. Never made love. Never lived the same way as others. And yet, here I was, wanting to be perfect for Enzo, wanting something unnamed and unknown, and it scared the hell out of me.

“You’re talking yourself in circles,” Doc muttered again.

“I’m serious,” I said. “I want to stay hard, have sex, have an orgasm. Because Enzo should get the best of me, not the broken pieces.”

“Enzo,” Doc stared at me, eyes like flint. Then he said, voice low and cutting, “You think hiring someone to fuck you is gonna fix your head?”

“I don’t know,” I said, almost choking on it.

Doc cursed, loud and raw, then shoved to his feet and threw the door open. “Enzo!”

“No! Wait!” I shouted.

Doc shook me off. “Fuck this stupid kid before he fucks someone else!”

Rage ripped out of me like a scream I couldn’t contain. I launched at him, fists flying, scratching, biting, hitting every bit of him I could reach. “You bastard! You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to talk about me like that⁠—”

Arms wrapped around my middle—strong, unrelenting. Enzo. He dragged me back, my feet kicking, me still reaching for Doc. My nails had torn red lines down Doc’s neck and he wiped at them, smearing blood and looking almost satisfied.

“Let me go!” I yelled, writhing in Enzo’s hold. “Let me go, let me go⁠—!”

“What the fuck?” Rio’s voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and livid. He stormed across the garage, his face thundercloud-dark. “What the actual fuck was that?”

Doc turned, already defensive, but Rio didn’t give him the chance. He grabbed Doc’s arm and yanked, spun him halfway around—and then punched him. A clean hit to the jaw that sent Doc stumbling back a step, blinking as if he hadn’t seen it coming and then he chuckled. Low and rough, not amused but almost impressed.

“Damn, baby.”

Rio took another step forward. “Don’t fucking call me that! You think you get a pass? Get the fuck out. Now.”

Doc rubbed his jaw, still smirking, but he raised his hands. “I’m going. Jesus.” He glanced over his shoulder, gaze flicking toward me and Enzo. “You all take this shit way too seriously.”

“Try me again,” Rio growled. “See what happens.”

Doc backed out slowly, step by step, as if waiting for someone to stop him or call him back. No one did.

Right before he crossed the threshold, he turned with one last jab. “Don’t even think about fucking with my car, Rio.”

Rio didn’t even blink. “Don’t push me, asshole.”

Doc’s smirk faded a little as he stepped into the sunlight and disappeared down the drive.

For a second, the silence felt like a vacuum. My breathing was ragged, my fists still shaking, my body half pressed into Enzo’s chest. No one moved. No one spoke.

And then Rio exhaled hard, shaking out the hand he’d used to punch Doc. “Shit,” he muttered. “I think I broke my knuckle.”

Jamie grunted. “Worth it.”

And I stood there, shaking, humiliated. My fists still clenched, but now it wasn’t anger, it was to stop the trembling. I could feel Enzo behind me, his chest rising and falling fast against my back, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

I didn’t know if I wanted him to.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Enzo

Robbie didn’t come out of his room the rest of the day although I knocked and told him everything was okay.

I couldn’t work—none of us could. So I focused on making sure Jamie didn’t punch a wall. Sat him down with an ice pack and a beer. Rio stormed around for a while, muttering about Doc and promising to get his own stitches if it meant not seeing the asshole again. I let him vent, didn’t say much. But I kept staring at that closed door. I wanted to knock. Say something. But every time I got close, I stopped. What if he didn’t want to see me? What if I made it worse? Fucking Doc and his chaos and his inability to feel anything like compassion. Fucking Doc. God, I respected the hell out of the man’s skills—I’d seen him pull people back from the edge, watched him do things with a needle and calm hands that should’ve been impossible. He was brilliant. A miracle worker. We owed lives to him, including Robbie’s. But none of that mattered when I thought about what he’d said to Robbie. The horror on Robbie’s face. Doc didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even seem to notice what he’d done. Just cold, clinical detachment as if Robbie were a file to be closed, a nuisance. He might save lives with his hands, but with his words destroyed things.

And today, he’d taken Robbie’s light and snuffed it out, like it was easy. Like it meant nothing.

I hated him for that.

When everyone left, Jamie still on edge, Rio snarling and snapping, and Logan trying to calm us all, the silence pressed on me. My belly rumbled, and it occurred to me I hadn’t eaten for a long time, and neither had Robbie. I found myself in the kitchen. Opened the fridge without thinking. And there it was—lasagna. Covered in foil, marker scrawl on top in Robbie’s handwriting: Tuesday. 375°F. 30 mins. He’d made it two nights ago, back when things had felt almost… normal.

I turned on the oven and slid it in, standing there long after I needed to, just watching the glow behind the glass. Then I snapped out of it and headed to his room, knocking. “Dinner’s ready,” I said, my voice low. “You wanna come out?”

Silence.

Then, muffled, “I can’t.”

His voice cracked. God. I pressed my forehead to the door. “You can,” I said. “I just… want to sit with you. Even if we don’t talk.”

“I can’t,” he repeated on a sob. “I’m all broken into bits.”

“Robbie—”

“You can’t want someone like me.”

“I do,” I said.

“You heard what he said.”

“Doc’s an asshole,” I said. “He’s got his own shit. He lashes out and makes it about everyone else. You didn’t deserve that.”

Silence again.

“I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” I continued. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. Even when you’re hurting. That’s strength, Robbie. That’s not broken. That’s… fucking beautiful.”

A long pause. Then the lock clicked.

I held still.

The door creaked open a few inches. Robbie’s face appeared, pale and drawn. His eyes were rimmed red. He didn’t look at me right away.

“I’m not good company,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to be.” I offered a small smile. “Just come eat.”

He hesitated. Then opened the door and stepped out. He wore familiar soft flannel pajamas, sleeves tugged down over his hands like armor, and those hospital slippers on his feet. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head—my sweatshirt—and followed me to the kitchen.

We sat together at the kitchen table. He barely touched the food. But he was there.

After a long silence, he said, “I’m sorry. About taking Doc in my room, talking about us. About… everything.”

“You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I feel…” His brow furrowed. “Disgusting. Like I should be ashamed of what I want. I know he’s wrong. No, I think he’s wrong.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. I was asking his advice, so that I could be the kind of person that someone like you might want to…” He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t tell him it was you, he just guessed, I wasn’t…” He groaned again, and I reached out, placing my palm face-up on the table. I didn’t push. Just waited.

Slowly, he slid his hand into mine.

“I meant what I said,” I told him. “You’re not fragile. Not to me.”

“But I am,” he whispered.

“You’ve been hurt. That’s not the same thing.”

His eyes were wide and wet.

Hope flickered in Robbie’s voice, small and scared. “You don’t see me as shattered? As breakable?”

His question hit me like a gut punch.

I felt everything inside me tighten. God, if he only knew. If he only felt what I did every time he flinched, or shut down, or looked at me as though I might vanish if he touched me. The last few days had been impossible, not knowing what to do.

I shook my head, the truth caught in my throat at first, and then spilling out. “If I did, then I’d be able to stay away. Then maybe I could just protect you, watch out for you from a distance, and not want you with every fucking molecule in my body. Maybe it wouldn’t tear me apart to see you hurting, wouldn’t make me want to drag you into my arms and kiss you until you forgot how to be afraid. But I do, Robbie. I do, and it scares the hell out of me.”

He stared at me, stunned, as if he didn’t know what to do with my words.

And then—he didn’t run. He didn’t hide. He stood there, that quiet fire in his eyes, and whispered, “Then kiss me again.”

My breath caught.

God.

My hands trembled as I reached for him, cupping his jaw, brushing my fingers along the curve of his cheek. He was beautiful—so goddamn beautiful and open and trembling—and I didn’t deserve him.

But I leaned in anyway, heart pounding.

The first brush of our lips was so damn soft, then he surged closer, his arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me in. The kiss deepened, heat sparking, and his desperate, breathless whimpers shattered something in me.

He was hard against me, trembling. I could feel him through the thin fabric of his pajamas, and when I slid my hands to the backs of his thighs and lifted him, he gasped and clung to me. His legs wrapped around my waist like it was instinct. I headed up to the apartment, my hands stayed on him, grounding him. Needing him. He clung to me, peppering my skin with tiny kisses and when we reached the room, I gave him another chance to say no.

My forehead pressed to his, our breaths tangled.

“Robbie?” I whispered, terrified of pushing too far.

“Please…” he said. “I need you. I want you.”

His voice was little more than a whisper. My eyes dropped, unflinching, taking in every inch of him—not just his arousal, but the scars I knew were under his sweatshirt and pants, the places where life had torn into him.

He was shaking. So was I.

I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as he palmed me through my pants. The heat in his touch was undeniable, his need so raw it made my chest ache. But although he pleaded, he looked at me like he was waiting for rejection.

Instead, I brushed shaky fingers over his skin. He flinched at first, then melted under my touch.

He backed away from me but curled his fingers in my shirt to pull me with him, tumbling us back onto the bed. I fell as carefully as I could, caging him beneath me.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmured. “You’re so perfect. So beautiful. All of you.”

I cupped his face again, swept my thumb across his lips, memorizing the feel of them. “Your eyes…. your lips…”

He shivered when I pulled his T-shirt up, and I kissed the exposed skin of his belly, soft and reverent. He arched under me, and when my fingers traced his scars, he stiffened. I paused, waiting. Giving him the choice.

But when I met his gaze—God. There was fear, yes. But trust, too.

“You’re safe with me, Robbie. Always.”

I trailed my lips down his chest, stopping at each scar and stroking his side as I kissed each one, then tugged at the loose waist of his pajama bottoms.

“Can I?” I asked.

He nodded, breathless.

I went slow and gentle. My hands on his thighs, my breath ghosting over his skin. I kissed the inside of his thigh, watched the way his hands gripped the covers.

“You tell me if you need to stop,” I said again. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” he whispered, voice trembling.

I licked a slow line along his length, and his gasp was everything. I worked him with care and patience, worshipping him the way he deserved. When he threaded his fingers into my hair, I didn’t pull away—I let him guide me and hold on.

“Enzo,” he moaned. My name had never sounded like that before—so beautiful.

I hummed in response, the vibration making him shiver. I kept watching him, making sure he was still with me. His eyes were glassy, but so full of something that made my chest ache.

He was close. I could feel it in the way he shivered, the way his hands clenched, the way he choked on the words.

“God,” he whispered. “I never knew…” His voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t speak. I let my hands tell him everything I couldn’t say—steady and warm against his skin. And when he came, his entire body tensed, arching, mouth open in a wordless cry. I held him through it, letting him ride the wave.

I kissed his thighs and his belly, and he let me move him until I was curled around him, spooning him close.

I held him.

Because he was mine to hold.

TWENTY-NINE

Robbie

I woke to darkness, feeling a rush of panic at the weight pressing down on my waist. But then a familiar scent—Enzo, with hints of oil and citrus—washed over me, and I felt myself relax. That scent grounded me instantly. It was the opposite of fear, the opposite of cold metal and bleach and darkness. It reminded me where I was—who I was with. Enzo. Safety. Warmth. My heart stopped racing because that scent wasn’t just his—it was mine now, too, a new kind of memory replacing the old ones that used to haunt me.

“Hey,” Enzo murmured. I felt a flush of embarrassment, aware of the lingering high from my orgasm. But a question nagged at me—had Enzo also found his release, or had I taken everything he offered without giving anything back? I whimpered, curling into myself. “Hey, you’re okay,” he added.

“I’m fine,” I managed, though my voice betrayed me. “It’s just… I didn’t—did you…?” The words tangled in my throat, too awkward to voice.

Enzo’s arm tightened around my waist; his breath warm on my neck. “Did I what?” he asked.

I buried my face in the pillow. “Did you, when you… like… did you… finish?”

He pressed a kiss to my neck. “Is that what you’re worried about?” He shifted, propping himself on one elbow to stare down at me as I wriggled to face him, ignoring the aches in my bones. His dark hair was rumpled from sleep, eyes still heavy-lidded. Seeing him like that—unguarded and soft in the morning light—hit me hard. Awe bloomed in my chest, followed closely by a warm, aching desire. He was nothing like the fierce, protective man who stood between me and my nightmares. He looked real. Touchable. Mine. And I wanted to hold on to him for the first time, not because I was afraid, but because I wasn’t. “I got everything I wanted and more, trust me.”

“But—”

“Watching you fall apart was enough,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “More than enough.”

“I want to make you feel good, too,” I admitted, eyes fixed on a point near his collarbone. “Doc said⁠—”

“Let’s not bring Doc into this,” Enzo cut in, and I winced. “Sorry,” he added, “I might owe him for saving your life, but that asshole doesn’t deserve a space with us.”

“Okay.”

We embraced tightly, and I nestled into his chest, feeling his heart’s warm, steady rhythm beneath my cheek. My lips brushed his throat, savoring his skin’s subtle, salty taste. My fingers traced the intricate patterns of the tattoos on his arms, exploring the stories inked beneath my touch. One near his elbow caught my attention—a black raven in flight, wings stretched wide, feathers inked with delicate precision, and a gate wide open behind.

“A raven?” I asked.

“Freedom,” he whispered.

He groaned softly as my fingertips grazed a sensitive spot just beneath his collarbone. Then he shifted away, grabbing two bottles of water and handing one to me. As he moved, the tattoo across his shoulder caught the light—bold black ink stretching with muscle and motion. A rough and ready scraped and drawn wolf tangled in thorns. Heavy. Deliberate. A cover-up.

“And the wolf with the thorns?” I asked.

Enzo paused. His body went still, jaw tightening for a second. Then he took a drink and looked at me—not evasive, not ashamed. Just… honest.

“Inside,” he said, voice low, “Mateo wanted me to come back. Be Stone Cross again. I told him no. He said I would be a lone wolf then. Exposed. Vulnerable. He meant it as a threat, but the image stuck with me. There was this guy, built like a linebacker, soft as anything he tattooed over what was there.

