The penthouse was too quiet after the gunfire.
Too clean. Too sterile.
Lottie sat at the dining table, untouched tea cooling before her. Her fingers traced the rim of the cup, her knuckles white, as if the smallest pressure might shatter porcelain and bring release. But nothing broke—except her nerves.
Gabe had been on the phone for nearly an hour, pacing near the windows as city lights carved him into shadows. His voice was low, clipped, carrying the edge of a man used to giving orders that decided life and death.
"…I don't care if it costs double, Marco. Find me the name of the driver. Tonight."
He ended the call, exhaling sharply as he tossed the phone onto the console table. Only then did he look at her.
She met his gaze, and the weight of it pressed into her chest.
"They almost killed us," she whispered.
"They didn't." His reply was steady, final, as though that ended the discussion.
Her hands trembled. "You say it like it's nothing."
"It's everything," he countered, stepping closer. "And it's the reason you're here instead of in a morgue."
The words struck her like a slap. Anger flared through her fear, hot and sharp. "So this is my life now? Waiting for them to come again? Watching people die because of me?"
He leaned down, bracing his hands on the table, forcing her to look at him. "You think this is about you?"
Her breath caught. "Isn't it?"
His eyes darkened, the storm inside them breaking loose. "This is about us. About loyalty. About Daniel. Do you think he died so you could throw yourself into their hands out of spite?"
The mention of her brother gutted her. Pain surged, but pride held her voice steady. "Don't you dare use him against me."
For a moment, silence burned between them. Then Gabe straightened, dragging a hand down his face. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Almost weary.
"I'm not using him, Lottie. I'm reminding you. Daniel trusted me to protect what he couldn't. And whether you like it or not, that's you."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to fight, to scream, but the truth in his words wrapped chains around her defiance.
Hours later, the penthouse hummed with subdued activity. Marco returned with reports, papers spread across the glass table like a map of war.
"They weren't freelancers," Marco said grimly. "Vitale's men, no question. The sedan was registered under a shell company he's used before. They wanted her alive."
Gabe's expression hardened. "Of course they did. Leverage."
Lottie stood a few feet away, arms folded, trying to make sense of the pieces. "Why me? Why not just… kill you?"
Gabe's gaze flicked to her, sharp but not unkind. "Because killing me starts a war. Taking you makes me bleed slower. It weakens me. Makes me vulnerable."
Her stomach knotted. "So I'm bait."
"You're the knife they want to put at my throat," he said simply.
The words lodged deep inside her. She turned away, swallowing hard. She had always known her brother's world was dangerous, but she had never understood how deeply it could consume her.
Marco gathered the papers, his eyes flicking between them. "What's the move?"
Gabe's reply was immediate. "Strike back. Hard. Make them regret breathing."
Lottie spun, fear spiking. "You mean kill more people?"
His jaw tightened. "That's what this life is. You don't win by playing soft."
"And if you lose?" she asked bitterly.
He stepped closer, his voice low, dangerous. "I don't lose."
Something in his tone silenced her. Not arrogance, but certainty carved from scars she couldn't see.
Later that night, after Marco left and the penthouse quieted, Gabe found her on the balcony. The city stretched endlessly below, glittering, indifferent.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said, though his voice lacked the sharpness it usually carried.
"I can't breathe in there," she admitted, hugging her arms around herself.
He moved to stand beside her, the night air ruffling his shirt. For a long while, they didn't speak.
Finally, she asked, "Why do you keep doing this?"
He glanced at her, brow furrowed. "Doing what?"
"Carrying it all. The violence, the power, the blood. You could walk away."
He let out a humorless laugh. "Walk where? Men like me don't get to start over. We inherit the sins of our fathers and make them our own."
His words sent a chill down her spine. "So you just accept it?"
"I survive it," he said quietly.
She turned to him, searching his face. "And what about me? Do I just… survive it too?"
His gaze held hers, dark and unwavering. "Not if I can help it. I'll carry it for you."
The vow hit her harder than the gunfire had. It wasn't romantic—it was raw, brutal, binding. He wasn't offering her freedom. He was offering her chains wrapped in protection.
Her chest ached with confusion, with anger, with something dangerously close to longing. She wanted to push him away, to tell him she hated him. But the words stuck.
Instead, she whispered, "You'll drown."
His lips curved faintly, though his eyes stayed serious. "Then I'll drown with your name on my breath."
The silence that followed was heavier than any gunshot.
Across the city, Richard Vitale sat in his office, whiskey glass glinting in the low light. Veronica lounged on the sofa, her legs crossed, watching him with sharp amusement.
"You failed," she purred.
He swirled the amber liquid lazily. "It wasn't about success. It was about sending a message."
Veronica arched a brow. "And the message?"
"That Cavelli's walls aren't as high as he thinks," Richard said coldly. "And that girl—she'll break him. One way or another."
Veronica's smile was slow, wicked. "Maybe I should pay her a visit myself. Women scare easier."
Richard's chuckle was dark. "No. Let Cavelli tighten his grip. The tighter he holds, the easier it'll be to snap her neck when the time comes."
Back in the penthouse, Lottie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed faintly through the glass walls, but her mind was elsewhere—on Daniel's laugh, on Gabe's vow, on the sound of gunfire tearing through the air.
She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath her ribs.
She didn't know what terrified her more: the men who wanted to take her, or the man who swore he never would.
Sleep came slowly, broken and restless, haunted by shadows that wore both enemies' and protectors' faces.
And when dawn broke, she knew one thing with aching certainty—her life was no longer hers to hold. It belonged to the war Gabe Cavelli carried, and whether she wanted it or not, she was already sworn in blood.