Page 62

She perches on the edge of my desk, careful to avoid the scattered files. Her dark hair is pulled back in a neat bun today, and her black-rimmed glasses catch the fluorescent light as shestudies my face. “You look like hell, Eve. When’s the last time you actually slept?”

I take a long sip of coffee, savoring the rich flavor. It’s exactly what I need—trust Rissa to know that. “Sleep is overrated,” I deflect, but she’s not buying it.

“Uh-huh.” She raises an eyebrow. “And I suppose those dark circles under your eyes are just a new fashion statement?”

I smile. This is what I love about Rissa—her ability to cut through my bullshit with humor. For a moment, I almost forget about Alessandro’s threats, about Zeke’s distance, about the tangled web I’ve found myself in.

“Maybe I’m trying something new.” I bat my eyes. “Raccoon chic could be the next big thing.”

She laughs, and the sound helps ease some of the tension from my shoulders. This is normal. This is safe. Just two partners sharing coffee and banter, like we’ve done countless times before.

“Well, in that case, you’re absolutely killing it,” she says, taking a sip from her own cup. “But seriously, Eve, you’ve been off lately. Is everything okay?”

The concern in her voice makes my chest tight. There’s so much I want to tell her, so much I need to share. But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just been working too hard on these cases.”

Rissa’s eyes narrow. She’s too good a detective to miss the obvious signs—my distraction, the dark circles under my eyes, the way I keep checking my phone.

“Eve.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

Her sincerity makes my throat tight. God, I want to tell her everything. About Zeke, about our marriage, about thecomplicated web of mafia politics I’ve found myself caught in. But the words stick in my throat.

“I know,” I manage. “And I will. Just … not yet.”

She observes me for a long moment, concern etched in the furrow of her brow. “Does this have anything to do with that guy who’s been watching the precinct?”

My heart skips. “What guy?”

“Tall, built like a brick wall, looks like he could snap someone in half without breaking a sweat. Devastatingly handsome. He’s been parked across the street for the past week.”

Eli. Of course she noticed him. That means it won’t be long before someone else sees him too. “Just a PI working a case.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me—it’s in her eyes. “And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that he takes you home every night?”

I take another sip of coffee to hide my expression. “Rissa—”

“Look,” she cuts me off, “I get it. You’re not ready to talk about whatever’s going on. But please, Eve, be careful. I’ve got your back, no matter what. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

The front doorclicks softly behind me as I slip inside. The marble foyer gleams in the dim light filtering through tall windows, and my boots hardly make a sound against the cool stone. It’s well past midnight—another late night at the precinct pouring over case files.

My shoulders throb from hunching over my desk for hours, and exhaustion weighs heavy in my bones. But before I can drag myself to bed, I need to check on Leo. The guilt of missinganother dinner, another bedtime story, another goodnight kiss tugs at my conscience.

I pause at the bottom of the grand staircase, listening. The house is eerily quiet, save for the gentle hum of the central air. No TV sounds, no voices, no sign of Zeke. He’s probably at the club again. He spends most of his nights there. Not that I care. I don’t.

The stairs creak slightly under my weight despite my careful steps. I freeze, holding my breath, but the house remains silent. Leo’s room is the third door on the right—right next to mine—and I ease it open with practiced care.

Moonlight spills through his window, casting a silver glow across his sleeping form. He’s sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open. His hair is tousled, and his favorite stuffed dinosaur is tucked securely under his other arm.

I watch his chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath. His features normally remind me of James—the same nose, the same chin. But when he’s sleeping, I see my sister.

I step closer, my fingers itching to brush back the hair from his forehead, to place a soft kiss on his cheek. But I don’t dare risk waking him. Instead, I stand here, drinking in the sight of him, safe and sound in his bed.

For a moment, the chaos of my life fades away.

My fingers trace the cool wood of his bedpost. I used to sleep just as soundly, before life taught me to keep one eye open. Before Ryan’s cruel words carved permanent scars into my soul. Before I learned that love could be wielded like a weapon.