He tapped his shoulder lightly, fingers brushing the ink. “The thorns, though… those are mine. For the people I hurt. The lines I crossed. The shit I did just to survive, to stay loyal to the wrong kind of family. This isn’t art. It’s regret, marked permanent.”

He turned to face me, his gaze locked on mine, voice raw

“But I’m not that person anymore. And I swear to you, Robbie—I would never, ever hurt you.”

It wasn’t a promise made lightly. He wasn’t trying to impress me. He was giving me a truth carved out of blood and mistakes.

“I know,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Something dangerous glinting behind the softness in his eyes. “But if anyone touches you, even breathes wrong around you—I won’t hold back. I don’t care who they are. I don’t care what it costs. I will burn the world down before I let someone hurt you again.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a vow.

And somehow, hearing it didn’t scare me. Not from him. It settled in my chest like armor, like safety.

He’d fight anyone. Everyone.

For me.

“I want to touch you and make you feel good.”

“You don’t owe me that⁠—”

“I want to.”

Something darkened in his eyes. “Robbie?”

Instead of answering, I leaned up and pressed my lips to his. Unlike our desperate kisses from last night, this was gentle, questioning. His hand left my hair and cradled my face, thumb stroking my cheek as he kissed me back with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

“Tell me,” I murmured against his skin. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like kissing you. I like you sitting on my lap, safe in my arms.” He dipped his gaze as if that embarrassed him.

“I like all of those, but I also want to make you come,” I said as boldly as I could manage.

Enzo pulled back to study my face. “You’re not just doing it because you think I expect you to⁠—”

“No,” I said, surprised by how sure I was. “I want to learn your body the way you’ve learned mine.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Fuck, I want that,” he whispered, voice husky. “But we go at your pace.”

I nodded, feeling a surge of both nervousness and determination as I pushed gently at his shoulder. He went willingly, rolling onto his back. I followed, propping myself up to look down at him. I could see him properly in the morning light—the lean muscle beneath his warm-toned skin, scars on his belly, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the sheet that barely covered his hips.

“You’re staring,” he said, a hint of vulnerability in his voice I’d never heard before.

“You’re beautiful.”

His laugh was brief and self-conscious. “I’m bruised and cut and used up,” he murmured.

I shook my head and tapped his pec right over a compass tattoo. “Beautiful. Dangerous. Safety.” Then I smiled at him. “Mine.”

A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes darkening as he reached up to touch my cheek. “Yours, huh?”

“Is that okay?” I asked, uncertain. This was the first sex I’d had, and it mattered. He mattered, and I wanted to show him that.

“More than okay,” he murmured. “I’ve been yours since you first opened your eyes.”

“My protector.”

“Yours.”

“My lover.”

“Yours. Always yours.”

I paused. “I don’t know how to be with someone where it doesn’t hurt.”

My confession sent a shiver through me, and he caught my hand and laced our fingers. Something real passed between us, and I broke my exploration of his skin to move my lips along his jaw, pressing a quick kiss to his soft lips, then down the column of his throat, feeling his pulse quicken beneath my mouth. His skin tasted like heaven, and I wanted more.

“Can I?” I asked, my fingers playing with the edge of the sheet at his waist.

He nodded, his breath catching as I pulled the sheet away. I tried not to be obvious in my staring, but it was impossible not to appreciate his beauty, exposed to me. My gaze traced over his body, taking in every detail, every scar, the hard lines and soft curves that made him Enzo.

“You’re still staring,” he said, voice rough.

“I can’t help it,” I admitted. “I’ve never… not like this. Not when it mattered.”

His eyes softened. “Come here,” he said, reaching for me.

But I shook my head. “Not yet. I want to touch you first.”

I let my hands explore, tracing the thick vein running the length of his cock, the loose skin stretched over the purple tip of his cock, watching how his body responded to my touch. His breathing grew ragged, eyes half-closed but never leaving my face. I marveled at the power I felt—not the kind that John had wielded over me, but something shared.

“Is this okay?” I whispered.

Enzo’s laugh was strangled. “More than okay,” he managed, his hips shifting beneath my hand. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good-crazy?” I asked, my fingers tightening, experimenting with pressure.

“The best kind,” he groaned, his hand gripping the sheets with a desperate intensity. “God, Robbie.”

“It’s Roman,” I whispered. “My real name is Roman, or Ro if you want it to be ours. A secret.”

His eyes widened in shock. “Don’t tell anyone else,” he said urgently.

I shook my head. “Just us.”

“Roman,” he said so quietly, testing it on his tongue. His expression softened as he reached up to touch my face. “Roman,” he whispered again. “It suits you.”

“No one’s called me that in years,” I admitted, my hand still moving slowly.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can be whoever you want to be with me,” Enzo said, his voice strained as his hips lifted slightly into my touch. “Robbie, Roman, Ro… you’re still you.”

“I think I want to be who Roman was again, before John—before I got lost,” I whispered. “But only with you.”

His eyes darkened. “I like having something that’s just ours.”

I leaned down to kiss his thigh, feeling bolder now. His hands came up to tangle in my hair, but he didn’t push or force me; he stroked and reassured me. “Is this okay? Are you okay?” he kept asking, but instead of getting defensive, I loved that he cared, and I was overwhelmed by the tenderness of his concern.

“More than okay,” I whispered, kissing his hip bone. I took a breath, gathering my courage. He was uncut, thick, hard as stone, and not the same as me. He was bigger, for sure, and the tip of his cock was damp. “Can I?”

“Anything you want, sweetheart, anything.”

I pressed a kiss to the tip of him, darting my tongue to taste him, and the sound Enzo made sent a thrill through me. His fingers tightened briefly in my hair before relaxing, giving me control. I experimented with the pressure and rhythm of my tongue, learning what made his breath hitch and his muscles tense. I closed my lips around the head and sucked and licked, and tasted the saltiness of the pre-cum, then kissed the tip again.

“Roman,” he whispered, the name sounding so sweet. “You don’t have to⁠—”

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want to,” I said. “I want to make you feel good. I want to be good enough, I want...”

He leaned up and cradled my face with one hand.

“You’re enough, Roman. You’re mine.”

I smiled, then pushed him to lie back down, lowered my head again, losing myself in the intimacy of doing this, tasting him, and taking him down as far as I could, wanting more, and easing myself to my knees, trying not to show the pain, ignoring the brief reminder of glass in my skin, and crouching so I had a free hand to close any gap between my mouth and his hair there.

His hips made an aborted thrust, and I could tell he was trying to stay in control. I hummed around him, the vibration making him curse.

I pulled back for air, replacing my mouth with my hand. “You can tell me what you want,” I said, looking up at him through my lashes. “I want to learn.”

Enzo’s eyes were almost black with desire. “You’re perfect,” he breathed. “Just like that.” His voice broke on the last word as I swallowed him again, more confident now.

“You’re so big, I don’t know if I can take you inside me.” My grip faltered when he touched my hand.

“That’s not something we need to do.”

“But what if I want to? What if I need you in that way.”

“What if I needed you in that way?” he asked back, as I twisted my fingers over the head of his cock.

“Me? Inside you? But you’re so…” Big, dominant, full of life and force, and I’m… me.

“I switch and you fucking me would be the best thing I’ve ever felt,” he murmured. “One day, maybe?” He sounded hopeful.

“I don’t know if I can… let me…” I didn’t want to talk anymore, and I lost track of time, focused on the way his body responded to my touch, the sounds he made, the way his thighs tensed under my free hand.

“Roman—Ro,” he gasped, his voice strained. “I’m close, you should⁠—”

I traced a finger past his balls, back to the hole he wanted me inside, and I pressed there. Could I do that? I felt a dark thrill at the thought of being the one who fucked, but then, I also wanted that with Enzo pushing me slowly into coming, whispering words of encouragement, telling me I was beautiful. I swallowed deeper, redoubled my efforts, leaning on my elbow so I could do everything at once, wanting to give him this and show him I wasn’t afraid anymore. His warning only spurred me on, and I felt a surge of power at his control, fracturing beneath my touch.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips lifting off the bed. “Jesus, Ro⁠—”

I hummed my assent, stopped sucking him, working his cock with my hands, and that was all it took. He tensed, going rigid as he came, calling my name with a broken—my real name. I stayed with him through it, watching ribbons of come on my hands, on his belly, some of it on my lips, and I was so fucking proud of what I’d done.

When I looked up, I saw something I had never expected—Enzo’s eyes were bright with emotion, and his expression was so open and vulnerable it made my chest ache.

“Come here,” he whispered, reaching for me.

He held me as he cradled my cock. I wasn’t hard; the emotions were too raw, but I sighed—happy—and let him pull me up against his chest. He kissed me deeply, not seeming to care about his taste on my lips. His hands trembled as they framed my face. I could see the sheen in his eyes, and for a second, I didn’t know if I’d broken him or healed something. Maybe both. I’d never seen Enzo like that—so raw, so unguarded. It was more intimate than anything we’d done. Not just desire but something far deeper.

“That was…” He shook his head. “You’re incredible. My Roman.” I loved how he added my name at the end; it was perfect.

I felt a blush spread across my cheeks. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You were perfect,” he said with a soft laugh, thumb tracing my lower lip. “Roman,” he added, testing the name again.

The sound of it sent a shiver through me. “It feels right when you say it.”

“I love you, Roman,” he whispered.

What was love? I didn’t remember family; I didn’t recall anything but misery. I remembered the cold tile under my knees, the sound of locks clicking shut, and how much pain I could endure. Love had been twisted, but now it was knowing Enzo would do anything to be in my corner. This big man had melted my heart and shown me I could be okay.

In his arms, I was Roman again, untouched and never hurt by anyone. I was new.

“I want you forever.” I settled in his arms. “I think that’s love.”

“Sounds like love to me.”

THIRTY

Enzo

Rio’s hand landed on my shoulder, dragging me from the edges of a dream I didn’t want to leave. In the dream, I was holding Robbie—warm, safe, completely wrapped around him as if he were the only thing tethering me to this earth. Loving him felt floaty, effortless, like breathing.

But Rio’s face above me was tense, and that snapped me straight back to reality.

I untangled myself from Robbie’s arms slowly, careful not to wake him. He murmured something soft and turned over, pressing his face into my pillow. I climbed out of bed, bare as the day I was born, and scrambled for clothes—underwear, jeans, a clean, anonymous T-shirt from the folded pile.

As I was about to leave the room, Robbie’s voice, thick with sleep, tugged me back. “Enzo?”

I circled around to his side of the bed. He blinked up at me, squinting against the soft morning light.

“Morning, sunshine,” I murmured.

“What time is it?”

I glanced at my watch. “Six.”

He rubbed at his eyes. “Why’re you getting out of bed?”

“Need to go pick up some parts with Rio.”

“What parts?”

“A ‘68 Firebird water pump and some seals.”

“I don’t have that purchase order.”

“I’ll make sure to leave it on your desk.”

“‘kay,” he hummed, already drifting again.

“Jamie’s downstairs,” I leaned in, kissed the tip of his nose, then his lips. “Go back to sleep. Love you.”

“Love you,” Robbie whispered back, already halfway to dreaming again. His breathing slowed, deepened.

When I got downstairs, Jamie was sitting in his usual spot, a baseball bat hanging loosely between his knees. “Enzo,” he acknowledged.

“We got a line on where Vinnie might be,” Rio said, his voice low.

“Logan isn’t here, I’m going into lockdown once you’ve left,” Jamie kept things to the point, and I threw him a nod in thanks. As soon as we were outside and climbing into Rio’s beaten-up truck, he glanced at me sideways, engine still rumbling under our boots.

“Message from a friend, Vinnie was at the old warehouse strip six blocks down.”

Fuck. If Vinnie was that close, it meant trouble wasn’t coming—it was already here.

“What ‘friend’?.”

Rio shrugged, and I wasn’t pushing for answers. I didn’t care if it meant we got to talk to Vinnie and find out what he wanted and more importantly, who for.

The wind rushed in through the cracked window. I sat there thinking about Robbie asleep in my bed, breathing easy. Safe. For now.

We reached the area—an abandoned textile warehouse at the edge of the district, paint peeling from corrugated metal walls, weeds clawing through the cracked concrete. Windows were either boarded-up or smeared with grime, and graffiti twisted like scars across the back wall. It smelled like old oil, piss, and garbage.

We parked out of sight and circled to the rear, where the loading dock sagged from rust. Rio jerked his chin, signaling we’d split—him left, me right.

I crept toward the back entrance, my footsteps soft, my eyes sweeping for movement. As I reached the door, it creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was built like a fridge and just as expressive, easily recognized—Goon Number One, Mateo’s man.

“Boss wants to see you,” he said, voice low and flat.

He stepped aside.

I hesitated for a second before slipping past him. I heard Rio shift directions behind me, adjusting course to fall in step.

Inside, it was dim. The place stank of mildew and rot, shafts of sunlight struggling through the grimy windows to land in dusty pools across the concrete floor.

Goon Number Two stood in the shadows, weapon drawn but angled toward the floor, eyes sharp and narrow. He gave us a once-over and an up-nod.

We stepped into the main room, and my breath caught.

Vinnie was tied to a chair—head slumped, face a mess of blood and bruises. Mateo stood behind him, gripping either side of the chair.

“Took you long enough,” Mateo said, staring right at me.

“I’m here now.”

Vinnie stared at Rio. “What the fuck you doing here?” he said, voice thin and brittle, like a man who hadn’t slept and knew he wouldn’t again anytime soon. There was something slippery behind his eyes, the way he looked from me to Rio and back again, calculating. “You owe me Rio. Get me out of here.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Rio snarled.

“Why do you want Robbie?” I asked, keeping my voice level. The only thing I let show was the threat simmering beneath it.

