Page 7

7

KENDRA

I leave Enzo's house feeling shaky, disoriented. The carefully constructed image I have of him has been disturbed by something as simple as two dogs and a home that doesn't scream "ruthless mafia capo." It throws me off-balance in a way I wasn't prepared for.

My fingernails dig into my palm as I drive across the city, the evening traffic letting me stew in my thoughts longer than I'd like. I've always prided myself on being logical, calculated. Not the kind of woman who makes rash decisions based on emotions. Yet here I am, having signed away who knows how much of my time and autonomy for Griffin's sake.

"It's handled," I rehearse under my breath, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. My dark curls are still perfectly styled, lipstick intact. Nothing on the outside betrays the chaos within. "Griffin, it's handled. Simple as that."

I pull up to his apartment building—one of those converted factories in the arts district with exposed brick and pipes that cost way more than they should. I've never understood why Griffin insists on living here when he could get twice the space elsewhere, but image has always mattered more to him than practicality.

As I climb the stairs to the third floor, I rehearse my speech. I'll be casual but firm. "Hey, so that gambling debt you had with Armando? It's been taken care of. Don't ask me how, don't worry about paying me back. Just stop gambling, you idiot."

I've known Griffin since college—marketing classes, group projects, late-night study sessions that turned into drunken confessions. He's always had a weakness for anything that gives him an adrenaline rush. But I never thought he'd get himself this deep.

I knock on his door. Wait. Knock harder.

Nothing.

"Griffin?" I call out, pressing my ear against the door. The silence on the other side feels wrong.

I slide my key—the one he gave me "for emergencies" after I helped him home from the hospital that time—into the lock. It clicks open, and I step inside.

The apartment feels...hollow. The furniture is still there—couch, TV, coffee table—but the framed vintage movie posters that usually line the walls are gone. So are the shelves of vinyl records he prides himself on. My footsteps echo against hardwood floors as I move deeper inside.

"Griffin?"

His bedroom door stands ajar. I push it open to find the closet emptied, hangers dangling like skeletons. The bathroom: toothbrush gone, expensive hair products missing. A half-empty bottle of cologne sits abandoned on the counter—the cheap one he never liked.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I pull out my phone, dialing his number. It rings once, twice, then straight to voicemail. His cheerful voice echoes in my ear. "You know what to do!"

I try again. Same result.

A throbbing starts behind my temples as I sink down onto his stripped bed. This doesn't make sense. Griffin wouldn't just leave. Not without telling me. Not when he knows I'd worry.

Unless...

A chill slides down my spine. I scroll through my phone, dialing the number of the bar where he tends to hang out—Milagro's on West End.

"Hey, this is Kendra. Griffin's friend? Have you seen him tonight? Or this week?" I ask when someone finally answers.

"Griffin? Nah, he hasn't been in for...damn, at least a few days now."

A few days. Probably since Armando came to visit him.

"Thanks," I mumble, ending the call.

I try another friend, then another. Same story. No one's seen him. No one's heard from him since I last did.

My fingers hover over Skye's name in my contacts. She might know something through Luca. But the thought of admitting I've been played makes bile rise in my throat.

Instead, I stand up and walk back to the living room, stopping at the kitchen counter. That's when I see it—a stack of mail. Right on top is a postcard. A glossy shot of Miami Beach, the colors so vivid they hurt my eyes. Something pushes me to turn it over.

Sorry, K. Had to bounce. Take care of yourself. —G

Bounce. Take care of yourself. As if I haven't spent the last six years doing exactly that for him—picking him up, dusting him off, making sure he doesn't self-destruct. I thought we were close, the best of friends, and instead, he's just left me behind like I'm nothing to clean up his mess.

The anger comes suddenly, burning through my chest and up my throat until I can taste it, metallic and hot. I slam the postcard down on the counter.

"You selfish bastard!"

My voice echoes through the empty apartment. Empty like the promises Griffin made, empty like the friendship I thought we had. He knew about his debts. He knew what would happen if he didn't pay. And instead of facing it, he ran—leaving me here holding the bag.

And what a bag it is. I've tied myself to Enzo Rossi, a man who makes my skin prickle with equal parts fear and something I refuse to name. All for someone who couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye to my face.

I sink onto a barstool, burying my face in my hands. I don't know what's worse—the anger or the humiliation. I've always been the smart one, the one who sees the angles, who doesn't get taken for a ride. Yet here I am, played like the world's biggest fool.

I sold myself to Hades to save someone who abandoned me the second he could.

I stare at the postcard until the palm tree blurs into a green smudge. My deal with Enzo plays on repeat in my mind—his cool gray eyes watching me like I was a chess piece he'd been waiting to move.

How am I going to face him now?

He'll see right through me, through this facade of control I've carefully constructed. Worse, he'll enjoy watching me squirm, savoring my humiliation like fine wine. I can already imagine his expression—that barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his calculating gaze stripping away my defenses layer by layer.

He never guaranteed Griffin's loyalty—only his life. That's what he'll say, with that infuriating calm of his. The debt is cleared now. Griffin is safe, probably lying on some Miami beach sipping cocktails while I'm here, still bound to a man who practically radiates danger.

I'm still his. The thought sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

Instead of going home where my thoughts might suffocate me, I grab my keys and head for the door. I need noise, distraction, something to drown out the voice in my head telling me I've made a colossal mistake.

Twenty minutes later, I'm sliding onto a barstool at Thorn, a sleek lounge downtown where the lighting is dim enough to hide in and the music is just loud enough to make thinking difficult. Perfect.

"Whiskey, neat," I tell the bartender, a tattooed woman with a silver septum ring who nods without judgment.

The first sip burns all the way down, exactly what I need. I'm halfway through my second drink when I catch my reflection in the mirrored backsplash behind the bar. I still look put together—my curls still falling just right, my lipstick only slightly faded. No one looking at me would guess I'm unraveling inside.

I take another sip, letting the whiskey warm me from the inside, but even alcohol can't blur the memory of Enzo's eyes when I agreed to his deal. Steel gray, sharp as blades, with that glint of satisfaction. Like he knew exactly how this would play out. Like he was ten steps ahead while I was stumbling in the dark.

Had he known Griffin would run? Had he counted on it?

The thought makes me drain my glass, signaling for another. Three whiskeys in and I'm still too sober, too aware of how completely I've backed myself into a corner.

"This seat taken?"

I glance up to find a man gesturing to the stool beside me. Tall, well-dressed, with the kind of practiced smile that usually works on women in bars.

"Yes," I lie, not in the mood for conversation.

He raises an eyebrow, looking around at the very empty space beside me. "I don't see anyone."

"That doesn't make it available to you." My tone is ice, my expression deliberately blank. I've perfected this look over years of corporate meetings—a clear "don't waste my time" warning.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, muttering something under his breath as he moves away. Any other night, I might have handled that differently. Tonight, I just want to be left alone with my regrets and my whiskey.

I pull out my phone, staring at Griffin's contact. My thumb hovers over the call button, but what would I even say? 'Thanks for leaving me to clean up your mess'? 'Hope your tan is coming along nicely while I'm indentured to the mob'?

Instead, I turn off my phone and try to numb away the reality of what I've been tricked into.