Gianna
I should've kept walking.
I knew it the second I turned the corner and saw them – two men, one boy, and a bad feeling winding tight around my spine. The alley behind the corner store reeked of rot and smoke, lit only by the flickering neon buzz of a broken sign that blinked "COLD BEER" like a dying heartbeat.
I should've kept walking. Pretended I didn't hear the muffled grunt. The thud against brick.
But I didn't.
I'd never been the type to walk away from something ugly. Even when I probably should've.
Even when I was wearing a dress with pink buttons and carrying lemon bars in a canvas tote bag.
The kid was maybe thirteen. Thin. Backpack barely clinging to his shoulders. He was cornered, trembling, his eyes darting between the two men like he was trying to disappear.
"Hey!" My voice cracked like old glass.
Both men turned.
One had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. The other had hands like bricks and a stare that made my breath hitch.
"What's this?" Brick Hands grinned. "Lost your way to the cupcake shop, sweetheart?"
I tried to sound steady. "Let him go."
That got a laugh. A real, greasy, someone's-gonna-bleed kind of laugh.
"Cute," the other one said, stepping closer. "You're cute."
He meant it like a threat.
I reached into my tote for the pepper spray I'd never used. I gripped it tight, trying to remember if I was supposed to aim for the eyes or just scream and hope for the best.
But then the air shifted.
You know that feeling right before lightning strikes? Like the oxygen's too heavy, like the world's holding its breath?
That.
Something moved behind me. Silent. Lethal.
And then – chaos.
The one who spoke first never saw it coming. One second he was smirking, the next he was off his feet, slammed so hard into the wall that a chunk of crumbling brick cracked and fell.
The second man barely turned before he was on the ground, a boot pressing down on his ribs like a boot presses down on a roach.
I stared.
No, I froze.
Because the man who did it wasn't a man.
He was a goddamn ghost in black.
Big. Impossibly still. Leather jacket open just enough to flash the steel glint of a shoulder holster. His hair was short, dark, neatly cut – everything about him said control.
And then he looked at me.
No expression. No words. Just those eyes – sharp, pale, rimmed with something colder than hate.
Dominic Russo.
The man my uncle sent to make bodies disappear.
He was everything I'd ever been warned about.
And he was looking at me like I was the problem.
I opened my mouth. "I – I just – he was –"
He turned away.
Just like that. Like I wasn't even worth the full attention of his scowl.
My heart dropped.
He didn't say I was stupid. He didn't need to. It was all over his face – irritation, disdain, something deeper. Something that said: You're going to get yourself killed. And you're going to make me clean it up.
He brushed past me. Cold leather. Steel underneath. He smelled like smoke, metal, and winter.
"Car's around the corner." His voice was low. Deeper than I expected. Dry. Dangerous. "Move."
I wanted to ask him not to talk to me like that.
But I moved.
Because whatever else he was, Dominic Russo wasn't a man who gave suggestions.