“Robbie? I don’t know a fucking Robbie, I want that guy in your garage, Roman?” Vinnie said, and then that twisted grin broke across his face, blood caught on his teeth. He spat into the dust and laughed. “You don’t even know what you’ve got there. He’s sitting on fucking millions, man. More money than you’ll ever see.” He was bolder then, as if even tied to a chair he was in a position to negotiate. “I told Mateo—we could split it. Be smart about it.” My gaze flicked to Mateo who raised an eyebrow at me. “You think I wanna hurt this Roman kid? Nah, man. He’s gold for all of us.”

“And how do we get this money?” Mateo asked, and I stiffened. I’d brought Rio in here and put him in the way of guns, and now Mateo was trying to make a deal with Vinnie?

“Hand the kid over and it’s straight in our accounts boss,” he said, with utter confidence.

“How much?” Mateo asked, and I took a step toward him, but he subtly indicated I stay where I was with a shake of his hand.

“Five hundred k at least.”

“Thought the bounty on the kid was a million.”

Vinnie blinked up at Mateo. “Yeah, yeah, I was gonna take my cut, but fuck it, you can have it all. I was doing it for the SC boss.”

Mateo hummed thoughtfully. “You were? How can I trust you?”

He turned his attention to Rio, “Tell Mateo I’m okay, Rio. That he can trust me.”

“Fuck you,” was all Rio had to offer.

Mateo’s hands tightened on the chair; jaw clenched so hard I could hear it creak. Then he softened his tone, as if he had all the time in the world. “What was the plan, Vinnie? Once you got Roman?”

“An exchange, this guy wants him, and I get a cut—we get a cut. I wasn’t keeping any of it, not really.” Seemed to me as if Vinnie was getting his story jumbled up. “We was all gonna be rich as fuck.”

“So, you were gonna sell Robbie off,” I said, my voice dropping. “Leave him with the animals who nearly killed him and walk away.”

“I don’t give a shit what happened to him, it’s money baby, I was doing it for the SC.” He was posturing now, but there was a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

Mateo leaned down close, his voice a quiet threat “Don’t pretend you did anything out of loyalty to SC.”

Vinnie’s grin faltered.

“Who wants him?” I asked and moved so I was standing really close to the sniveling piece of shit who wanted to hurt Robbie.

“I tell you that, and you kill me,” he smiled, as if it was all a joke.

“You tell me, and I might let you live,” I lied.

Vinnie flinched. That toothy bravado was already slipping. “This guy called John Mitchell, it was a job put out, and I found the kid, didn’t I?” He craned his neck to find Mateo who’d moved back into the shadows. “And I came straight to you, Boss.”

“That’s not entirely true, is it, Vinnie?” Mateo said, “Word is that you offered a cut to a shit-ton of others as well. Amiright?”

He shook his head. “It was always you, Boss. I was working for the SC, I was gonna let you have the money. I wasn’t even gonna take a cut.” Vinnie cast a frightened glance between us and Mateo, then at Goons One and Two, who’d stepped out into the light as well. It was clear he was lying. “I can make a deal, right? Get my phone. You’ll see who wanted the kid… I don’t have nothing to hide, and then when I get out of here, I can be the best for you. A real soldier in your ranks.”

Mateo nodded at Goon One, who fetched over a sparkling new phone, pressed a button, and then held it to Vinnie’s face. It unlocked, and Goon One scrolled through whatever was on there, then passed the phone to Mateo. He read the screen, and his expression went from focused to furious in an instant.

“The Devils Drift!” he snapped and yanked at Vinnie’s long greasy hair. “You were offering a cut to those fuckers?”

“No! Boss! I was gonna double-cross them, yeah, I had it all worked out. The kid will get us millions and we get one up on them.”

The Drift. Biker gang, mostly. Loud, loyal, brutal. They stuck to the periphery back in the day—ran guns through the industrial zone, handled enforcement work no one else would touch. I’d crossed paths with a few inside. Hard-eyed men with no loyalty but to the patch on their backs. Getting involved with them meant all bets were off. They didn’t negotiate. They burned things to the ground and rode through the ashes. If they knew about Robbie, if they had any idea where to find him, then we were fucking gone, leaving LA now.

“This Mitchell, right, he’s got a line on all these kids,” Vinnie said, smarmy, as if he could persuade Mateo to let him go with this big deal he had. “I mean, it’s not really trafficking when he keeps the kids, yeah?” What kind of fucked- up logic was he trying to use to get out of this one? “But they’re big currency, Boss, fresh meat, and this one, this whore, Roman, he knows too much, and they want him back, and⁠—”

Mateo punched Vinnie square on the mouth. The sound was wet and sharp. Vinnie’s head snapped back, blood spraying the floor. Mateo followed with two more brutal punches, landing them with surgical precision. Vinnie reeled, his body sagging in the chair, eyelids fluttering as if he were slipping under.

“Fucking traffickers! Fucking Drift MC. You fucking brainless moron,” Mateo spat, knuckles dripping.

I didn’t breathe. The air in the room was heavy, thick with sweat, piss, and the iron tang of blood. My heart hammered, but my face stayed blank. I couldn’t afford to show what I was feeling—couldn’t let anyone see how hard I was gripping the edge of my restraint.

“Mateo?” I asked, voice low, even.

Mateo didn’t respond right away. He stared at Vinnie as if he were already dead. There was nothing in his eyes. Not rage. Not sorrow. Just… nothing. Like he’d emptied himself out to make space for the kill.

“He’s not walking out of here,” Mateo said, calm as a whisper. “He’s garbage.”

Vinnie sobbed, loud and wet and desperate. He twisted against the ropes, shaking, eyes wide and pleading.

“Please—please, no—I didn’t tell anyone I found him!”

“There was someone with you that night at the garage. Who?”

“No!” Vinnie snapped. “No one.”

“He’s fucking lying, we have video.”

“It was Mitchell, I mean, he would have taken the kid, and we’d have no money, but I let him see so we had a strong negotiating point! Yeah? I didn’t tell the Drift. None of them.”

Mateo pulled his gun and pressed it to Vinnie’s temple. “How the fuck do I know you’re not lying?”

“I’m not! I’m not!”

He snapped the safety, “You have three seconds to tell me the truth!”

Vinnie had the look of a man who knew he was dead either way. “I wanted the money for myself!” he shouted. “I didn’t tell no one ‘cept Mitchell! I’m the only one who knows! The money is all yours, Boss”

“Fuck you!” Mateo snapped, but then he stepped back, and passed me the gun. I took it on instinct. It was heavy and cold. “You have five minutes to make sure, gun is mine, unmarked, untraceable. Your decision on how he dies, but I promise if you can’t do this shit, then I will.”

Rio moved in first, crouching in front of Vinnie, who had gone pale and clammy. His face was a mess of blood and panic, but that smarmy glint still clung to his expression like an oil slick on water.

“Old friend,” Vinnie pleaded. “Come on, let me go. This has gone far enough.”

Rio didn’t blink. “Answer this first, ‘old friend.’ Who else did you tell?”

Vinnie stared up at him, blood crusting around his lips. He hesitated for a beat too long. “No one. I swear. Not ‘cept Mitchell, I didn’t tell no one. Please just get me the fuck out of here.”

Rio slowly straightened to full height. He turned to me.

“He hasn’t said anything to anyone about where Robbie is,” he said, voice neutral but cold.

“Roman? Robbie… See, Rio knows me?” Vinnie crowed, as if that somehow redeemed him. “I told you. No one else knows. It’s clean. You can walk away from this.”

But I couldn’t. Not this time.

“You told the man who kept Robbie prisoner, abused him, shared his body, where he was.”

“I—”

“You brought him to our home.”

“Fuck—”

Who is Mitchell working with? There’s two others.”

“I don’t know!” Vinnie cried. My entire body locked down; every breath I took tighter than the last. Robbie—Roman—safe upstairs in bed, tangled in the blankets, trusting me to keep the monsters away. Vinnie had wanted to sell him. Hand him over to worse men than we’d ever been. He would’ve watched them hurt him and still cashed the check.

I felt the weight of the gun in my hand. Cold. Unyielding. Final.

Blood on my hands, maybe.

But I’d bleed for Robbie. Kill for him. Burn the whole fucking city down if it meant he could sleep easy one more night.

The shot echoed in the vast space. One to the head. Another for good measure. Vinnie went limp.

I swallowed hard, jaw clenched, chest aching when I turned to Mateo standing at the door. “I’ll kill anyone who goes near Robbie.”

He nodded. “I’m not starting a fucking war over some stupid-ass kid whatever the fucking payout⁠—”

I was on Mateo in an instant, ignoring Goon Two, trying to pull me off, and the gun Mateo snatched from my hand was pressed to my head in an instant. He was so close I could see the flecks of amber in his hazel eyes, feel the tension in every line of my childhood friend. There was no compassion in him, no loyalty, no hint of the boy I used to know—just a cold, calculated emptiness that had carved out whatever was left of his soul and replaced it with survival instinct and bloodlust.

I hadn’t blinked over killing Vinnie, but Mateo was the worst kind of monster.

He’d fucking enjoyed watching me do it.

“Robbie is mine,” I snarled, the words spilling out hot and fast, tangled in fury and fear and something that cracked right down the center of me. Robbie wasn’t some bargaining chip or name on a list or paycheck waiting to be cashed in, he was the only person who made any of this worth surviving. He was the reason I breathed, the one thing I didn’t believe I could have until he’d crawled into my life and made a home in my heart. “He’s not a fucking kid, and if you talk about him like that again, I swear I will fuck you over so hard you won’t know which direction the sun rises. I don’t care what empire you’re trying to protect or how many guns you’ve got pointed at me. You ever reduce him to less than what he is again—less than brilliant, less than strong, less than mine—I will end you, Mateo. You hear me?

He heard me. He didn’t move, not a twitch, then, he lowered the gun. “I hear you. The five years you did for me, for your friend. My debt is repaid.

“Stay away from Redcars!”

“I don’t want anything to do with that shit,” he snarled.

I turned and left, feeling the weight of guns pointed at me, shaky from what I’d done, and Rio followed me a few feet away and then stopped by the car, arms crossed, his expression was calm. He’d seen everything I had, and when our eyes met, he nodded once. “You okay?”

No. I’d just killed a man. Yet another thorn that needed to be drawn on my tattoo. It was to keep my family safe. My lover. My Robbie. Was I okay? Not with taking life, but for Robbie, I’d kill any fucker that got near him.

Rio drove back, quiet for most of it until we reached the garage and went inside to find Jamie pacing. I looked for Robbie, but Rio gripped my arm and stopped me. “We need to tell J, then you get to go to Robbie.”

We briefly explained, in low tones, what had gone down, and when Rio said Vinnie was gone, Jamie touched my arm, enough to let me know he had my back on whatever I’d done.

“It doesn’t matter that Vinnie’s gone if there’s a price on getting Robbie back to this Mitchell guy,” Rio said. “And we don’t know who the other two are.”

“Then we find Mitchell, track the others down,” Jamie said as if it was a done deal. “No one gets to hurt Robbie.”

I wanted to debate that we shouldn’t do anything without thinking it through, but I was over all of that. We had a name now and Mitchell was next, and if I had to kill after I found out the names of the other two, I would.

All I wanted now was to see Robbie. Touch him. Hear his voice and feel the warmth of his skin under my hands. There was a phantom itch in my palms from the gun, from the recoil, from the truth of what I’d done—and it wasn’t regret. Not really.

Because I’d done it for Robbie.

Because Robbie was mine.

I didn’t feel shame. I didn’t feel guilt. I felt the fierce throb of possession in my chest and the ache in my hands to hold him. My hands weren’t clean. They’d never be clean. But maybe they were finally doing something right.

I needed him. Needed to touch him, to remind myself of why all of this mattered. Because when I had Robbie in my arms, there were no monsters left. Just him. Just us.

THIRTY-ONE

Robbie

Enzo was quiet when he and Rio came back, both of them with that expression as if they’d seen something they couldn’t unsee. They huddled with Jamie, voices low, tension vibrating off them in waves. I watched from across the garage, pretending not to care, but every time Enzo glanced over and then turned away, something inside me curled up tight.

After ten minutes of being ignored and excluded, I slammed the folder I was holding onto the counter louder than I needed to and marched over. My pulse thudded hard in my ears. “What?”

Enzo blinked like he’d forgotten I was there. Jamie was awkward, and Rio gave me a warning glance that said not now, but I didn’t care.

“What happened? Where did you go? Why are you all⁠—”

Enzo reached for me, fingers twitching as if he wanted to touch me—then he dropped his hands as if they’d been burned. He wouldn’t meet my gaze, shoulders hunched under some invisible weight.

I felt it like a punch to the chest. Like a door slamming shut.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Why won’t you touch me?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. “Vinnie is dead. I killed him.” Enzo’s breath hitched, barely a sound. But it was enough. “And I get if that’s too much for you. All you’ve seen is violence, and now⁠—”

“Stop!” I wanted to be angry he was shutting down, I wanted to scream that I’d fix everything, although I knew I couldn’t. But all I felt was the sharp edge of sadness for him—for what he’d done, for what it was costing him. For how he wouldn’t look at me, as if he was scared I’d break if he touched me with blood still on his hands. “I’m sorry you had to do that.” I reached out, grabbed his wrist, and held on. “I’m so fucking sorry, Enzo.”

His eyes burned. “Don’t you dare say that,” he said, “Don’t be sorry, because I won’t let anyone hurt you Roman, ever! You hear me?”

“You did it for me and now you’ll hate me.” God, how selfish did I sound? “No, I get it, I’m sorry. I’ll let you go… I’ll…” I was still gripping him.

Please don’t hate me. Please don’t let me go. Please touch me.

He stared at me and whatever was in his eyes broke my heart wide open. “I love you,” he said, and gathered me closer. “You’re still mine.”

My heart skipped, my eyes filled with tears, and I twisted my hands behind his neck. “And you’re still mine.”

He kissed me then, gentle, kind. “And I’m not letting you go, not now, not ever.”

“Did Vinnie give you any names?” It was a question I didn’t want to ask, but I needed to know. I waited, forcing myself to breathe. The kitchen clock ticked in the silence between us.

