Page 25 of No Words

COLE

Eight men dead. Blood clings beneath my fingernails despite scrubbing them raw.

Molly sleeps soundly beside me, her body curved against mine, trusting even in unconsciousness.

I’ve been awake for hours, but I haven’t moved.

Not yet. I savor the weight of her against my chest, her leg draped possessively over mine, her breath tickling my neck.

This, her, here, safe in my arms, feels like something I never knew I wanted until I found it.

Outside, I hear the team completing their work, shovels in the dirt, hushed tactical comms, the occasional engine of a vehicle being moved.

Eventually, I’ll need to join them, but for now, I allow myself this stolen moment, memorizing the feel of her skin against mine, the scent of her hair, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

When I finally ease out of bed, it’s with deep reluctance. I move silently, years of training making it second nature. She doesn’t stir as I pull on clothes and head outside, but I can’t resist brushing a strand of hair from her face first, allowing myself one more lingering look.

Jayce nods at me from where he’s filling in the last of the graves, his tactical gear still spotted with dried blood.

“We’re all good,” he says, leaning on his shovel. “There’s no one else out there. Owen took care of the digital stuff, no trail leading back to you two.”

I scan the property, noting the signs of our battle: broken branches, disturbed earth, a dark stain near the doorway that will never wash away. Eight men came to kill us. Eight bodies in the ground.

“The bodies?” I ask.

“Deep enough that nobody’s finding them,” Jensen says, coming around from the side of the property. “Even used lye. Nothing to find, even if someone knows where to look.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Unknown number, but the pattern of the vibration tells me it’s coming through one of Killian’s secure relays.

“Bennett,” I answer, moving toward the trees for privacy.

“Cole.” The voice is older, refined, with a faint Italian accent. “Giovanni Borsellini.”

My grip tightens. The head of the Borsellini crime family. The man whose organization Molly was about to destroy with her testimony.

“How did you get this number?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

“We have mutual acquaintances,” Giovanni says smoothly. “People who understand that what happened last night benefits no one.”

I remain silent, waiting.

“This ends now,” Giovanni continues. “Too many bodies. Too much attention.”

“Alessio is dead,” I state flatly. “Molly put a bullet in him when he came for her. Your organization is done. The FBI has her evidence now. It’s over.”

A heavy sigh travels across the connection. “He was impulsive. Killing federal witnesses, attacking federal agents. Bad for business.”

“And now?”

“Now I have a mess to clean up,” Giovanni says. “The woman’s testimony isn’t worth the cost of more bloodshed. The family is... realigning priorities.”

Translation: they’re cutting their losses.

“She lives her life. We live ours. Separate paths,” Giovanni continues. “But understand this: if she ever surfaces again, this arrangement ends.”

“She won’t,” I assure him. “As far as the world’s concerned, she died in last night’s attack.”

“A wise decision,” Giovanni says. “For the both of you.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for a moment before slipping it back into my pocket. It’s not trust; it’s business. The Borsellini family can’t afford the heat that would come from continuing to hunt a federal witness. Too much exposure, too much risk to their operations.

When I walk back to the cabin, Molly is awake, wrapped in a blanket on the porch, a steaming cup of coffee between her hands.

She looks different this morning, steadier, more certain.

Surviving changes you. The question is whether it hardens you or hollows you out.

The girl I first met would never have accepted this kind of justice.

This woman simply watches me approach, her gaze steady, unflinching, no longer searching for easy answers in a world that offers none.

“Giovanni Borsellini?” she asks.

“News travels fast.”

“Jayce mentioned the call.” She takes a sip of coffee. “So it’s really over?”

“It’s over.” I cover her hand with mine. “They’re backing off. Your financial evidence against the Borsellini operation is already with Agent Davis, the only prosecutor not on Alessio’s payroll.”

I feel her fingers tense beneath mine.

“So justice still gets served,” she almost whispers, “just not the way I planned. The evidence chain is still intact; the financial records still lead back to Giovanni. It’s a different courtroom, but the outcome is the same.”

“The Borsellini organization will go down,” I confirm. “Your evidence is too solid, and now they’ve lost their inside man. The convictions are all but guaranteed.”

“And me?”

