Page 37

Present

I ’m on the edge of her well-worn couch, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt, heart racing.

My chest feels too tight—like I can’t breathe right.

But no matter how hard I try to still my nerves, the blood-red glow of the news reports flashing on the TV keeps dragging me back to reality.

The deaths are everywhere. The words murdered , mob bosses , executed keep cutting through my brain like a blade.

I’ve been here for forty-eight hours. I couldn’t go to Truman. I couldn’t risk it.

She was the only logical alternative.

Marcy’s house feels too small now, even though she’s been kind enough to hide me in her quiet little corner of North Carolina. The sound of the TV is a constant, unnerving hum in the background. I should feel safer.

I’m with Marcy, right? She’s helped me before. But now? Now, it feels like the walls are closing in. Like I can’t escape the weight of what I’ve done.

I run a hand through my hair, letting out a shaky breath.

“They’re calling you The Blood Queen,” she says bewildered.

“I know,” I snap, not caring that it’s probably too harsh. “But that’s what they do, right? Come up with catchy names for people? I don’t care about the name. I care about what’s next.”

Marcy’s not dumb. She’s not going to pretend she doesn’t see the wild, nervous energy in me. My usual calm is gone. It’s been gone since I pulled the trigger on my uncle and his cohorts. Since I wiped out the families.

Now it’s only the quiet, disorienting panic that’s consuming me.

I know Marcy well enough to know that she’s trying to put it all together, working her journalist’s brain at full speed. But the horror on her face is still there, creeping into her eyes. “Evany, you—this can’t—”

I cut her off. “What? It’s a nightmare, right? I never wanted this. But they killed my papa, my family. And now…” I trail off, voice shaky.

I can’t even finish the thought.

She swallows hard, still looking torn between anger and sympathy, and then shifts her gaze to the TV. They’re playing the footage of the crime scene now—images of the bodies, the chaos in the wake of the killings. I feel a cold sweat break out across my skin.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says, her voice unsteady. “I thought the Falcone , Testa, Scarfo , and Leonetti families would be too big to topple. You toppled them all. You killed them, Evany. You—”

I look at her sharply, trying to rein in the surge of panic trying to claw its way out. I nod, glancing at the screen. The news anchor’s words are swirling around in my head like a blur.

Surprising reports have emerged, with a surviving guard claiming that the ruthless assassin responsible for the mob bosses’ deaths was a woman. Authorities have yet to confirm details, but the survivor referred to the mysterious figure as a ‘The Blood Queen.’

I stand up, pacing, a little frantic now. She disappears into the closet, rummaging for a moment. When she returns, she’s holding a thick stack of old journals, bound in leather. My journals.

My heart drops.

She holds them out to me. “I kept them. The ones you’ve been sending me—dropped off at the P.O. Box for years. All the details. All the Mafia activity. All of it’s here. We can use this to your advantage.”

I stare at the stack, my chest tight. “You kept them…”

She gives me a hard look. “Evany, you’ve been documenting all of it. Everything the families did— everything . The world needs to know the truth. This is your ticket at a new life.”

I blink rapidly, trying to hold it together, but the tears threaten to spill. My burner phone vibrates on the coffee table. Only Marcy and Truman have the number. I don’t want to leave this life without seeing him but it’s too dangerous right now.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen,” she says and leaves me to my phone.

A voicemail notification. I dial in.

Click play.

“Kid, I saw the news today. And I can’t sit here, knowing what I know, and say nothing.

I know you. I know the weight you carry, the way you tuck your pain away where no one can see it.

Fuck, but I see it. I always have. Please let my love be the light that gets you through.

When all you believe in is the hurt, let me be the one to catch you before you spiral.

I don’t want anything from you—not your apologies, not your explanations.

Just your trust. Just for you to believe, even for a second, that you have me.

I’ll be right here. You don’t have to say a word.

You can start with a whisper. Or nothing at all.

Just fucking let me in. Time is our friend, Kid.

If you even have the smallest bit of faith left in us—let me hold you up.

” He sighs. “Just, have a little faith in me.”

I break apart. Sobs rip through me so fiercely that I can’t stand.

I hit the call button. Wait impatiently for it to connect.

Truman answers on the first ring.

“Evany,” he breathes. The sound of my biological name from Truman’s lips instead of Kid sends a jolt through me, stirring something bitter. Something sour and rotten. It’s as if a part of me is fading, the innocence of my childhood slipping away, never to return.

My heart fractures at the thought.

I have lost Kid, but I am not Evany.

“I need you,” I whisper.