“Vinnie recognized you from a retrieval on the dark web, from John Mitchell.” He paused, and I knew I wavered. I knew all the blood drained from me. I knew I was shutting down.

“Mitchell,” I repeated. “John Mitchell.”

“You have something Mitchell wants, and for that, he needs you back.”

I couldn’t speak. My lungs refused to work, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint. John. Just hearing the name made me feel like I was drowning, like I was back there in that cold, sterile room with his voice whispering in my ear.

“Robbie?” Enzo’s voice came from far away. “Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

His hands were on my shoulders, steady and warm and I gulped in air, forcing myself back to reality, back to the kitchen with its worn, scratched table and the scent of dinner still in the air.

“He can’t find me,” I managed, my voice cracking. “Enzo, he can’t⁠—”

“He won’t,” Enzo cut in, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “I promise you that.” I noticed Rio and Jamie coming closer. “We need to know everything. What exactly does John want from you? Can you tell us?” I nodded and it was Rio who asked the first question.

“Vinnie said you have control of millions. What do they mean?”

I pulled away from Enzo, standing so fast my chair scraped over the floor. The walls felt like they were closing in and I wobbled, but he caught me, pulling me into a hug. Then he sat down again and tugged me to him. I straddled his lap like always, and I felt safe.

“Thirty million I managed to scrape, maybe more,” I whispered as Jamie whistled. “And it’s information that John wants. In my head.”

Enzo hugged me tight. “What kind of information?” he asked.

How could I explain the years I’d spent as John’s pet project, his perfect memory experiment.

“I was really small when I went into care, group home reject, nobody looking for me. Perfect for John’s purposes to sell on, because I was so young, but you see, when he found me I was fourteen by then, he saw more in me, said I had something he wanted.” I tapped my temple. “I have an eidetic memory. I can recall everything I’ve ever seen or read with perfect clarity. John realized what he had. A human hard drive who couldn’t forget.”

Enzo’s face remained impassive, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “What information did he make you memorize?”

“Stuff that his bosses wanted at first, and then other things where he was collecting blackmail material, bad shit on bad people.” I sank back onto his lap, burying my face against his neck for a moment, drawing strength from his steady heartbeat. “Bank accounts. Shell companies. Transaction records. Names, dates, amounts. All of it stored right here,” I tapped my head again. “Untraceable. No digital footprint. Just me.”

“Jesus,” Enzo breathed. His arms tightened around my waist. “How much information?”

“So much, hundreds of thousands of dollars. I stopped counting after a while. He’d show me documents, make me recite them back perfectly. If I made a mistake…” I trailed off, the phantom pain of punishment making me shudder. “The other two used me, and he’d hurt me. Keep me chained, starve me. I’d get it right eventually.” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. “I stopped telling him what I knew, and the punishments grew worse. He punished me for keeping my secrets.”

“Tortured you,” Jamie muttered.

“He would keep me medicated, but I tricked him, I stopped the meds stopped eating so I could get out of this tiny window. I had one chance to get out, and I ran. He can’t find me, Enzo. I’m not going back.”

“You’re not going back,” Jamie spat.

“No fucking way.” Rio added.

Enzo’s jaw clenched and his hands settled on my hips, steadying but not restraining. “How long?” he asked.

“I don’t know, years, I remember turning fifteen, I think, and I made marks on the wall, but I ran out of room, and sometimes I didn’t know if it was a day that had passed. I don’t remember...” The words hung between us. “He started keeping secrets from his bosses, and I was his most valuable asset. The perfect ledger for all his clients’ dirty money. No electronic trails, no paper records that could be seized. Just me.”

“And now John wants his ledger back,” Enzo said, his tone dangerous.

“That thirty million is what he owes to the other two.” I nodded, throat tight. “I won’t go back.” I wriggled to get away, “I’ll kill myself first⁠—”

Enzo’s hands shot out, gripping my wrists firm enough to stop me but not enough to hurt. His eyes blazed with an intensity I hadn’t seen before. “Don’t you dare say that,” he growled. “Not ever.”

I stilled in his grasp, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice.

“You’re not going back to him, and you’re not going to die. Those aren’t the only options, Robbie.” He loosened his grip, sliding his hands up to cup my face. “I protect what’s mine, remember?”

The possessiveness in his tone should have frightened me, but instead it wrapped around me like armor. I leaned into his touch, letting my forehead rest against his. “You killed for me.”

“And he’ll do it again,” Jamie added.

“We all will,” Rio agreed.

“You don’t understand what he’s capable of,” I whispered. “The people who employed him, the resources they have⁠—”

“And you don’t know what I’m capable of.” The dangerous edge in Jamie’s voice made me shiver.

But it was Enzo I wanted to hear from. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, sweetheart,” he said as I stared at him, tears choking me.

“I know.”

He shifted me on his lap, his hands gentle despite the hard glint in his eyes. “What if we used what’s in your head against him?”

I blinked, struggling to understand. “What do you mean?”

“Those records you memorized—they’re evidence of money laundering, right? Tax evasion? Maybe worse?”

I nodded slowly. “Some of it was cartel money. Human trafficking profits. Arms deals. John specialized in hiding the worst kind of money. There were children Enzo, kids… I only managed to stay alive because I remembered things. And then I stole it all and put it in crypto and he can’t get it.”

Enzo’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Then we have leverage. If John wants you back so badly, it’s because you’re a liability. You could expose everything.”

“Do you have any names for the other two?” I asked.

“Vinnie knew shit,” Rio snapped. “And you have no idea?”

“No. I never found names in what he made me learn, and they would blindfold me, but I know some stuff. And they know me. If Mitchell has told them… but then he wouldn’t, would he?” I stiffened. “They owned him, he worked for them, and he’s lost all their money.”

Enzo’s eyes softened, one hand coming up to brush my hair back from my face. Something in his gaze made my heart stutter. This dangerous man who held me as if I were precious, as if I were worth protecting. “We’ll figure it all out.”

“I’m heading out,” Jamie said, “Look after him, yeah?”

“Where are you going?” Rio asked.

“Out,” Jamie said.

“I’m coming with you.”

I stared at the two men, Rio with his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, and Jamie vibrating with tension.

“No,” Jamie said. “I do my best work alone, when I’m prepping for a burn.”

“Jesus, Jamie,” Rio snapped, but Jamie shoved him aside and left.

“Where is he going?” I asked, but Enzo shook his head.

“He’ll come back and maybe he’ll have the intel we need to take down Mitchell.”

Rio was pacing now. “What if he burns it all down? What is that going to do for any of us?”

“He won’t and he’ll come back.”

“I wish I had your faith, Enzo,” Rio muttered and then vanished out into the yard.

I snuggled deeper, feeling completely safe as Rio engaged the alarms when he left, and it was just me and Enzo. He scooped me up, almost bridal style, although I was clinging to him like a burr to a saddle, and then he went upstairs, and laid me on the bed.

“I’m not tired,” I said, and yawned, because yes my body is an asshole.

“Who said we’re sleeping sweetheart?” Enzo said, and climbed on the bed to cradle me, kissing me deeply. “I want to kiss every inch of you, love you, make you feel safe, and yeah I know it’s insane and you might end up hating what I did, but you’re inside me, in my thoughts, my heart, every dream I have, and I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

I stared up at him, saw the emotion in his chocolate eyes, and reached up to tangle my hands in his hair. “I could never hate you for keeping me safe, you don’t know what they did to me, they… you make the nightmares less.”

“Roman…” He scrubbed his eyes, his hands shaky.

“Come here,” I said.

“What I did…”

“Please hug me,” I asked.

“You’re here, safe.” He pressed a kiss to my lips.

“I’m okay.”

Then he kissed me. “ I love you right back. You’re everything,” he whispered against my skin, tracing patterns with his tongue. “Everything I never knew I needed.”

“Can you make love to me?” I asked, unsure if that was even the right thing to say.

Enzo pulled back, his eyes searching mine. “We can just kiss, and it doesn’t have to be anything else. There’s no rush.”

I shook my head, pulling him back to me. I shoved aside all the fear and pain into a box and slammed the lid. “I don’t want to stop. I want to feel everything with you. I want to touch your…” I was mortified, and he leaned down so i could whisper in his ear. “your hole, and your cock and I want to kiss you and…”

He stole my words with a frantic kiss, rolling us so I was on top, sprawled over him.

His smile was tender as he brushed a strand of hair from my face. “You want to make love to me? You want to push your fingers in me?”

I nodded, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “I want to do everything with you. I just… I’ve never done this before.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Enzo said, his voice husky. “We’ll go slow. I’ll teach you.” He captured my lips again, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my toes curl. “You can stop anytime. Just say the word.”

“I won’t want to stop,” I whispered.

His hands slid down my back, cupping my ass and pressing me into him. I could feel how hard he was through our clothes, and it sent a thrill through me.

“Let me take care of you first,” he said, flipping me onto my back again. His fingers played with the hem of my shirt. “Can I take this off?”

I nodded, shy but desperate to feel his skin against mine. Enzo tugged my shirt over my head, his eyes darkening as he took me in.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, bending to kiss my chest. His lips found my nipple, and I gasped, arching into his touch. “So responsive,” he said, smiling.

My hands fumbled with his shirt. “Off,” I demanded, surprising myself with my boldness. “I want to see you too.” I was hard, I could feel him, hard, and I wanted more, I wanted it all.

“Can I touch you?” I asked.

“Roman, sweetheart,” he said, taking my hand and placing it on his hip, “you can touch me anywhere you want.” he reached out to the drawer by the bed, grabbed something and was back in an instant. “I’m negative.”

The bedroom was dim and quiet, the air warm with the softness of night. The distant hum of the streetlights outside barely touched us here.

At first that word made no sense, but then it hit me—STD tests. I’d had that panel with Doc. “Me too.”

Then he squeezed something cold on my fingers, “Touch me.” He moved, then guided my hand to his ass, guiding my fingers to circle that tight ring of muscle. My breath caught as he let out a soft moan.

“Like this?” I asked, my voice trembling with nerves and desire.

“Just like that,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering closed. “You can push in a little. The lube will help.”

I pressed gently, feeling him open for me, and the intimacy of it made my heart race. One finger slipped in, and Enzo’s back arched.

“God, Roman,” he gasped. “That’s perfect.”

His reaction emboldened me. I moved my finger, watching his face for every flicker of pleasure. When I curled it, he let out a sound that sent heat rushing through my entire body.

“Another,” he whispered. “Please.”

I obeyed, adding a second finger, stretching him. His muscles clenched around me, hot and tight. I watched in wonder as he rocked against my hand, his breathing growing ragged.

“You’re doing so well,” he praised, his voice breaking. “Do you feel that spot, right there?” He guided my fingers to press something firm inside him, and when I did, his whole body shuddered. “That’s it, right there.”

I stroked that spot again, mesmerized by how he responded to me. His cock was hard against his stomach, a bead of moisture at the tip. I wanted to taste him, to feel him come apart because of me.

“Can I use my mouth on you? While I do this?”

Enzo’s eyes snapped open, dark with desire. “Fuck, Roman. Yes. But only if you want to.”

“I want to,” I said with certainty, sliding down his body.

I lowered my head, bracing myself on my forearm beside his hip, keeping my fingers inside him as I licked the head of his cock and swallowed as much as I could take. I coughed a little, pulled back to breathe, and then tried again, taking him deeper each time. I adjusted my knees to settle between his thighs, grounding myself so I could keep the rhythm steady while my fingers worked.

Every time I pressed that spot, his thighs would tense and he’d make a sound that sent electricity through my veins. I was painfully hard myself, but I didn’t care—this was about him. I wanted to see him come undone, completely lost under my touch.

“Roman,” he gasped after a few minutes, tugging gently at my hair. “Stop, baby. Come here or I’ll come too soon. I want this to last.”

I released him from my mouth and as I worked my way back up his body, he caught me in a deep kiss, his hand pressed my cock, and I whimpered.

“These need to go,” he murmured, tugging at the waistband of my pants. I lifted my hips to help him, feeling exposed but safe in the heat of his gaze. “God, look at you.”

He reached for the lube again, warming it between his palms before taking both of us in his hand. The sensation of his cock alongside mine made my vision blur.

“Enzo,” I gasped, burying my face into his neck. “I won’t last.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and he stroked us together, his grip firm but tender, twisting at the top in a way that made me see stars. I couldn’t help rocking into his hand, chasing the pleasure building at the base of my spine. I reached for him again, but his hole was out of reach and I let out a needy sound of frustration.

“I love you,” I whispered against his lips, the words falling out before I could think about them. “God, I love you so much.”

“I’m close,” he warned, his voice breaking, but the warning was all I needed, and I arched down into him, the words “I love you” tumbling from my lips over and over as pleasure crashed through me. Enzo followed seconds later, his body tensing beneath mine, and he was coming hot and wet between us, moaning my name.

For a moment, we breathed together, his arms wrapped tightly around me. I felt boneless and Enzo pressed gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, and the corner of my mouth.

“Roman?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing my hair from my forehead.

I nodded, unable to find words for the emotions swirling inside me. I was vulnerable and powerful all at once, And there wasn’t a single ghost in the room with me. I held onto that—this moment, this feeling—as tight as I held him. “More than okay,” I managed. “That was…”

“Yeah,” he agreed, understanding what I couldn’t say.

He reached for tissues from the nightstand, cleaning us with gentle hands. I should have felt awkward or embarrassed, but there was none of that, and when I curled into his arms, I was done.

THIRTY-TWO

Enzo

Killian McKendrick, six-five of muscle in a suit, stood at the open door with the kind of ease that suggested this was all a game to him. Relaxed. Unbothered. Like walking into a room full of criminals and secrets was just another Tuesday.

