The gunshot cracked through the air like thunder.
The man staggered back, clutching his leg. Blood spread across his pants.
I'd hit him.
Oh God, I'd actually hit him.
For a split second, everyone froze—me, the wounded man, his partner, the pedestrians scattering in panic.
Then chaos erupted.
"She shot him!" someone screamed.
The second man lunged for me. I didn't think. I ran.
Ducked under his reaching arms, sprinted past the wounded man writhing on the ground, and tore down the alley with the folder clutched against my chest and the gun still hot in my hand.
Behind me, car doors slammed. Engines roared to life.
They're coming.
My phone buzzed violently in my pocket. I yanked it out while running, nearly dropping it.
Maxwell: What happened? I heard a gunshot on the street cameras.
I couldn't type. Could barely breathe. But I managed to hit the call button.
He answered immediately. "Mia—"
"They found me!" I gasped, my voice breaking. "I got the ledger but they—they cornered me and I—I shot one of them—"
"Where are you?"
"I don't know! An alley near the bank—heading west I think—"
"Keep running. I'm tracking your phone. There's a subway entrance three blocks ahead. Get underground. Lose them in the tunnels."
"Maxwell—"
"Move, Mia!"
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and ran harder.
My lungs burned. My legs felt like they might give out. But I pushed forward, the folder pressed tight against me, the gun weighing heavy in my other hand.
Behind me, tires squealed. The SUV was gaining.
Two blocks.
Pedestrians blurred past. Someone shouted at me. I ignored them all.
One block.
The subway entrance appeared ahead—a grimy stairwell leading down into darkness.
I didn't slow. Didn't look back.
Just plunged into the shadows.
The subway platform was crowded—commuters waiting for the next train, oblivious to the danger following me.
I ducked behind a support column, gasping for air, my heart slamming against my ribs.
My phone buzzed.
Maxwell: Are you underground?
Me: Yes
Maxwell: Next train arrives in 90 seconds. Get on it. Any direction. Just get out of that station.
I peeked around the column.
Two men in dark suits descended the stairs, scanning the crowd with cold, methodical precision.
No.
I pulled my hood lower, turning away, blending with the crowd.
But one of them pointed.
"There!"
The rumble of an approaching train echoed through the tunnel.
I shoved through the crowd, ignoring the curses and protests, and threw myself onto the train just as the doors began to close.
One of the men dove after me.
His hand caught the edge of the door.
I didn't think. I slammed the folder into his fingers—hard.
He yelped, yanking his hand back.
The doors sealed shut.
The train lurched forward.
Through the window, I saw him standing on the platform, his face twisted with rage, already pulling out his phone.
I collapsed against a pole, my whole body shaking.
I made it.
I actually made it.
I rode the train for twenty minutes, switching lines twice, doubling back, making sure no one followed.
Finally, when I was certain I'd lost them, I texted Maxwell the signal.
Me: Coming back. Clear?
The response came immediately.
Maxwell: They're gone. For now. Use the tunnel entrance. I'll meet you halfway.
The journey back through the tunnels felt longer than the first time.
Every shadow made me jump. Every sound echoed like a threat.
But when I finally saw the dim red glow of the safe room's emergency lights ahead, relief flooded through me.
Maxwell was there, waiting at the entrance, leaning heavily against the wall. His face was pale, his shoulder freshly bandaged, but his eyes were sharp, alert.
The second he saw me, something flickered across his expression—relief, maybe. Or something deeper.
"You made it," he said, his voice rough.
"I told you I would." I held out the folder, my hands still trembling. "Here."
Maxwell took it, his fingers brushing mine. For a moment, he just stared at me.
"You shot someone."
It wasn't a question.
"He wasn't giving me a choice." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You said don't hesitate. So I didn't."
His jaw tightened. Then, to my surprise, his lips curved—just barely.
"Good girl."
The words sent an unexpected thrill through me. I shoved it down.
"What now?" I asked.
Maxwell opened the folder, scanning its contents. His expression darkened with every page he turned.
"This is everything," he muttered. "Names, transactions, locations. Enough to bring down half the criminal underworld."
"So give it to the police."
He laughed—bitter and hollow. "The police? Half of them are in this ledger, Mia. Judges, politicians, federal agents. The Arrow Society doesn't just deal in crime. They own the system."
My stomach dropped. "Then who do we give it to?"
"There's one person. A journalist. She's been investigating the Arrow Society for years. If anyone can blow this open, it's her." He closed the folder. "But getting to her means going public. Once I hand this over, everyone will know I'm alive. And they'll come for me with everything they have."
"So we have to move fast."
"I have to move fast." He met my gaze. "You've done enough. More than enough. I can get you out tonight—fake ID, cash, a bus ticket anywhere you want. You disappear, and this nightmare ends for you."
I stared at him. "You want me to run?"
"I want you to live." His voice was low, intense. "You're not built for this, Mia. You're a college student who accidentally walked into hell. You don't have to stay."
"And what about you?"
"I'll finish this. Alone."
Anger flared in my chest. "You really think I'm just going to walk away? After everything? After being shot at, chased, almost killed?"
"Yes." He stepped closer, his eyes boring into mine. "Because this isn't your fight. It never was."
"It became my fight the second that arrow almost killed me!" My voice rose. "You said it yourself—I'm in this now. I'm already a target. Running won't change that."
"Mia—"
"No." I cut him off. "You need me. Whether you want to admit it or not. You can barely stand. You're injured, outnumbered, and they know where you live. You can't do this alone."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged.
Maxwell's jaw worked. His eyes searched mine, looking for something—weakness, maybe. An excuse to push me away.
He didn't find it.
Finally, he exhaled roughly. "You're the most stubborn, reckless, infuriating person I've ever met."
"Thank you."
His lips twitched despite himself. "That wasn't a compliment."
"I'm taking it as one."
For a moment, something passed between us—an understanding. A shift.
Then Maxwell's expression hardened again. "Fine. If you're staying, you follow my rules. No improvising. No heroics. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And Mia?" His voice dropped, dangerous and soft. "If something happens to you because of this, I'll never forgive myself."
The raw honesty in his voice made my breath catch.
Before I could respond, the monitors flickered.
Maxwell turned sharply.
On the screen, a car had pulled up outside the mansion.
But this wasn't an SUV. It was a sleek sedan. Expensive.
A woman stepped out—tall, blonde, dressed in a designer suit. She approached the front door with the confidence of someone who owned the world.
Maxwell's face went white.
"No," he breathed.
"Who is that?"
His voice was barely a whisper. "Someone who should be dead."
The woman reached the door. And instead of knocking, she punched in the security code.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The lock clicked open.
She stepped inside like she owned the place.
On another monitor, I watched her move through the foyer, her heels clicking against marble. She wasn't searching. Wasn't hesitant.
She knew exactly where she was going.
She stopped in front of the bookshelf. The one hiding the entrance to the safe room.
And smiled directly at the camera.
"Hello, Dante," she said, her voice cold and smooth. "It's been a long time."
Maxwell's hands clenched into fists.
"Who the hell is she?" I demanded.
He didn't answer. Couldn't seem to find the words.
The woman's smile widened. "I know you're watching. And I know you have what I need." She tilted her head. "So why don't you stop hiding and face me? Unless you're too much of a coward now."
"Maxwell—Dante—who is she?"
Finally, he spoke. His voice was hollow, empty.
"My wife."