Chapter One Hundred Fourteen: The Spring That Changed My Fate
The cherry blossoms were falling like ash.
Not like petals—like something burning, something dying, something I couldn't name. They drifted down from the trees in soft pink clouds, covering the cobblestone streets, the hood of my car, the blood that was seeping through my fingers where I pressed them against my side.
Rome in spring.
I'd always hated spring. Too soft. Too hopeful. Too full of the kind of beauty that made men forget they were monsters.
The meeting had gone wrong. Betrayal always wore a familiar face—this time, it was a man I'd called ally, a man who had smiled at me over whiskey and called me brother while planning my death. The bullet in my side was a love letter from someone I'd trusted.
I was driving through the narrow Roman streets, my vision blurring at the edges, my hand slick with blood on the steering wheel. I needed to get to the safe house, to somewhere I could bleed out in private, to—
A figure stepped into the road.
I slammed the brakes. The car skidded, tires screaming against the ancient cobblestones, and I felt something tear inside me—the wound opening wider, blood soaking through my shirt, the world tilting on its axis.
You stood there, frozen in the headlights.
A girl. Young. Bright-eyed, with a sling bag across your shoulder and a map clutched in your hand. Your hair was loose, wind-tangled, falling around your face like a dark curtain. Your lips were parted, your eyes wide—not with fear, I realized later, but with surprise. Like you'd been lost and found something you weren't expecting.
"What the hell—" I tried to shout, but the words came out weak, strangled.
You ran toward the car.
"Hey—are you okay? You're hurt!"
You yanked open the driver's side door, and your hands were on me before I could stop you—pushing, pulling, trying to see the wound, trying to help. Your scarf came off your neck, soft and cream-colored, and you pressed it against my side.
"Don't." I tried to push you away, but my arms wouldn't cooperate. "Don't touch me."
"You're bleeding!" Your voice was sharp, scolding, like I was being unreasonable. "You can't drive like this. You'll kill yourself—or someone else."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're pale. You're shaking. And there's blood all over my favorite scarf." You glanced at me, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw something in your eyes. Something that looked like recognition. "Let me drive. I'll take you to a hospital."
"No."
"I can drive. My sister taught me. She said I needed to learn everything—so I did." You lifted your chin, defiant. "I may look cute and innocent, but I know a lot of things."
I stared at you.
You were a child. Barely out of your teens, maybe not even that. Your hands were small, your face was young, and you were arguing with a bleeding man in a foreign country like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're a child," I said. "How can you drive?"
"I can!" You were already climbing into the driver's seat, pushing me toward the passenger side. "I'm a tourist. I was in Venice with my friends—high school graduation trip. I got lost. Ended up in Rome. I'll find them later." You looked at me, your eyes bright, fierce. "You're my priority right now."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to pull the gun from my coat, press it to your temple, remind you what happens to people who interfere with men like me.
But I couldn't move.
The blood was still seeping through your scarf, warm and sticky against my skin. The world was spinning, the edges of my vision going dark.
"Shut up, you little human," I muttered.
You pouted. Actually pouted, your lower lip pushing out, your brows drawing together.
"I'm helping you, and you're being rude."
"You look like a menace, not cute."
"What?" You gaped at me, offended. "You'll regret that!"
"I don't regret things." The words came out weaker than I intended. "I never do."
"Why? Don't you have feelings?"
I didn't answer.
Couldn't.
The car lurched forward, and you were driving—down narrow streets, past ancient buildings, through the dark Roman night. Your hands were steady on the wheel, your eyes fixed on the road, your jaw set with determination.
"Where are you from?" you asked, glancing at me. "Are you Italian? You look Korean. Quiet handsome."
"Don't talk."
"You're bleeding. You need to stay awake." You glanced at me again, and I saw the worry beneath your bravado. "So talk. Where are you from? What's your name? Why were you driving through Rome in the middle of the night with a bullet in your side?"
"I don't have a bullet in my side."
"Then what's that red thing seeping through my scarf?"
I closed my eyes.
"Hey—hey, don't close your eyes!" Your hand left the wheel for a moment, shaking my shoulder. "Stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me something. Anything."
"You talk too much."
"Someone has to. You're clearly not going to."
I opened my eyes, just to glare at you.
You smiled.
It was small—barely there—but it lit up your whole face. Made you look even younger. Even brighter. Even more like someone I should stay away from.
"I'm a photography student," you said, filling the silence. "Well, I will be. I'm starting university in the fall. I want to travel the world, take pictures of things that matter. My sister says I'm too idealistic. She says the world is cruel and I should be careful."
"Your sister sounds smart."
"She's annoying. But she's also the only family I have." Your voice softened. "Our parents died when I was young. She raised me. Taught me everything I know."
"Then why aren't you with her?"
You were quiet for a moment.
"Because I wanted to see the world before I had to be responsible." Your voice was smaller now, less certain. "She didn't want me to go alone, but I insisted. I told her I'd be fine. I told her I could take care of myself."
The car swerved.
Not because of you—because of them.
Headlights. Blazing through the dark, coming straight toward us. A black SUV, engine roaring, tires screaming against the cobblestones.
You tried to swerve. I felt the wheel turn, felt the car lurch—
CRASH.
The world exploded into glass and metal and the sound of screaming tires. I heard your head hit the steering wheel. Heard you gasp. Smelled blood—yours, mine, the copper tang of everything falling apart.
The SUV didn't stop.
It sped away, disappearing into the night, leaving us in the wreckage.
The world tilted.
Men appeared—my men, emerging from the shadows like ghosts. They pulled me from the car, hands rough, voices urgent. I tried to look back, tried to see if you were still breathing, still conscious, still—
"Boss…" One of my men hesitated, his eyes on you, slumped over the wheel. "The girl?"
The girl.
You weren't a girl. You were a stranger who had pulled me from the street, who had driven me through the dark, who had looked at me like I wasn't a monster.
You were a liability.
"She saw too much." My voice was cold, flat, the voice I used when I needed to forget I had a heart. "Leave her."
"Boss—she helped you."
She helped you.
I remembered your hands on my side, steadying me. Your voice in the dark, telling me not to die. Your eyes, looking at me like I was worth saving.
I looked back at the wreckage.
You were reaching for me.
Your hand was outstretched, fingers trembling, reaching through the broken glass and the blood and the Roman night. Your lips were moving—shaping words I couldn't hear, maybe my name, though I hadn't told you my name.
You were reaching for me.
And I walked away.
I turned my back on you. Climbed into the SUV. Let my men drive me away from the wreckage, away from the girl who had saved my life, away from the spring night that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
Because if I had—if I had seen your hand still reaching for me, your eyes still watching me leave—I would have stayed.
And I couldn't stay.
I was a monster.
Monsters don't get to keep the people who save them.