Jamie clocked him instantly, arms folded tight, jaw set like stone. The tension coming off him was a live wire. Where Killian was smooth, Jamie was coiled—ready to strike, ready for a fight. Sparks snapped in the air between them before either said a word. and Rio already had him covered not letting him in. We’d all met each other through Logan, but Killian was still an unknown to us and even though Tudor had given me this cryptic instruction that Lil’ K, aka Killian, could help, I didn’t like him up in our business. Tall and dangerous wrapped in a suit, he was yet another of Tudor’s guys, he was a lawyer and had helped Logan with the custody situation using means that weren’t legal, aka finding video evidence of Cassidy future step-daddy fucking around on Cassidy’s mom. I hated that I needed his chaotic energy now, and I hoped to hell he’d take a payment plan because Doc had wiped me out.

“He’s here for me,” I told Rio, who glanced over at me and then nodded before stepping aside to let him in. I recalled what he’d said to Logan after threatening to take us both down and confronting us with insane attitude.

“Harvard Law, first in my class, 179 LSAT, photographic memory. I paid for tuition on my back, and I don’t owe anyone anything, apart from Tudor who saved me. You’d better believe I took every opportunity that I could to be the best at what I do. I fight dirty as hell, but make it look as innocent as a newborn baby.”

Yeah. That was what we needed.

Was a photographic memory the same as Eidetic like Robbie?

“Enzo,” he said and extended a hand. “Such beautiful eyes.”

“Fuck off,” I snapped, and he winked. Asshole. I shook his hand though because I needed him and his devious shit.

“What happened now?” he asked, shrugging off his suit jacket and placing his briefcase on the nearest pile of tires. I nodded to Rio, who locked the side door and pressed a button to roll down the main shutter doors. Killian tensed, glanced around him, and gone was the flirting, and there was tension in his shoulders.

“There’s someone I want you to meet. Robbie?”

Robbie came out of his room, head buried in a notebook, and then stopped dead when he saw Killian.

“Killian McKendrick,” Killian murmured, and tilted his head.

“Your law books,” Robbie blurted.

“My what now?” Killian asked, peering down at Robbie.

“They’re in my room, your name was in them. I read them all.”

“Cool,” I don’t think Killian knew what to say to that.

“Thank you for leaving them,” Robbie said, and stepped backward, his notebook clutched in his hands, as if he was leaving.

“Wait, Robbie. We need to tell Killian everything,” I said.

Robbie stiffened. “What? No!”

“You need someone on your side.”

“I have you. And Jamie and Rio!”

“Someone who can stop you from being a target.”

“I can’t…”

I cradled his face. “We’re just talking.” He stared at me, confused, and nodded. There it was… his trust in me overrode his fear, and I felt like the most powerful man on Earth.

“If you think it’s a good idea.”

“I hope it is, but if not, we leave, okay?” I said, he nodded and I reluctantly dropped my hand from his face. “Killian, this is Robbie, he’s…”

“The eidetic genius,” Killian completed for me, eyes scanning Robbie with a clinical precision that made me uneasy. “Tudor mentioned him. Said he was important to you.”

“He’s everything to me,” I said, and Robbie’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “You know people, and I want you to use your legal or not legal resources to protect him from people who want to hurt him.”

Killian didn’t seem surprised. He moved to the small table we had set up in the kitchen, dragging over a chair and sitting down like he owned the place. “Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out.”

I glanced at Robbie, who gave a small nod, clutching his notebook tighter, and then he began to explain how he was like a human ledger, and at that point Killian opened his tablet and made some notes.

“A human ledger?” Killian asked, his expression inscrutable. “Define that for me.”

Robbie shifted and glanced at me for reassurance. I nodded, squeezing his shoulder.

“I remember everything,” Robbie said. “Not just words or pictures. Numbers. Transactions. Accounts.” He tapped his temple. “It’s all in here. Names, dates, amounts. Who paid what to whom and when.”

Killian’s eyes narrowed. “And who exactly knows about this talent of yours?”

“The wrong people,” I cut in. “Men with guns. The kind who make problems disappear.”

“Specifically?” Killian prompted, fingers hovering above his tablet.

“John Mitchell,” Robbie said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He chained me, collared me, used me, offered me to two people he worked for.”

Killian went deadly quiet, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed. Did he know that name? Or was he reacting to the statement about how he’d hurt me?

Robbie’s hands trembled as he opened his notebook and reached for a pen. He scribbled a list, two pages of intricate notes and numbers, and handed it to Killian. “Money laundering, bribes, payoffs, blackmail. I know who they paid, how much, and where the money came from. the last entry is a payment order for a hit. He hid it in crypto, and I was the only other one to know the codes.”

“He will have moved that money already,” Killian said, and sat back.

“He can’t,” Robbie said.

“What do you mean, he can’t?”

“How much do you know about cryptocurrency?”

Killian shrugged, “I read some things. Like you, I remember pictures of what I read, just not as insanely obsessive as you.” he tapped his temple. “Photographic, not eidetic.”

“The crypto wallet password is nothing without the Seed Phrase.” Robbie glanced at me. “It’s a sequence of random words as a master key to access or recover a cryptocurrency wallet, allowing users to regain access to their funds even if the wallet is lost, damaged, or the device it’s stored on is compromised.” He sounded as if he were quoting from something he read, but I got the gist.

Killian sat forward in the chair, alert. “And you have this Seed Phrase,” he stated rather than asking, leaning even closer, his professional demeanor slipping to reveal something hungrier.

“It’s up here,” Robbie tapped his head again. Random words that can’t be guessed or hacked. I changed them, and he only has a single physical copy of the old words. He’s lost all of that cash and proof. Over twenty million.”

Killian whistled low, his eyes calculating. “That’s motivation enough for a lot of bodies. What else do you have?”

“Names to transactions, years of them, names that I looked up since I got here. A judge, cops, businessmen,” Robbie’s voice grew steadier as he spoke. “Every judge I identified who took a bribe. Every politician I can put a face to a name now with offshore accounts. I saw the payments myself.”

Killian sat back, rubbing his jaw. “Jesus Christ.”

“That’s why they want Robbie, and there’s a dark web price on his head,” I said, placing a protective hand on Robbie’s shoulder.

Killian looked between us, then fixed his gaze on Robbie. “Why didn’t you go to the feds? Witness protection?”

Robbie stared at me, then down at his notebook. “I didn’t know who to trust.” He handed Killian a list of names. “And thank god I didn’t because… look.” He pointed at the top name on the list.

“Fuck me,” Killian said. “Emmerson Dran? The regional director of the freaking FBI is on Mitchell’s payroll. Fifty thousand a month?”

“Not Mitchell’s payroll, one of the two men who ran him. And his account is seven-seven-Y-K-U-N-H-G-T-forward-slash-K-P-eight.”

“And Dran’s brother, Samuel?”

“Four separate companies that funnel and clean money. The code is⁠—”

“It’s okay, I don’t need those now,” Killian murmured.

I reached over and took Robbie’s hand, held it tight. “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

Killian watched our exchange, tapping his pen against the table. “So you’ve got away, there’s a price on your back, and the people who should protect you are compromised.” He looked at me, the most confused I’d ever seen him. And you brought him to me because…?”

“Because Tudor says you’re one of us, I say you’re trash that made it out, and the only connected person I know,” I said bluntly. “And we need options that don’t end with Robbie dead or back in Mitchell’s hands.”

“‘Trash that made it out’?” Killian said with a fake gasp, and then a slow smile spread. “Flattery will get you everywhere, my gorgeous, brown-eyed man.” He turned his attention back to Robbie. “So, you can write down what you have in your head?”

“No fucking way. If he does that, he doesn’t have anything for protection.”

Killian nodded. “Young Robbie here needs to die.”

Silence. “What the fuck?” I snapped, as Rio closed in on us, and Jamie appeared from nowhere. Rio had his knife out, and Jamie was tensed and poised.

Killian glanced up at them. “Rio Villareal. Pretty Jamie Maddox. Super protective Lorenzo DeLeon. And me. All the trash, eh?” He laughed, then pointed at Jamie. “Beautiful trash with your blue eyes, I’d fuck you in a heartbeat, Pretty.”

Jamie’s lip curled. “Try it, and I’ll bury you so deep your own lies won’t find you.”.

“Anyway, stand down; I didn’t mean die for real, you fucking idiots.” Then he pointed at Robbie. “What’s your real name?”

Robbie scooted closer, and I tugged him to sit on my lap. He curled up under my chin. “Roman Lowe,” he murmured.

“Okay, so Roman has to die, because as long as Roman Lowe is alive, Mitchell won’t stop.”

“As long as Mitchell is alive, he won’t stop,” Enzo said.

“Agreed,” Rio said.

Killian winced. “What you do with Mitchell is your business, but you say there are three of them, that Mitchell is working for someone else? The price will keep climbing until someone collects, and you can’t stay in here hidden, even with your disguise, which, hell, your roots are showing, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Robbie snapped.

Killian inclined his head. “No, you’re not. Now, if Roman Lowe is found dead from, say, a bullet to the head…” Killian’s smile was sharklike. “Then the hunt stops. Can’t collect on a dead man.”

Rio lowered his knife but didn’t put it away. “You can fix that?”

“I’m offended you’d even ask.” Killian huffed, straightening his tie. “I’ll call in some favors, get a big splash online, then we watch the dark web for the call to get taken down. And after plastic surgery, Robbie Ellwood gets to live out his life in a new location away from Mitchell and whoever is with him, also Robbie Ellwood is millions richer.”

“I don’t want the money.”

“You’d be stupid to let it g⁠—”

“Also, Mitchell is looking for a skinny blond man with heterochromia, not a brunette with hazel eyes. And I’m eating now and getting bigger. And I’m not leaving here, I don’t want to leave my family.” I stroked Robbie’s back and he slumped a little. “Enzo?”

“What kind of plastic surgery?” I asked.

“I know a guy, enough to change the shape of your face a little, enough to stay alive.”

Robbie closed his eyes, and I felt all the energy leave him, and that wasn’t happening on my watch. “It won’t change the shape of your heart and what’s in it, Robbie, and we’re staying here unless we have to leave, then we’ll leave together.”

“And we take out Mitchell,” Jamie said, arms crossed over his chest, fire in his blue eyes.

“Jesus, Pretty,” Killian laughed with disbelief.

Jamie didn’t move for a second, then took a single step forward, eyes sharp. His fingers twitched at his side.

“He’s a threat to Redcars and our family,” he said. “And we’re not asking for permission.”

The air between them crackled. Killian’s easy confidence held—there was a flicker of something sharper in his eyes now. Respect, maybe. Or recognition of just how dangerous Jamie could be when cornered?

Killian chuckled. “Is that what you want, Pretty? Revenge?”

“Justice,” Jamie corrected, not backing down from Killian’s mocking tone. “And everyone has a weakness to burn.”

“Ah, yes, our hacker-slash-pyromaniac murderer,” Killian murmured.

“Then you know I can find a flaw and take him and his buddies down.”

“You don’t get it, Pretty.” Killian shook his head, his expression serious. “Mitchell’s weakness is sitting on Enzo’s lap.”

I felt Robbie stiffen against me, and I tightened my arms around him. His head pressed into my chest as if he was trying to disappear, and I hated that Killian had said it out loud like that—as if Robbie was a liability, a tool, instead of the person I’d bleed for.

My pulse thudded at my temples, but I said nothing. I didn’t need to. Robbie’s fingers curled into my shirt, and I felt his breath stutter once before settling.

Killian’s gaze softened by a fraction. “Taking out Mitchell, if that’s what you’re planning, is the wrong move.” He huffed a laugh. “How will we get justice if you kill him?”

“That is justice,” Jamie snarled in Killian’s face.

“Back off,” Killian snapped. “We need to kill Roman first, then see what cards Mitchell plays when everyone thinks he’s no longer a threat. He’ll be desperate to get his money, and we’ll need to neutralize him.” He paused, then he smirked at Jamie. “What do you say, Pretty? Are you good for more than burning shit down and standing around looking cute?”

Jamie stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his glare sharp enough to slice. “Say that again, and I’ll hack your face off the fucking planet.”

Killian blinked once, then grinned wider, enjoying the pushback. Sparks flew in the silence that followed, electricity crackling between them, so thick I could almost taste it.

“Back down, J,” I said.

“Yep, back down, Pretty, the men are talking,” Killian added with a smirk, but Jamie didn’t laugh. He glanced at me, eyes hard, and I gave him the tiniest shake. Not now.

Killian turned his attention back to Robbie, all the playfulness bleeding from his face.

“We don’t just need a body to prove Roman Lowe is dead,” Killian mused, tapping his fingers on the table. “We need a spectacle. Something public enough to make the news, but controlled enough that we manage all the variables. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and opened an app, clicking around, and then with an aha! he connected with someone who sounded pissed that Killian dared to contact them. A couple of sentences later, muffled as Killian paced toward Logan’s office, he returned with a grim smile. “It’s on.”

Robbie grew tense. “What about any kids he takes before we close him down, what about… I couldn’t do anything… I need…”

Killian tensed; all the teasing was gone. “What kids?”

“Payments for cargo, with names, codes. I never saw it, but he trafficked, and…” Robbie’s voice wobbled. “I left them.”

I tightened my arms around Robbie. “You didn’t leave anything,” I said fiercely.

“I didn’t know,” Killian began, and then corrected himself just as quickly. “I mean, you didn’t know.”

I didn’t have time to work out Killian right now.

I wanted Robbie safe; I wanted John fucking Mitchell dead.

THIRTY-THREE

Robbie

Roman Lowe died on a Friday. Allegedly he was caught up in a gang shootout and subsequent fire, his image was thrown up in the media as an unknown victim, with extensive social coverage that was way more than what some random guy off the street would normally be given, a note saying facial reconstruction was used after wounds made it impossible to identify him.

The victim’s name was announced a few days later. Roman Lowe was lost to the system, lived rough, had not been seen for a long time, and had no family who came forward. There was even a ten-minute segment on children in group homes who slip through the system, and a well-orchestrated social media campaign with Roman Lowe front and center.

Whatever Killian had done to get this out there, whatever strings he’d pulled, I owed him.

