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I study the trembling woman before me, recognizing the fear in her eyes—the same fear I used to see in my own reflection during my marriage to Ryan. The same fear I’ve seen countless times in victims I’ve interviewed.

“She needs friends who understand,” Micah adds softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Friends who’ve been there.”

Lydia is the first to move, sliding over to make room on the plush leather bench. “Come sit with us, honey,” she says, her voice sympathetic. “You’re safe here.”

Naomi hesitates, glancing up at Micah. He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before gently guiding her toward the empty seat.

“Hey,” I say softly, leaning forward to catch Naomi’s downcast eyes. “You’re among friends here.”

She fidgets with the hem of her oversized sweater, her knuckles white from gripping the fabric. The bruise on her cheek looks painful, and I fight the anger rising in my chest.

“There’s this support group,” Lydia offers. “It’s where Eve and I met. Changed my life, honestly. You should come.”

“It’s completely confidential,” I add. “No pressure to share until you’re ready. Sometimes just being in a room full of women who understand helps.”

Naomi’s eyes dart between us, a flicker of hope breaking through her fear. “Lucas. He says I’m crazy. That I imagine things. That I deserve—”

“No,” Olivia cuts in firmly, reaching across to grasp Naomi’s hand. “You don’t deserve any of it. Trust me, we’ve all heard those lies before. And at times, we’ve all believed them.”

I slide my phone across the table. “Put your number in. We have a group chat—just us girls. Sometimes knowing you’re not alone makes all the difference.”

Naomi’s fingers shake as she types, but there’s a hint of relief in her expression. When she hands the phone back, I immediately send her a message with a heart emoji.

“Welcome to the sisterhood of survivors,” Lydia declares, raising her glass. “Where we turn our scars into strength and our pain into power.”

Naomi’s lips curve into a small but genuine smile. It’s like watching a flower slowly unfurl its petals toward the sun, tentative but determined to bloom.

Chapter 18

Fate’s Cruel Betrayal

Ezekiel

The text message from Eli lights up my phone.

Eli

We found them. Costa’s crew is operating out of an abandoned warehouse on Sycamore.

My fingers tighten around the device. Finally. After weeks of dead ends and mounting threats, we have a solid lead on Alessandro’s operation. I’m sick of his threats against Eve, and the bodies left around the city like fucking breadcrumbs.

I grab my jacket and gun holster, striding through the club’s back office toward the exit. The bass from the dance floor vibrates through the walls. My mind is already mapping out strategies, calculating risks.

“Seb,” I bark into my phone. “Get everyone to the warehouse. Now. I’m texting you the location.”

“On it.” My brother’s voice is clipped, professional. He knows what’s at stake.

Ten minutes later, I’m in my SUV, speeding through dark streets while coordinating with my crew.

Eli’s already there with surveillance, feeding me real-time intel through my earpiece. “At least fifteen of Costa’s men inside,” he reports. “They’re moving something big. Lots of activity.”

“Keep eyes on all exits,” I order, taking a sharp turn. “No one leaves until we get there. And tell our men nothing better happen to Eve and Leo while we’re out.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies, “they’re safe.”

My jaw clenches as I think about Eve at home with Leo, unaware of the danger circling ever closer. Alessandro’s threats against her weren’t idle—he wants to draw me out, force my hand. He’s using her as leverage, thinking I’ll back down from our territory dispute to keep her safe.

He doesn’t understand threatening Eve is the worst mistake he could make. I won’t just back down—I’ll fucking obliterate him.