The bar was empty. Too empty.
Reagan's boots clicked against the floor as she moved toward the door to lock up, her muscles stiff, stomach tight. She reached for the bolt—
And froze. He was already there. Leaning casually against the frame.
Travis.
Her breath caught like glass in her throat. Her hand dropped away from the lock slowly, fingers trembling against her thigh.
He didn't speak right away. Just looked at her, head tilted slightly, eyes roaming her face like he had every right.
"You look good. Healthy. Got some color back. Sleeping, even? With both eyes closed?"
She said nothing. Just braced herself against the bar.
"You still sleep with the lights on, Reagan? Still got that knife under your pillow?" His voice turned syrupy. "Or did lover boy tell you you're safe now?" Her throat tightened. "You think Rocco can keep you safe?" he sneered. "The Reaper," he mocked, voice twisting the nickname like it was filth. "Big man with big threats. But I don't see him here. Do you?"
She clenched her jaw. Travis smirked. "He doesn't know you like I do. Doesn't know how you begged for it when you were scared. How you shook so sweet under my hand. Or the noises you made when Owen held you down and made you watch." Her breath caught, sharp and violent. She reached for something—anything—but there was nothing steady enough to hold onto. "You think you've changed? That some bar and a new zip code makes you a different person?" He stepped closer, his tone dropping to a venomous whisper. "You're still mine, Rae. Still broken. Still the same little girl who cried and apologized after every slap, just so I'd hold you after."
He let that sink in. Watched her eyes. Her hands. Her tremble. "You can wrap yourself in Rocco all you want, play the badass queen of nothing, but underneath it? You're still just a scared, used-up thing who only knows how to survive when she's on her knees."
That broke her. Not loudly. Not visibly. Just enough for Travis to smile.
"I'll be seeing you, sweetheart. Might even say hi to your little friend next time." He tilted his head. "Skylar, right?"
And then he was gone.
Travis and Owens apartment:
The knock on the door wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. Just three solid, evenly spaced taps. Calm. Controlled. Like whoever was on the other side wasn't there to fight—but could, if they felt like it. Owen crossed the living room, barefoot and irritated, muttering under his breath as he swung the door open.
And froze.
Rocco stood just outside, dressed in black, his coat collar turned up against the cold. He didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Just looked at Owen like he was trying to decide whether or not he was worth speaking to. Behind him, Taz leaned against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, chewing a toothpick. He gave Owen a single, lazy nod. Owen took an involuntary step back. "Easy," Rocco said with a faint smile, stepping just inside. "We're not here to fight."
Taz strolled in behind him without asking, eyeing the room like he was measuring it for curtains. He walked straight to the couch, dropped down onto it, kicked his feet up on the table, and let out a low whistle. "Damn. You boys live like this on purpose?"
Taz blinked at Owen who's mouth was slightly open. Travis appeared from the hallway, towel slung around his neck. He stopped short when he saw Rocco, eyes narrowing. "Well, shit."
"Language," Rocco said mildly, like a father correcting a child. "You lost?" Travis asked, voice sharp. "Not at all" Rocco said. "Thought we'd have a chat."
Travis laughed, though it sounded more nervous than amused. "You show up with your pet psycho and nine guys outside, and you want to talk?"
"Oh, good," Taz muttered. "They counted."
Rocco raised an eyebrow. "We're not here to threaten you. We're not even here to touch you. If we wanted that, it wouldn't be a conversation."
Travis scoffed. "What do you want then?"
Rocco walked further in, taking in the clutter, the open beer bottles, the ashtray overflowing on the table. "She told me what you said," he said softly. "At the bar. The way you stood there and smiled like you owned her pain." Travis's jaw tightened.
"You know," Taz said, still lounging, "I've seen some real dumb people in my life. But standing in a room with us and still thinking you have the upper hand? That's new."
Rocco ignored the tension. "We're not here to make threats. Just to make something very clear."
He stepped closer to Travis, slow and casual. "She's not alone. Not anymore. Whatever games you think you're playing… you lost the second she got us involved."
Travis sneered. "You think you scare me?"
Rocco chuckled. It was low. Dangerous. "I know I do."
Travis chuckled. "How?"
Rocco stepped back and assessed him
"You're heartbeat is going crazy, your palms are sweating, you have fear written all over you buddy. Your brother though? He seems to fear Taz a bit more"
Travis gulped
Then Rocco smiled—that cold, perfect smile that never reached his eyes. "And I just wanted to see the look on your face when you realized you're not the biggest monster in the room."
Travis opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
Taz stood up, stretching like he hadn't just been lounging in enemy territory. "Anyway," he said with a yawn. "Nice place. Shame if something happened to it. But don't worry, we're civilized now."
Rocco's eyes scanned the room once more. On his way past the bookshelf, he reached out, adjusted a crooked photo frame with two fingers, and straightened it with deliberate care. "There," he murmured. "That's better." His tone was calm, almost amused—like he owned the place and was just tidying up before leaving.
Rocco turned toward the door. "We're done here."
Travis couldn't stop the flicker of fear that crossed his face. Rocco saw it. Memorized it. Taz winked at Owen on the way out. "Stay hydrated, princess."
And with that, they were gone.
No blood. No threats. Just a conversation.
The kind you didn't forget.
The silence after they left was deafening. No threats. No violence. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging heavy in the air. The door had barely clicked shut before Travis dropped onto the edge of the couch, running both hands over his face.
Owen stood frozen for a moment, then slowly turned from the door, his mouth still slightly open. "What the hell was that?"
Travis didn't answer. "I mean—seriously, Trav. They just walked in here like they owned the place. Sat on our couch. Mocked us. And you didn't do shit."
Travis didn't move. His jaw clenched, shoulders locked tight. Owen scoffed. "You let them punk us in our own goddamn apartment."
"Shut up," Travis muttered.
"No," Owen snapped, stepping closer. "I won't. You stood there while Rocco fucking Mancini told you we'd already lost. And you let him. Jesus, you didn't even blink when he said her name." Travis's hands dropped to his lap, fingers curled into fists. Owen laughed bitterly. "You're scared of him."
"I'm not scared," Travis growled.
"You didn't say one word back to Taz. Not one. And you always got something to say—until he opens his mouth."
"I'm not scared," Travis repeated, louder this time. "I'm calculating."
Owen shook his head. "No, man. You're rattled. That's what you are. And for good reason. You saw his eyes. That man didn't come here to threaten us. He came here to see us squirm."
"They won't touch us," Travis said. "Not unless we give them a reason."
"You showing up at her bar might've been reason enough."
"She's mine."
"No, Trav." Owen stared at him. "She was. Past tense. And now she's got them."
Travis looked up, finally meeting his brother's eyes. "Then we make her remember."
Owen stared at him like he was insane. "You do remember who the fuck Taz is, right? Who Rocco is? You think she's going to forget them because of a few words?"
Travis stood. "I don't care. I'll remind her. I'll make her see." Owen didn't reply right away. He just watched him—really watched him. And what he saw? Was fear. Masked by bravado. Dressed up as obsession.
And it scared him.