I didn’t have to like him much—he was too larger-than-life for me—but I owed him. He sat me and Enzo down to get everything I knew, and told me he had a photographic memory and that he found it hard sometimes to flush his brain. I didn’t explain mine was a compulsion, a need. I didn’t have to because he knew.

Three days later the bounty on me was removed.

Then everything moved so fast, and a week after everyone deemed it safe for me to move, contacts in, I made my first trip outside Redcars, in the back of Rio’s truck, curled up next to Enzo, scared out of my mind.

The surgeon’s office was in this exclusive Beverly Hills medical center, all marble and glass and subtle wealth. Dr. Lukash had a reputation for discretion, for clients who needed work done without questions, or so Killian told us when he visited to explain what happened next. Movie stars wanting to maintain the fiction of natural beauty. Politicians erasing evidence of indiscretions. And now me—someone who needed to become a ghost.

“Mr. Cooper?” The receptionist said, using the fake name Killian had arranged. You can go in.”

My fingers gripped Enzo’s arm so tight I was sure I’d leave bruises. He didn’t complain, simply covered my hand with his.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Remember what Killian said? In and out. Minor alterations. Nothing that changes who you are. Keeps you safe from Mitchell and whoever the others are. Yeah?”

I nodded mechanically. The science of becoming someone else while still being yourself. Cheekbones subtly reshaped. Jaw slightly altered. Nose just different enough. Not a complete change, but enough to make facial recognition software fail. Enough that someone who’d seen me once wouldn’t recognize me on the street.

“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” Enzo promised, squeezing my hand before letting go.

The doctor’s office was nothing like I expected. No medical posters, no anatomical diagrams of faces but quite a few weird abstracts on the wall, and a large desk.

Dr. Lukash himself was tall, with silver hair, and his handshake was firm but gentle.

“Mr. Cooper. Please, sit.” He gestured to a chair across from his desk. “I understand your situation is… sensitive.”

“Did Killian explain everything?” My voice sounded small.

“He did.” Dr. Lukash nodded, opening a folder on his desk. “And I’ve reviewed your case thoroughly. I want to assure you that what we’re doing is subtle art, not dramatic transformation. The goal is to create just enough difference that you’ll slip past recognition without losing your essential self.”

He turned his monitor toward me, showing a 3D model of my face. With a few clicks, the image shifted—subtle changes appearing and disappearing as he demonstrated possibilities.

“Your cheekbones here,” he pointed with a stylus, “slightly more pronounced. Your eyes… hmm, nothing we can do about the color unless we… no… contacts will fix that. Okay…jawline softened, just a touch. Bridge of the nose altered by two millimeters.” He glanced up at me. “Small changes that add up to a new visual signature without making you unrecognizable to those who know you well.”

I swallowed hard. “How long will recovery take?”

“Four weeks until the swelling is completely gone. Six weeks until you see the final result.” He leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Cooper, I’ve worked with many clients who needed to disappear. The physical transformation is only part of the process.”

I nodded, remembering Killian’s lengthy briefing. New mannerisms. Different posture and changing how I walked.

“When can we start?” I asked, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

“Tomorrow morning. Seven a.m.” He handed me a folder. “These are your pre-op instructions. Nothing to eat after midnight. No aspirin or blood thinners. And”—he fixed me with a serious look—”absolutely no one besides your companion can know you’re here, no social posting, no hints, no phone calls to friends.”

I clutched the folder to my chest. “I understand.”

He stood and we shook hands. “All charges are covered. You must be good friends with Killian because this is way off-base for him.”

I wasn’t, I was someone he was helping, but he was dealing with all the money I’d hidden, and I hoped that somehow he’d be digging into that reserve for this.

“Yeah,” I said, just for something to say.

“I’ll see you at seven, sharp, room two-one. I’ve written it on your notes in case you forget.”

Chance would be a fine thing.

Back in the waiting room, Enzo stood. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

There was a door at the back of reception, which led to luxurious rooms, and then beyond the surgical unit itself. The receptionist showed us through to the room we’d be staying in for a few days, and Enzo placed our bags on the bed.

The suite we’d been given was more like a five-star hotel than a recovery room. Plush carpet in a neutral beige absorbed our footsteps as we moved through the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Beverly Hills, though privacy glass ensured no one could see in. A king-sized bed dominated one area, with white covers and more pillows than any human needed. The sitting area featured a sofa and two matching armchairs arranged around a glass coffee table.

“This is nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived,” I murmured, running my hand over the marble countertop of the kitchenette.

Enzo whistled low, and glanced down at his jeans and purple T-shirt, “I am way underdressed for this.”

The bathroom was equally impressive—a rainfall shower, jetted tub big enough for two, heated floors, and a vanity stocked with high-end toiletries. Everything screamed money. There was a menu on the desk, with a list of very mundane things like burgers and then other stuff I had no idea about.

“What the hell is Wagyu?” I asked, squinting at the room service menu.

Enzo leaned over my shoulder, his breath on my neck. “Some fancy beef. Costs more than my rent.”

We both laughed, but it faded, the reality of tomorrow morning settling heavy between us. I set the menu down and moved to the window, staring out at the city lights blinking to life as evening approached.

“Are you scared?” Enzo asked, coming to stand beside me.

I nodded. “Not of the surgery. Well, not just that.” I turned to face him. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I go through all this and they still find me?”

“Then we try something else,” he said, as if we were discussing backup plans for a rained-out picnic rather than my continued existence. “But Killian seems to think this is the answer.” Enzo’s confidence was unwavering, and I envied him that. “New face, new identity. Roman Lowe is dead and buried.”

I turned away from the window, unable to look at the sprawling city anymore. Too many people, too many chances to be recognized.

“What if I don’t recognize myself?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Enzo’s expression softened. He reached out and placed his hand on my cheek, his palm warm. “You’ll still be you. The parts that matter won’t change.”

I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes. “Promise you’ll tell me if I look weird.”

His laugh was soft. “I promise. Though I doubt that’s possible.”

We ordered room service—burgers, not Wagyu—but when they arrived, I wasn’t hungry. I had something else on my mind, and it wasn’t food.

Enzo picked up on me not eating and placed his burger back on the plate. “Sweetheart?” he asked.

“I brought something with me, something I want to try.”

“What?”

I went over to my backpack, scarlet with mortification, and lifted out the dildo and lube. “Doc said…” I stopped. “I’ve been trying with toys, and I want to… just once before I’m not me, I want you to…” I was lost for words, and Enzo stood to examine the toy, and then picked up the lube.

“You could try it on me, and see⁠—”

“No, that’s not me. I’m not a top… I want you to… I need…”

He stopped me talking with a kiss, then tugged me into the bathroom. “Take out your contacts,” he whispered, and waited until I’d done that, blinking them out, and then disposing of these ones. I had more waiting for when I got done with surgery—they couldn’t fix my odd colored eyes without extensive surgery, and the side effects were awful. I’d have to live with contacts for the rest of my life, but I could do that if it meant I lived and was with Enzo.

“Shower,” Enzo murmured.

Enzo helped me strip down, his movements gentle but deliberate. The warm water cascaded over us both as he washed me with careful hands, his touch reverent as if I were something precious. I closed my eyes, letting the sensation of being cared for wash over me.

“Are you sure?” he asked when we were dry, standing beside the massive bed. “We don’t have to do this tonight. There’s no rush.”

“I’m sure,” I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “Before everything changes. While I’m still me.”

His smile was soft. “You’ll always be you to me.”

The lights dimmed to a warm glow as Enzo took his time, patient and thorough in a way that made my heart ache. His fingers traced patterns on my skin, learning every curve and plane as if memorizing me before the changes. When he reached for the lube, I was trembling with anticipation rather than fear.

“Just breathe,” he whispered, his voice a calming anchor. “We’ll go slow.”

And he did.

His fingers moved so slowly. I pushed back, craving more, and knocked the toy out of his hand.

“I need you. I want you,” I said in desperation.

“Ro…” Enzo whispered against my lips.

“Please,” I begged.

“Say stop,” he began, and then swallowed. “If you need me to finish this…”

“Now, Enzo,” I said, channeling all the bossiness I could muster. I felt the plastic of the dildo at my entrance and it was wrong. “Stop!” I said, and to his credit he immediately rolled off me. He petted me and held me and told me it was okay.

“I want you, I don’t want the toy,” I said.

“Rom—Robbie⁠—”

“Please.”

The initial tightness and warmth of his fingers shifted to an unexpected pleasure, deeper and more intense than anything I’d felt with the few toys I’d played with. His lips moved to my thighs, exploring every inch, adding to the sensation with every touch and kiss. With every touch I waited to shut down, to give up, to need to lock myself in the bathroom, but it never happened. He was perfect.

“Okay?” he asked, checking in with each new sensation.

“Yes,” I gasped. “More.”

He used so much lube we were a slithering slobbery mess, and he smiled at me and I grinned back, because this was fun and sweet and so damn hot I was going to lose it before he got inside me.

“Do you want to ride me, it can be⁠—”

“I want your weight on me, I need you to cover me…”

“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered. He’d stopped calling me by my real name, but that was something we’d decided together. The old Roman was gone, and Robbie was the man he’d fallen in love with, and the man I’d begun to feel fit me.

When he pressed inside me, the fullness was overwhelming. I clutched at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I adjusted to the feeling. Enzo remained still, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured. “So perfect.”

The words hit something deep inside me—something bruised and hidden. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes before I could stop them. No one had ever said that to me as if it were true. As though they meant it. And coming from Enzo, it landed with so much love, it almost hurt. We moved together, finding a rhythm that built from slow and gentle to something more urgent. The sensation of fullness gave way to pleasure so intense it made my vision blur, made me cry out his name in a way I never had before. His weight on me was perfect—grounding me, keeping me present when I might have floated away on waves of sensation.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into my ear, his voice strained with his own need. “Always got you.”

My body tensed, back arching as pleasure crested and broke. Enzo followed moments later, his face buried against my neck, his breaths hot. We stayed like that, connected and breathless, until he pulled away with care and gathered me to his chest.

“Was that okay?” he asked, concern coloring his voice as he brushed sweat-dampened hair from my forehead.

I nodded, unable to find words for a moment. Then I managed, “More than okay.” I touched his face, trying to memorize every feature, every freckle and line. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

“We’ll have forever,” he promised, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Just not in this ridiculously expensive hotel room.”

I laughed, then sobered. “Tomorrow, everything changes.”

“Not everything.” Enzo pulled me closer. “Not us.”

We dozed off tangled together, and for once, I didn’t dream of being hunted. Instead, I dreamed of nothing, a peaceful darkness that felt like safety.

Morning arrived too quickly. I woke to find Enzo, already dressed, pacing by the door.

“You okay?” I asked, my voice still rough with sleep.

He stopped mid-step, turning to me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just nervous. For you.”

I glanced at the clock: 6:15a.m. Forty-five minutes until they’d come for me.

“How long have you been up?” I pushed myself to sit, wincing at the unfamiliar soreness.

“Couple hours.” He shrugged, coming to sit beside me on the bed. “Couldn’t sleep.”

I clambered onto his lap and pushed my nose to his throat, inhaling his scent, loving him so hard, our fingers intertwining now. Being held like this—wrapped in the arms of the man who saved me, who saw me, who never once asked me to be anyone else—it meant everything.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said.

“That’s my line,” he said with a weak laugh.

I don’t know how long we sat there, enjoying the peace, when a soft knock at the door made us both jump. Enzo answered to find a nurse in scrubs that looked more like designer clothes than medical wear.

“Mr. Cooper? Time for your pre-op prep,” she said, her voice as soothing as her appearance was immaculate. “Dr. Lukash likes to start on time.”

I nodded. “I’ll just get dressed.”

“The gown is in the bathroom,” she said. “You won’t need anything else.”

When she left, Enzo helped me into the blue hospital gown. “You look sexy in anything,” he joked, but his voice cracked.

“You’ll still be you,” he reminded me, echoing his words from the night before. “The parts that matter won’t change.”

Then I kissed him. “See you on the other side.”

* * *

When I next woke up, I ached like hell, but I was in Enzo’s arms, and the low hum of a movie was in the background. I touched the gauze covering my face, and my head felt heavy and numb at the same time. The medication they’d given me made everything fuzzy around the edges. I couldn’t focus on the TV screen, but the sound of it was comforting.

“Hey there,” Enzo whispered when he felt me stir. “Welcome back.”

I tried to speak, but my jaw felt wired shut. Panic flared until Enzo’s hand found mine.

“It’s okay. Dr. Lukash said your jaw will be stiff for a few days. Don’t try to talk too much.” He reached for a cup with a straw. “Small sips.”

The cool water was heaven on my dry throat. I squeezed his hand twice—to signal my thanks.

“Surgery went perfectly,” he continued, brushing hair from my forehead.

I wanted to see, to know what I looked like now, but they’d covered all the mirrors in the suite. Another squeeze of his hand, this time with a questioning glance.

“No mirrors yet,” Enzo said, reading my mind. “Doctor’s orders. Not until the initial swelling goes down. He says it’s better to see the final result, not the work in progress.”

I gestured toward my face, trying to ask how different I was.

“The bandages cover most of it right now, but…” Enzo studied me, his head tilted. “Your cheekbones are higher. Jaw’s a little different. But your eyes…” His voice softened. “They’re still the same.”

He gathered me close.

“You’re still my Robbie.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Enzo

The Mitchell house sat quietly in the dark, wrapped in wealth and gated fences. But no amount of imported tile or polished marble would ever erase what he’d done to Robbie. Tonight wasn’t about threats or warnings. It was the end of a chapter soaked in pain. I checked my watch—2:14 a.m.

“The cameras have blind spots,” Jamie chuckled. “Arrogant people always leave gaps.” He crouched by the side gate, fingers flying over his phone. A second later, the little green camera light above the garage door blinked off. No alarms. No alerts. Jamie had the system cracked before I reached the gate.

“Smooth,” Rio muttered, impressed.