“Come with me,” I say, standing and offering my hand. “There’s something I need to show you.”

She follows me inside to where I lay out documents on the kitchen table. Passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, social security cards, all with unfamiliar names but familiar faces.

“Millie and Finn Taylor,” I explain, watching her face as she examines the passport bearing her photograph.

“Married three years ago in a small ceremony in Vermont. High school sweethearts who reconnected. He works in private security consulting. She teaches literature at community colleges wherever they move.”

Her fingers trace the gold-stamped eagle on the passport cover, lingering over the unfamiliar name. “You had these ready before I chose you.”

“I have exits planned for every job,” I admit. “But I’ve never included myself in the escape plan before. As soon as I picked you up and brought you here, I spoke with Killian. I knew I couldn’t just let you go.”

I pick up the matching passport with my photo, the one with Finn Taylor’s name beneath my face.

“These aren’t just for you. They’re for us.”

Her eyes meet mine, searching. “You’re coming with me?”

“If that’s what you want.” I keep my voice steady despite the unfamiliar uncertainty I feel.

“I’ve already arranged it with Killian. I’ll still be working for him, but as Finn Taylor.

As far as the world knows, Cole Bennett died in the Borsellini attack.

Just another casualty in their attempt to silence a witness. ”

I watch her process this; her expression subtly shifts as she weighs what she’s losing against what she might gain.

“We’d need to change my appearance,” she says finally. “Hair color at minimum.”

“I was thinking dark brown,” I admit. “It suits your complexion.”

The hint of a smile touches her lips. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve thought about a lot of things.”

She sets the passport down carefully, her fingertips lingering on the edge. The prosecutor who lived by rules and regulations, considering a life built on lies. Her chest rises with a deep breath before she stands abruptly.

“I need some air.”

I take her hand and lead her outside, down the path toward the small lake behind the cabin.

We stand at the water’s edge, the cabin and my team behind us, the vast unknown ahead.

“I want you to understand what I’m offering. I can’t promise normal, and I can’t promise easy. The world I operate in, Killian’s world, the underground network, it exists in shadows.”

She doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch.

“But I can promise you’ll never be alone again,” I continue. “Never unprotected. Never abandoned.”

She studies me for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the coffee mug. “You know what I realized this last few days? Everything I thought mattered, my career, the system, playing by the rules, none of it protected me when it counted. But you did.”

Her eyes shift, the last flicker of hesitation extinguished. Her shoulders square, her breathing deepens, and something hardens in her expression, the last piece of her old self falls away.

“I’ve spent my career believing in a system that failed,” she says. “Your world, as dangerous and morally gray as it is, at least delivers what it promises.”

My chest loosens, like finally taking a deep breath after years underwater.

Her hand comes up to touch my face. “I’m not afraid of your darkness. I want all of it.”

In all my planning, all my contingencies, I never prepared for this, for her to choose me, knowing exactly what I am, what I’ve done.

I scan the area around the lake, assessing sight lines, distances, coverage. My training never fully switches off. The cabin is visible but distant, and the team is occupied with final preparations. The trees around the shore provide both concealment and privacy. Perfect.

“I want to try something,” I say, my voice dropping to the tone I use when establishing control. “A game.”

Her eyes widen somewhat, pupils dilating. She recognizes this voice now, knows what it means.

“What kind of game?” she asks, a slight tremor in her words.

I reach into my pocket and remove the coil of thin black rope I always carry. Her gaze follows my hands as I run the rope through my fingers.

“You’re going to run,” I tell her, each word deliberate. “Into those trees, along the shore, wherever you choose. And I’m going to give you a thirty-second head start.”

She swallows, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. “And when you catch me?”

Not if. When. She understands already.

“When I catch you,” I say, moving closer until my lips almost brush her ear, “I’m going to tie you up wherever we are. No cabin walls to hide behind. Just you, me, and these ropes.”

A visible shiver runs through her at my words.

“The property is secure,” I assure her. “No one will see us but the birds. This is just between us.”

I step back, giving her space to decide. This has to be her choice, freely made.

“Is there a safe word?” she asks, and I feel a surge of pride at her question. She’s learning.

“Red stops everything immediately; yellow means slow down or adjust.”