The Crimson Rose was the kind of bar that thrived on broken dreams and liquid courage, where the lighting was perpetually dim and the bartender had seen enough confessions to qualify for sainthood. Elena sat hunched over her third whiskey, the amber liquid burning her throat in a way that felt almost cleansing. Two days had passed since the warehouse, two days of silence that stretched like an eternity between her and the certainty that Damien Cross was still breathing.
She'd called every hospital in the city under the pretense of being a concerned family member. She'd monitored police scanners and scoured news reports for any mention of bodies found at Pier 47. Nothing. It was as if that night had been swallowed by the city's hungry darkness, leaving her with nothing but the memory of gunshots and the taste of his kiss still lingering on her lips.
The bar's ancient jukebox wheezed out a Billie Holiday song, the blues notes wrapping around Elena's shoulders like a worn coat. She'd chosen this place specifically because it was the kind of establishment where nobody asked questions and everybody minded their own business. The kind of place where a woman could drink herself into numbness without having to explain why her hands shook every time her phone buzzed.
"Rough week?"
Elena's head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat before she processed the voice. Not Damien—not the dark honey tones that had been haunting her dreams. This voice was lighter, tinged with concern and the kind of practiced charm that made her journalist instincts prickle with suspicion.
The man sliding onto the barstool next to her was handsome in a conventional way—blond hair, green eyes, the kind of square jaw that belonged on a soap opera. He wore a suit that was expensive but not ostentatious, and his smile held just the right amount of boyish appeal to be disarming.
"Do I know you?" Elena asked, her voice hoarse from two days of chain-smoking and too much whiskey.
"Jake Morrison," he said, extending a hand that she didn't take. "I'm a... business associate of Mr. Cross. He asked me to keep an eye on you."
Elena's blood turned to ice. She set down her glass with carefully controlled movements, her mind racing through possibilities. If Damien was alive enough to send someone to watch her, why hadn't he contacted her himself? If he wasn't... why would his organization care about one journalist who'd gotten in over her head?
"Is he alive?" The question came out smaller than she'd intended, betraying more than she wanted to reveal to this stranger with his practiced smile and careful words.
Something flickered in Jake's eyes—sympathy, maybe, or calculation. "He's alive. Hurt, but alive. The meeting at the warehouse... it didn't go as planned."
Elena felt relief flood through her system, so intense it was almost nauseating. She gripped the edge of the bar to steady herself, fighting the urge to demand details, to know exactly how hurt he was and whether she could see him. The strength of her reaction scared her—when had she started caring so much about a man she barely knew?
"Why hasn't he contacted me himself?" she asked, proud of how level her voice sounded.
Jake's smile turned sympathetic, but there was something else underneath it—something that made Elena's skin crawl. "He's laying low for a while. The Marconi situation has gotten... complicated. But he wanted to make sure you were safe."
"Safe from what?" Elena demanded, but even as she asked, she knew the answer. She'd been present at what amounted to a declaration of war between two crime families. She was a witness, a liability, a loose end that needed to be tied up one way or another.
"From the consequences of being seen with him," Jake said gently, as if he was breaking bad news to a child. "Look, Elena—can I call you Elena?—you seem like a nice girl who got caught up in something way over her head. Mr. Cross wants to help you. He's prepared to offer you a very generous settlement in exchange for your... discretion about recent events."
Elena stared at him, the words hitting her like physical blows. A settlement. Hush money. As if what had happened between her and Damien could be reduced to a business transaction, filed away under "collateral damage" and forgotten.
"How much?" she asked, her voice deadly quiet.
Jake named a figure that would have paid off her student loans, her mortgage, and left enough over for a comfortable retirement. Elena let the number hang in the air between them, watching his face for any sign that this was some kind of test. But Jake looked entirely serious, entirely confident that every person had a price and his job was simply to find hers.
"That's a lot of money," Elena said finally.
"Mr. Cross is a generous man," Jake agreed. "He understands that you've been through a traumatic experience. He wants to make sure you can move on with your life without any... lingering concerns."
Elena picked up her whiskey glass, studying the way the light caught in the amber depths. In her peripheral vision, she could see Jake watching her, probably trying to calculate whether she was going to be reasonable or if he'd need to move to more persuasive methods.
"What if I don't want to move on?" she asked quietly.
Jake's smile faltered slightly. "I'm sorry?"
Elena turned to face him fully, and she saw him actually lean back slightly at whatever he saw in her expression. "What if I don't want to forget? What if I don't want your blood money and your polite threats wrapped up in expensive suits?"
"Elena," Jake said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "You need to understand the position you're in. The Marconi family knows you were there. They know you saw them, that you can identify them. Right now, Mr. Cross's protection is the only thing standing between you and a very permanent solution to that problem."
"And if I take the money? If I sign whatever papers you've got hidden in that briefcase and promise to be a good little journalist who doesn't ask uncomfortable questions?" Elena's voice was getting louder, attracting glances from the other patrons. She didn't care.
"Then you get to live your life," Jake said simply. "You get to go back to writing fluff pieces about city council meetings and charity galas. You get to grow old and die in your bed instead of face-down in an alley with a bullet in your head."
Elena felt something cold and sharp settle in her chest. The casual way he'd described her potential murder, the matter-of-fact tone that suggested this was just another day at the office for him. This was Damien's world—not the dangerous romance she'd been spinning in her head, but cold calculations and business transactions written in blood.