Jamie grinned like this was just another job, another break-in, another night. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”

He started patting down his pockets, pulling out a mess of randomness: a switchblade, zip ties, a half-eaten protein bar, a bottle of fluid, matches, and duct tape. Jesus.

“What the fuck,” I whispered, not bothering to hide my disbelief.

“I’m prepared,” Jamie whispered back, completely unapologetic. It was ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want anyone else watching my six. “One more check,” he murmured and scrolled through something I had no hope of understanding. “There’s no one else here, just him, no basements, no outside structures with heat signatures, no sign of anyone but him.”

“There’s no one being held here?”

Another Robbie?’

“Nah, he keeps this place clean—everything goes through the warehouse.” The same warehouse I would call in anonymously to get it raided. We’d already scouted it, and it was empty—Rio wouldn’t let me go into the room where they’d held Robbie, and I didn’t argue, but if others had been there, I wanted the cops in on it. “Divorced, no other family.”

Rio stepped forward, dead serious now, blade sliding free from the sheath on his thigh. He twirled it once like it was part of him. When Rio drew a weapon, I guessed it was already too late for the guy on the receiving end.

I reached into my jacket and drew out the gun I’d used on Vinnie—kinda fitting. Cold metal. Unmarked. When I’d visited earlier today, Mateo had handed it to me without a word. He hadn’t asked questions, said I owed him, or asked for payment. He nodded, said he understood, and passed me the weapon and ammo. The safety clicked off like a countdown. My pulse didn’t spike. My hands didn’t shake. I was past emotion. Past rage. Focused.

There was a keypad on the front door that was a joke. Killian had texted the code, and the second I entered it, the door gave way with a soft click. We slipped inside like shadows, moving in silence. There were no words, no second-guessing, only the weight of everything pushing us forward.

The interior screamed money. High ceilings, echoing marble floors, sterile walls dressed in art someone else probably picked out. Too clean. Too cold. This place wasn’t a home. It was a mask. A lie Mitchell wore so no one would see the monster underneath. Jamie signaled toward a hallway where a soft light spilled out beneath a closed door.

Rio moved first, knife steady in his grip. I followed the gun clutched in my hand. My heart thudded slow and heavy. Not panicked. Ready. No turning back.

We reached the door. Jamie crouched to check the knob and nodded, unlocked.

I mouthed the count.

Three.

Two.

One.

Rio kicked it in.

Mitchell was mid-turn in his chair. The shock on his face almost made me laugh. Almost. He scrambled to his feet, all bluster and bullshit. “What the hell⁠—”

I stepped forward. Gun raised. Sight locked dead center between his eyes.

“You!” he said, and reached for something.

Jamie was there in a millisecond, holding him away from the desk. “I disabled all the alarms,” he said, more to me than the guy we were here to kill.

“John Mitchell,” I spat.

“What do you want?”

“Roman Lowe?” My voice didn’t shake. Calm. Cold. Certain.

“The dead kid?” His eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. “What—look, whatever this is⁠—”

“No more words. You don’t get words. You get silence. You get fear.”

I kept walking, and Mitchell stumbled back, bumping into his desk, Jamie forcing him down into the chair, using the zip ties to fasten his hands and ankles. Then he pulled out something new--a thin string he tied around Mitchell’s neck with a neat knot, mirroring the position of where Robbie had been collared.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“You made a mistake,” I said. “You laid hands on what’s mine.”

His mouth opened again, maybe to plead or spin some desperate excuse. It didn’t matter. Nothing he said could unmake what he did.

“You hurt him,” I said. “You chained him, beat him, and let your bosses rape him, for eight years.

Mitchell went pale. “I only hurt him when he kept secrets, the rest was on the others!”

“Who are the two men you’re working with?”

His eyes widened, then he smirked. “With? You mean for. They’re bigger men than I am,” he said. “When they find out you touched me, they’ll kill you for this.”

I took a step closer and pressed the gun to his forehead, watching the smirk flicker, tremble, and then disappear. “Good. Let them try,” I said. “Let them come and find out what I am when someone touches what’s mine.”

Mitchell shifted in the chair, the plastic zip ties biting his skin. He wanted to speak again, but I didn’t let him. Jamie stood behind him, eyes locked on me, arms crossed. Rio leaned against the wall, knife twirling once more, slow and deliberate.

“You think you’re still untouchable,” I said, low and even. “Safe? Neither of these men is here now, are they? It’s just you. Tied up. Helpless.”

He was sweating now. I could see the fear. Not only in his face but in his breathing. Shallow. Rapid. He knew this wasn’t a bluff.

“Roman told me everything he knows. Every fucking thing,” I said. “You end tonight.”

Mitchell scoffed again, but it was weaker. “You don’t have the guts.”

I stepped back and turned the gun slightly, not aiming now, showing him I wasn’t bluffing. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. I used to think I had to be a monster to survive. Then I met Roman, and I learned what real strength looks like. It doesn’t scream. It endures. It gets back up.”

I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “But make no mistake. I’ll still become a monster to protect him. And no one’s going to miss you.”

Mitchell tried to spit something else, but Rio clamped a hand over his mouth. “We want those names,” he said and attached a small piece of wood to the twine Jamie had tied around his neck, twisting it tight until it cut into his skin, and Mitchell had to clear his throat. Was it choking him? “Give us the names, and we’ll kill you quickly,” Rio murmured.

“I’ll give you the names, and you let me go,” Mitchell muttered. “That’s the deal—take it or leave it.”

Rio tightened the noose slowly, expression blank, methodical. The cord bit deeper into Mitchell’s neck, a perfect echo of the cruelty he’d once inflicted on Robbie but was now turned against him. It was poetic. Mitchell’s eyes bulged as he choked back a sound, his bravado cracking at the edges.

Meanwhile, Jamie stepped forward with quiet purpose, uncapping the bottle of fluid he’d brought. The sharp chemical smell hit the air as he splashed it across the chair and let it soak into the fabric of Mitchell’s sleeve. The man flinched, and Jamie held up his lighter, flame flickering like a threat made real.

“Can I burn him now?” Jamie asked, tone light as if he was asking to borrow a pen.

“Not if he gives us the names,” Rio replied, voice gravel and steel, eyes still fixed on me. “You know the rules. We ask once. We give him one chance so he doesn’t burn. After that, all bets are off.”

Jamie clicked the lighter closed but didn’t pocket it, pouting like a kid denied a treat, but with something much darker simmering behind his eyes. He tilted his head, studying Mitchell with the kind of fascination that even made me pause and the lighter was visible—a promise, a threat, maybe both.

“You know,” he said, voice a little too cheerful, “this stuff? Melts plastic like nothing. You should see what it does to skin.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Just say the word Enzo, and I’ll light him up like a birthday cake.”

A promise. Mitchell was breathing hard now, panic creeping into every motion. He realized, maybe too late, that no one in this room was bluffing. Not tonight.

“One name and you let me go, and when I’m free, you get another name.” He looked so pleased with himself.

“Jamie?”

Jamie glanced at me, and I nodded at Mitchell’s computer. Without missing a beat, he tapped his pocket where his phone was tucked. “Already on it. In fact…” He pulled the phone free and set it down on the desk next to the monitor, angling the screen so we could see the upload in progress—ninety-eight percent. Whatever Mitchell had on that machine—records, video, names—Jamie copied it all: every keystroke, file, and dark secret buried in folders. He’d told us it would track the dark web shit as well, and that was way over my head.

“Nearly there,” Jamie said, calm and focused. The seconds dragged, the bar inching forward until it hit one hundred percent. A quiet chime sounded. Jamie gave a slight nod. “Got it all.”

He didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. Fuck knows where he’d gotten those skills from, but at that moment, we owned Mitchell. Not just his life but his leverage. His backups. Everything he thought made him untouchable had been dragged into the light.

I looked down at Mitchell. His expression faltered for the first time, a flicker of real fear tightening around his eyes. His arrogance had cracked. He knew what we had now, and he knew there was no bargaining left.

“You think you have all the power now?” Mitchell wheezed, his voice barely audible. “You don’t understand who you’re dealing with.”

“Names,” I said, pressing the barrel of the gun to his temple. “Now.”

“It’s too big a list to give you⁠—”

“Just the ones who hurt Roman Lowe,” I said and leaned closer, pressing harder with the gun, forcing his head back a little as Rio tightened the garrote. This wasn’t string; it was metal coated with tiny barbs and smelling of kerosene.

Mitchell’s gaze darted between the three of us, calculating, desperate. “Kessler,” he finally spat. “Marcus Kessler.”

Rio twisted the garrote more, making Mitchell gasp, his eyes bulging. “And the other?”

“He’ll kill me if I⁠—”

Jamie flicked the lighter again, holding the flame dangerously close to Mitchell’s accelerant-soaked sleeve. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting a gleam in his eye that sent a shiver down my spine.

“You know this stuff eats through more than just clothes,” Jamie said, his tone far too casual. “Give it another ten seconds; it’ll bubble through the upholstery. Want a demonstration?”

Mitchell went rigid, and the smirk he wore earlier had gone.

“You’re insane,” he hissed, voice shaking.

Jamie just smiled wider as if the words were a compliment. “Takes one to catch one.”

“A second name,” I demanded, but Mitchell pressed his lips in a tight line.

“Name!” Rio twisted the cord a fraction tighter as blood began to bead.

Sweat beaded on Mitchell’s forehead, trickling down his temples. “Lassiter. Edward Lassiter

“You’re lying.” I stepped back, the gun feeling heavier in my hand. “That can’t be right. Lassiter is⁠—”

“A federal prosecutor,” Rio finished, his expression hardening. “High-profile anti-trafficking cases.”

Jamie whistled, his lighter still dancing between his fingers. “Well, shit. That explains a lot.”

Mitchell’s laugh was ragged, blood now running in thin lines down his neck where the barbed cord cut deeper. “You’re in over your head. Lassiter has judges in his pocket. Police chiefs. You think you can touch him?”

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You didn’t think I could touch you either.”

His eyes widened just a fraction, real fear flickering in them now.

“We’re not finished,” I cut in, voice flat. “These two—Kessler and Lassiter—they’re the only ones? The only ones who hurt Roman?”

“Yes,” Mitchell croaked. “Just them. I swear. Kessler handled the money, and Lassiter provided protection. Political cover. I didn’t fuck Roman, okay, it was them. All I did was lock him up to keep him safe.”

“You kept him chained up for eight years,” Rio snapped and buried his knife in Mitchell’s shoulder. Mitchell screamed, and through his sobbing, we heard him try to justify what he’d done.

“It… was for… his own… p—protection,” Mitchell mumbled as if he believed what he was saying. “If they knew what I’d stolen from them, knew he was remembering everything I showed him… everything they talked about in front of him… I had to let them have him… I chained… so they couldn’t t-take him.”

Rio loosened the garrote, allowing Mitchell to take a shuddering breath before tightening it again and removing the knife with a sideways yank, blood spurting after the blade.

More screaming—it was getting to be too freaking loud.

“I can help! I can help!” he shouted. “I have evidence—recordings⁠—”

“You mean the ones we just downloaded? Even the locked files that Roman Lowe had the codes for. Well, we have all of that now.” I gestured to the phone, observing Mitchell’s expression going from hopeful to lost.

The color drained from his face, and blood darkened his shirt, his face white; the only thing holding him up was Rio’s hold on his neck. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with. I had no choice! That fucking kid took everything and hid it! I was trying to protect him! They’ll bury you and make it look like you never existed.”

“Like we give a shit,” Rio snarled.

Mitchell swallowed hard, the cord biting deeper, and he whimpered. “It was business. Just business.”

“No.” I shook my head. “It wasn’t business. It was evil.”

“What the fuck do you care? Roman’s dead!”

The words hit like a slap, but I didn’t flinch. My grip on the gun tightened. Roman. He didn’t even have the right to say that name after everything. I stared at Mitchell, this pathetic, bloodied man trying to twist the narrative one last time and to rewrite the ending.

But I already knew how it ended.

“You don’t get to say his name,” I said, voice flat. “You don’t get to speak about him like he’s a story you heard once. He’s not dead. He’s breathing. Healing. Living. And I’ll make damn sure no one ever hurts him again.”

There was no rage now—just that cold, moral line I’d crossed and wasn’t coming back from. And if this made me the bad guy in someone else’s story? Fine. I’d be the villain. But I’d be the one who protected Robbie.

Mine. My Robbie.

I stepped back, signaling to Rio and Jamie with a slight nod. They understood, Rio’s grip tightening on the garrote as Mitchell began to thrash, and Jamie stepping closer, flicking his lighter and placing it on Mitchell’s sleeve. The flame spread across the accelerant-soaked fabric with hungry intensity. Mitchell’s scream was cut short by Rio’s tightening grip, reducing it to a strangled gurgle that echoed in the pristine office. The fire licked up his arm, casting dancing shadows across the walls as Jamie stepped back. His face was lit in shifting orange and red, the light flickering across his skin like some unholy halo as the fire caught the garrote and sparked blue and orange in a bizarre chain around Mitchell’s neck. But Jamie’s expression didn’t change—serene, almost detached as if he were watching a campfire instead of a man burning alive. His eyes didn’t only reflect the flames; they held them. Like something inside him had come alive in the chaos. Not excited. Not horrified. Calm. Dangerous. Unblinking.

“We should go,” Jamie said, voice steady despite the chaos unfolding before us. “When it catches the rest of the room, fire department response time in this neighborhood is under six minutes.”

I watched Mitchell thrash against his restraints, the zip ties melting into his skin as the flames spread across his chest.

“Is that enough?” Rio asked. For a split second, I hesitated. One breath. Long enough for the weight of what I was doing to crash my ribs like a wave before I let it wash over and pass. There was no saving Mitchell. No forgiveness. I steadied my aim.

This wasn’t mercy to stop his agony from the flames—I was jealous of the fire stealing his life—I needed to be the one to end it, to earn another thorn on my back around the wolf. This needed to be done. For Roman. For all the others who’d never escaped. I watched Mitchell scream, soundless now, and then I aimed for the center of his head—two shots, right between the eyes.

