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She’s the itch I’ll never be able to scratch out. The fire I walked straight into knowing it would eat me alive. And still, I want more.
So yeah. I touched her. Iclaimedher. And now? There’s no going back. Because obsession this deep doesn’t dissolve. It calcifies. And when the next threat comes—because itwill—I won’t be thinking like an agent. I’ll be thinking like a man with nothing left to lose except her. And that’s a fucking problem. For everyone else.
I don’t know when the shift happened. When the job stopped being the point and she started being the only goddamn thing anchoring me to this life. Maybe it was back in that visitor’s room at the prison where her uncle was holed up—when she looked at me like I was both her ghost and her executioner. Or maybe it was even earlier. In that gilded hellhole where she first saw through me, beneath the cover story, beneath the lies. Her silence that first night I met her didn’t scream. Itscarred.
But it doesn’t matter when it happened. What matters is that it’s here. It’s now. And it’s carved into my fucking bones.
She’s in my bloodstream. In my breath. Wired into every trigger-pull and heartbeat like a memory I didn’t ask for—but can’t live without.
I’ve tried to walk away. Christ, I’ve tried. Tried to let her go. To let her build something soft, something safe, with the people who’ve taken her in like family. But every time I shut my eyes, she’s there.
That laugh she doesn’t let out anymore. That flicker of fear she tries to swallow when the world leans too close. The way shelooks at me like I’m the only thing that makes sense—and the one thing that terrifies her.
I am as much her sin as I am her salvation.
And now that I’ve had her again—touched her, claimed her, laid her out beneath me like a confession—I can’t put her back on a shelf and pretend I didn’t taste her soul. There’s no rewinding that. There’s no going back.
So no—I’m not leaving her in the middle of this warzone. I’m not turning her over to the Bureau. Not letting them dress her up in agency-approved armor just to use her, bleed her dry, then toss her aside once she’s outlived her usefulness.
They’ve done it before. To so many others. And now, to me.
They’ll find another way. Without her. But I can only push so far before the whole fucking system pushes back.
So I need another way. A quieter, darker way. One that doesn’t come with a case file or surveillance ops. One that bleeds in silence—and protects her while I watch from the shadows. Because if the Bureau won’t guard her? I will. I’ll burn down cities and erase names. All in the name of protecting her.
And I know where it starts.
Scar Gatti.
The top of the food chain. The man whose name alone keeps monsters in their cages. The one who doesn’t bleed unless it’s intentional.
I don’t pretend to like Scar. But I respect the hell out of him. He’s loyal to his. Protective. Ruthless in a way I understand deep in my marrow. And I’ll play his game—his rules, his terms—if that’s what it takes to keep Maxine breathing. Because whatever’s coming for her? It’s bigger than street turf. It’s bigger than politics or syndicates or cartel money. It’sMaxinethey want.
And I won’t lose her. Not to them. Not to the family she was born into. Not to fate or fuckingstatistics.
So I throw on something clean. Slide my weapon into the holster like it’s a ritual. And get in the car.
The sky outside is bruised, like it knows what I’m about to do. And as I drive, one thought pulses like a war drum through my skull—steady, vicious, final: if Scar Gatti won’t help me protect her? I’ll burn his whole goddamn empire down too.
The Gatti estateis silent when I roll in. It’s mid-morning, and the sun’s just high enough to throw sharp light across the stone façade of the house. Even without ever stepping foot inside, I knew it would be grand. Intimidating. Built not just to impress, but to remind you who holds power here.
Scar’s home is exactly that—grand and unapologetic, quiet in the way real power never has to raise its voice.
I step through the heavy front doors and follow the maid. We turn right into the first room—a study, judging by the scent of old leather and the wall of books I barely register before I spot him. Scar’s already seated behind a sleek black desk, waiting like he knew the exact minute I’d walk in.
I’ve never been here before, but I know this place. The vibe. The intent behind every sharp angle and strategic window. It mirrors the three other homes scattered across the estate—less houses, more fortresses. Each built for a different brother. Each one just as impenetrable as the next. But this one? This is the heart.
Scar doesn’t speak right away when I enter his office. Just gestures to the chair across from him, slow and deliberate, like I’m the one under surveillance now. Which, let’s be real—I probably am.
The man’s a legend. Not in the flashy, cigar-in-mouth, blood-on-his-knuckles way. No. Scar Gatti is all silence and serenity. A chessboard with a heartbeat.
I sit. He watches me for a long moment, eyes cold, curious, unreadable.
“I’ve been seeing too much of you lately, Agent North - we need to stop meeting this way,” is the greeting he gives me.
“It was important,” I reply, flat.
He raises a brow. “Important enough that we couldn’t meet downtown?”