"You know what I think?" Elena said, standing up from her barstool. The alcohol made her slightly unsteady, but her voice was clear and strong. "I think Damien Cross is a coward who sends pretty boys to clean up his messes instead of facing them himself."
Jake's hand shot out to grab her wrist, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The mask of charm had completely slipped now, revealing something ugly and predatory underneath. "Sit down, Elena. Finish your drink. Take the money. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"Let go of me," Elena said, her voice carrying the kind of authority that had gotten her through hostile interviews and dangerous investigations. "Now."
For a moment, they stared at each other—Elena with her chin raised defiantly, Jake with his hand still wrapped around her wrist like a shackle. The bar around them had gone quiet, the kind of stillness that preceded violence. Elena could feel eyes on them, could sense the way the atmosphere had shifted from indifferent to watchful.
Then Jake smiled, but it was nothing like the charming expression he'd worn when he first sat down. This smile was all teeth and threat, the kind that promised unpleasant consequences for people who didn't know their place.
"You're making a mistake," he said, but he released her wrist. "Mr. Cross won't be able to protect you if you keep pushing."
"Maybe I don't want his protection," Elena shot back, rubbing her wrist where his fingers had left marks. "Maybe I'm tired of men thinking they can control my choices for me."
Jake stood as well, straightening his jacket with deliberate calm. "This isn't about control, sweetheart. This is about survival. You've got forty-eight hours to reconsider. After that..." He shrugged, the gesture more threatening than any explicit threat could have been.
Elena watched him leave, her heart hammering against her ribs as the adrenaline of confrontation faded into something uglier—the realization that she'd just painted a target on her back in permanent ink. But underneath the fear was something else, something that felt like relief. For the first time since the warehouse, she felt like herself again—Elena Vasquez, investigative journalist, not some swooning romantic heroine lost in a dangerous man's eyes.
She signaled the bartender for another drink, ignoring the way her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone. There were seventeen missed calls from her editor, twelve voicemails she hadn't listened to, and a text message from her best friend asking if she was still alive. But buried in the digital noise was something else—a message from an unknown number, sent just twenty minutes ago.
*Roof of the Meridian Hotel. Midnight. Come alone. I'm sorry. - D*
Elena stared at the screen until the words blurred, her emotions a tangled mess of anger and longing and something that might have been hope. He was alive. He was sorry. And despite everything—despite Jake's threats and the cold reality of what Damien's world really looked like—she knew she was going to meet him.
The bartender set her fresh drink down with a knowing look. "Man troubles?" he asked, his voice carrying the kind of world-weary wisdom that came from years of listening to other people's problems.
"Something like that," Elena muttered, taking a sip that burned all the way down.
"Want some free advice?" When Elena nodded, he leaned closer, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. "When a man sends someone else to handle his business with you, that tells you everything you need to know about what you mean to him."
Elena stared into her drink, seeing her own reflection distorted in the amber liquid. The bartender was right, she knew. If Damien cared about her—really cared—he would have come himself, would have faced her questions and her anger and her fear. Instead, he'd sent a pretty boy with a briefcase full of money and thinly veiled threats.
But even as she acknowledged the truth of it, Elena felt the pull of that text message like gravity. Midnight at the Meridian Hotel. An apology wrapped in danger, delivered by a man who kissed her like she was air and he was drowning. She looked at her watch—10:30. An hour and a half to decide whether she was brave enough or stupid enough to walk back into his world one more time.
She finished her drink in one burning gulp and stood up, leaving money on the bar without counting it. Outside, the city buzzed with its usual late-night energy—neon signs bleeding color into the darkness, the distant sound of sirens mixing with music spilling from open doorways. Elena breathed in the night air, tasting rain and exhaust and the promise of storms.
Her reflection stared back at her from a shop window—hair slightly mussed, lipstick worn off, eyes that held shadows they hadn't possessed a week ago. She looked like a woman who'd been through hell and was contemplating a return trip. The smart thing would be to go home, pack a bag, and disappear until the storm blew over. Take Jake's money and start fresh somewhere far from neon lights and dangerous men with blue eyes.
But Elena had never been particularly good at doing the smart thing. And as she walked toward her car, she found herself thinking not about Jake's threats or the logical consequences of her choices, but about the way Damien had whispered her name in the darkness like it was something sacred. About the glimpse of vulnerability she'd seen beneath his carefully constructed armor, the way he'd positioned himself between her and danger without a moment's hesitation.
Maybe the bartender was right. Maybe she was just another problem to be managed, another loose end to be tied up with money or violence as the situation required. But maybe—just maybe—there was more to the story than what Jake Morrison had been authorized to tell her.
Elena got into her car and sat for a moment, her hands resting on the steering wheel as she stared up at the city's skyline. Somewhere out there, Damien Cross was waiting for her on a hotel rooftop, carrying an apology and probably another set of lies wrapped up in that dangerous charm. The smart move was to drive home, lock her doors, and pretend none of this had ever happened.
Instead, she started the engine and pulled out into traffic, heading toward the Meridian Hotel and whatever fresh hell awaited her there. Because sometimes the truth was worth the price you had to pay for it, even when that price might be everything you had.