“Now I’m done.”

We left through the side entrance, as silent as we’d come in. The fire would erase everything—fingerprints, DNA, any trace of our presence. Jamie had already wiped the security footage; we were ghosts who’d never been there. The night air hit my face, cool against the sweat beading on my forehead, carrying the faint scent of smoke that would soon become a roar.

“You good?” Rio asked as we slipped through the gate, his voice low, controlled.

I nodded, tucking the gun away. My hands should have been shaking. They weren’t. “Yeah.”

Jamie was already in the car, fingers dancing across his phone screen. “Wiping the last connection now,” he muttered. “System’s clean.”

The neighborhood remained quiet around us. Expensive homes nestled in manicured lots, their occupants sleeping peacefully behind their security systems and privileges. Rio started the car, but Jamie stepped out. “I’ll wait and make sure,” he announced.

I clasped his hand.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I said.

Jamie grinned his full-on, toothiest grin. “I wanna watch it burn.”

Rio put his hands on Jamie’s shoulders. “Stay safe, yeah?”

Jamie winked, happy as a pig in shit. “Always.”

“What about you Enzo?” Rio asked me.

“I want to go home.”

To Robbie.

Epilogue

ENZO

Three Months Later

The Pontiac was nowhere near finished. Paint still flaked from the hood, and the passenger door stuck every time I opened it, but I didn’t care. It was a group project to keep us grounded. Me, Robbie, and Rio had been at it all morning—well, Rio had vanished after two hours, muttering about breakfast burritos and Jamie’s temper. Robbie stuck around, covered in grease, curls escaping his cap, and a determined look on his face that made me want to pull him into my arms and forget about the car.

Jamie hadn’t shown up today. He’d been spending more and more time away from the garage lately on the off days and evenings, which was starting to freak Rio out. Me too if I were honest. Jamie’s disappearances usually meant something was boiling under the surface. I sent him a text, a simple where the fuck are you, but his answer was vague.

Killian was working on the data Jamie had downloaded. He told us to back off from Kessler and Lassiter. He said he was doing his thing, and we needed to hang tight so there was no attention on Robbie. I could get behind that, but I still never let Robbie out of my sight, and I loved every moment we were together.

“Where does this go?” Robbie asked, holding up a screw.

“Not on this car,” I said.

He pouted in disappointment and tossed the screw over near the bucket holding all kinds of odds and ends that made their way into a garage.

He was crouched down, a wrench in his hand and grease smudged across one cheek. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and although he still flinched sometimes at loud noises, and nightmares were never far away, he looked better. Solid. He’d started therapy last month. Voluntarily. He said he wanted to work through some ghosts instead of letting them run him down. That took more guts than I think he realized.

And we’d moved out of Redcars—two doors down from Rio and Jamie. Close, but still ours. A second-floor apartment with creaky floors, too much light in the mornings, and windows opening onto trees and not alleyways. Robbie had picked out the curtains. Blue, like the sky. Like freedom. Plus, the security was insane once Jamie took over fixing it up for us. Robbie was never alone, and one day maybe he would be, but it was far in the future.

I wiped my hands on a rag and straightened, stretching the kinks from my back. “Wanna get outta here?” I asked. “Head up to the hills?”

Robbie didn’t hesitate. He tossed the wrench into the tray, wiped his hands, and said, “God, yes,” as if I’d just offered him oxygen. Ten minutes later, we were in my truck, the windows down, the sun slanting gold through the windshield.

Robbie sat beside me, his hand tucked in mine across the console.

The city fell away behind us, buildings shrinking into the distance as we climbed. The air was warm, sharp with pine, and the sky so clear it almost didn’t feel real. Robbie didn’t talk much at first; he stared out the window, his free hand tapping absently against his knee. Out here on the road, I could almost forget the threats at our door, even if the developers had been dealt with, and Logan and Gray were happy, there was still the specter of the other two men out there. And with Jamie heading out all the time, not saying where he was going I had to work hard not to freak the fuck out.

“Did Jamie reply to the message you sent at lunch?” Robbie asked as if he’d been thinking the same thing.

“Just said he needed space. Said he was fine.” I didn’t say how vague he’d been, how his burner phone had gone dark last night, how Rio had paced the shop like a caged animal, muttering about missed calls and the kind of silence that never meant anything good.

Robbie squeezed my hand. “You think he’s in trouble?”

I didn’t answer right away. But, yeah. I did.

We stopped at an overlook and parked in the shade. Robbie climbed onto the hood first, patting the spot beside him like it was always meant to be shared. I joined him, the metal warm under my jeans, the wind whispering from the valley below.

“It’s like a different world from up here,” he said, his voice soft with awe.

I glanced at him, at the golden light catching in the strands of his newly grown-out blond hair. He still wore contacts, but everything had changed about how he looked. He was still my Robbie. The one who reached for my hand when everything was too much and trusted me with all his broken pieces.

“Would you like to see more of the world?” I asked.

His eyes met mine. There was a flicker of something unspoken there—fear, maybe, or the weight of everything he’d survived. But then he smiled, small and sure.

“Nah,” he said. “I have everything I need right here.” He snuggled under my arm, and I held him as close as possible.

He was right. We didn’t need anything else.

Not yet anyway.

Just this. Just us. Was perfect.

Together.

THE END

What’s next for Redcars?

Jamie (Redcars 2)

Some people call it arson. He calls it justice.

Jamie Maddox isn’t a hero. He’s a pyromaniac with a hair-trigger temper and a past that still smells like gasoline. Redcars gave him a second chance—but when a trafficking ring threatens his new family, Jamie only sees one option: burn everything to the ground.

Killian McKendrick doesn’t just cross lines—he erases them. A brilliant lawyer with a sideline in revenge, criminal instincts and charm sharp enough to draw blood, he’s the only one who can help take Lassiter down. Jamie should hate him—Killian is slick, smug, and plays dirty—but it’s the darkness underneath that Jamie craves. The danger. The way Killian looks at him as if he sees everything Jamie’s done… and doesn’t flinch.

Forced to work together, they strike a deal: expose Lassiter’s network, destroy his operation, and maybe survive the fallout. But in the wreckage, Jamie and Killian find something hotter than fire—obsession, vulnerability, and a brutal kind of tenderness neither expected. And once the sparks ignite between them, it might be too late to put out the fire.

Jamie is a dark MM enemies-to-lovers romance featuring a pyromaniac hacker with a found family to protect, a lawyer with dangerous secrets who sells his soul with a smile, loyalty, fire, and a relationship where neither will let the other self-destruct.

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Books from RJ Scott

New

Railers Legacy

Redcars

Guardian Hall

Shadow Team

Wishing Tree, Vermont

Harmony Lake

Other series from RJ Scott

Lancaster Falls

Lake Prophet Mysteries

Single Dads

Texas, Legacy

Montana

Whisper Ridge Wyoming

Sanctuary

Heroes

Bodyguards Inc

Sapphire Cay

Boyfriend for Hire

Hockey Romance with V.L. Locey

Harrisburg Railers

Arizona Raptors

Owatonna U Hockey

Boston Rebels

L.A. Storm

Chesterford Coyotes

Railers Legacy

Standalone books

RJ Starter Pack

Christmas Stories

Other Standalone Stories

Guardian Hall

Always You

Always Hope - September 2025

Always Gabriel - 2026

Always You (Guardian Hall 1)

In the frostbitten heart of Chicago, a scarred and solitary soldier finds a second chance at love with the man who broke his heart.

His twenty years are up, and Sergeant Jasper ‘Jazz’ Brookes is finally returning from war, his body scarred and his heart, once open and trusting, battling the relentless demons of PTSD. The world he left behind seems to have moved on without him. His marriage, a casualty of the war he fought both abroad and within, has ended in divorce, and he’s unsure if he’ll ever mend fences with his daughter. 

Homeless by choice is fine until the Chicago winter bites, and he has no choice but to throw himself at the mercy of the charity he doesn’t want. When he finds his way to an old weathered building in Humboldt Park—a safe space for soldiers returning from war to find their feet—he has an unexpected reunion. There, Jasper faces Alex Richardson, the boy who had captured his heart when they were growing up, his first love, the one who chose an inheritance over him, and the one he left behind when duty called.

Alex has never truly moved past the day Jasper walked away. Their encounter in this forgotten corner of Chicago ignites old flames and stirs long-buried emotions, and Jasper and Alex reconnect. They must navigate the shadows of their shared history and confront the pain, the longing, and the unspoken truths that linger between them.

And only then can they have a second chance at love.

Always You is a second-chance MM romance set in the frostbitten heart of Chicago, featuring a scarred soldier battling PTSD, a safe haven for veterans, a reunion with a lost first love, unresolved heartbreak, and the chance to rediscover love amidst the snow and shadows of a city winter.

Shadow Team Trilogy

How Much for the Whole Night?

How Much for a Broken Heart?

How Much for a Life of Lies?

How Much For The Whole Night?

A seductive stranger gives Josh everything he wants, but one night of lust could get them both killed.

Driven by a combination of alcohol-induced recklessness and an overwhelming desire for something real, Josh ventures into a dark and seedy bar and lusts after a sexy, enigmatic hooker. When Josh negotiates a price for one night of pleasure he can’t know that when his time with Ethan is over, he'll be left shattered and forever changed by the encounter. Fleeing with his son is the only means of ensuring their survival amidst the chaos of what comes next, and there’s only one man he can trust to keep them safe.

A hooker who isn’t a hooker at all.

Ethan is on the brink of completing a covert operation that will enable him to infiltrate a human trafficking ring. Yet, when his conscience clashes with his mission, Ethan disobeys orders, jeopardizing everything he's worked for. Forced to escape, he takes Josh and his son, but he has nowhere to go, and now, their only hope lies in seeking refuge in an isolated safe house far from prying eyes.

Protecting Josh, Ben, and a tuxedo cat called Oreo, is Ethan's priority. Only he has no choice but to resume his undercover role, and he must leave Josh and Ben behind.

When a gun is pointed at his head, his final thought is that he’s lost everything that matters; can he make it home to his new family? Or will he have to die to protect the people he loves?

Lancaster Falls (Romantic Suspense)

Box Set 1-3

What Lies Beneath | Without a Trace | All That Remains

What Lies Beneath (Lancaster Falls 1)

In the hottest summer on record, Iron Lake reservoir is emptying, revealing secrets that were intended to stay hidden beneath the water. The tragic story of a missing man is a media sensation, and abruptly the writer and the cop falling in love is just a postscript to horrors neither could have imagined.

Best Selling Horror writer Chris Lassiter struggles for inspiration and he’s close to never writing again. His life has become an endless loop of nothing but empty pages, personal appearances, and a marketing machine that is systematically destroying his muse. In a desperate attempt to force Chris to complete unfinished manuscripts his agent buys a remote cabin. All Chris has to do is hide away and write, but he’s lost his muse, and not even he can make stories appear from thin air.

Sawyer Wiseman left town for Chicago, chasing the excitement and potential of being a big city cop, rising the ranks, and making his mark. A case gone horribly wrong draws him back to Lancaster Falls. Working for the tiny police department in the town he’d been running from, digging into cold cases and police corruption, he spends his day's healing, and his nights hoping the nightmares of his last case leave him alone.

What Lies Beneath

Whisper Ridge, Wyoming

Winter Cowboy

Summer Drifter

Spring Rains

Into the Fall

Winter Cowboy (Wyoming 1)

Micah and Daniel loved each other; until a devastating tragedy tore them apart. But when they both return to Whisper Ridge, they gain a chance to heal old wounds if hate turns to love... an intense and emotional romance.

Micah Lennox left Whisper Ridge after promising the man he loved that he would never return. But the only way he knows to keep his pregnant sister and nephew safe is to go home. Spending winter in Wyoming opens too many old wounds, but he's on the run from justice which can't be far behind, and this is his last chance at redemption.

After a hostage situation leaves Doctor Daniel Sheridan struggling with PTSD, he returns to Whisper Ridge. Joining his dad in family practice is a balm to soothe his exhausted soul, and somehow, he finds a peace he can live with. That is until he meets Micah in a frozen graveyard, and the years of anger and feelings of betrayal boiling inside him, erupt.

Micah and Daniel have a past that was destroyed by lies and tragedy, and even if hate could turn to love, will Micah stay at Whisper Ridge?

The Lake Prophet Mysteries (Romantic Suspense)

Solstice

Equinox

Zenith

Solstice (A Lake Prophet Mystery)

The Lake Prophet Mysteries, book 1

From the dramatic peaks of the Olympic mountain range to the small town of Prophet, murder is only a footstep away.

Gabriel is a former undercover cop haunted by the things he’s seen and done. He returns to his small hometown of Prophet, taking on the role of sheriff, hoping to mend his fractured relationship with his estranged brother and rebuild his life. But when a chilling murder occurs at Sentinel Rocks, a sacred Makah site on Lake Prophet, Gabriel’s dreams of peace and reconciliation are shattered.

Gabriel navigates a web of intrigue, where suspects abound; from local tribal elders to fervent Solstice worshippers and even those hunting the elusive Big Foot. When the brutal murder leaves Duke, a loyal Labrador retriever, as the sole witness, Gabriel stumbles upon an unexpected ally—a local animal behaviorist named Tiber.

Tiber, a newcomer to Prophet, seeks refuge in this remote haven, attempting to escape his own inner demons. Armed with his extraordinary ability to communicate with animals, he offers his expertise through video consultations, helping pet owners with their beloved companions. While he attributes his skill to his academic background, his intuition and flashes of insight owe as much to his Navajo heritage as to science.

With the relentless rain washing away sins and good intentions alike, Gabriel and Tiber must begin to confront their own vulnerabilities and unravel the truth.

Meet RJ Scott

RJ writes MM romance—sometimes sweet, sometimes dark, always with a generous splash of angst and a hint of hurt/comfort. A born romantic, she’s convinced love is love—and every man deserves his happily ever after (especially the ones who swear they don’t).

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