chapter seven

Chapter Seven: Truth bleeds out

The next morning, I woke with a storm in my chest.

Not the good kind—the kind that clears a path, scrubs a conscience clean. No, this was the kind that ruins everything in its path. The kind that starts with a kiss you didn't plan and ends with a silence that weighs like a noose around your neck.

I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the bruises forming on my collarbone. His mouth had left them there. His hands. His hunger. I hadn't stopped him. I hadn't wanted to. And that made me dangerous—to myself, to the mission, to everything my father had bled for.

Killian Moretti had touched me.

And I let him.

There was a knock at the door. A single, deliberate one. No urgency, no hesitation. That could only mean one thing—Luca.

I opened it, dressed in black jeans, a loose top, and the kind of boots that had steel in the soles. The kind that crushed bones if necessary.

"Nice night?" he asked, a sly smirk tugging at his lips.

I ignored him.

"Killian wants you at the old docks. Ten minutes. Come armed."

I didn't ask questions.

Ten minutes later, I was standing at the edge of the docks, the wind biting at my cheeks, salt in the air. A black SUV pulled up and Killian stepped out, dressed in all black, sleeves rolled, collar open. His expression was unreadable.

He didn't mention last night. Not the kiss. Not the gun. Not the fact that I could still feel his hands on my skin.

He simply said, "We found something."

"What kind of something?"

He nodded toward the end of the pier. I followed him, Luca trailing behind us like a shadow.

There, between two rusted containers, lay a body.

Young. Late teens. Gunshot to the chest. Face swollen.

I crouched beside him, ignoring the pang in my stomach. Death was nothing new to me. But this… this wasn't professional. This was a warning.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Name's Tomaso," Killian replied. "Low-tier runner. Mostly did pickups for the docks. Last night, he didn't come home."

"Who found him?"

Luca answered. "Old man who sleeps in a fishing boat. Saw headlights. Then nothing."

I scanned the scene. No bullet casings. No blood trail. Whoever did this cleaned up.

"What was he carrying?" I asked.

Killian's eyes met mine. "A USB drive."

"What was on it?"

"Still working on that. But there's more."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a photo. Folded. Slightly burnt around the edges.

He handed it to me.

My stomach turned.

It was a picture of me.

Taken from a distance. Blurry. But definitely me—standing outside my apartment two nights ago. Gun on my hip. Eyes alert.

"Where did you get this?" I whispered.

"It was in his jacket."

My hands clenched at my sides. "So someone's watching me."

Killian didn't answer right away. "Someone knows you're more than you seem."

The panic rose in my chest, sharp and real. I fought to bury it.

"Did Tomaso know what he was carrying?"

"Probably not," Killian said. "But someone made sure he never talked."

I looked back at the body. The execution was messy. Public.

Whoever sent this message wanted it seen.

"You think it's Natasha?"

"She's bold," Luca muttered. "But not this messy."

"Then who?" I asked.

Killian looked out at the water, his jaw tight.

"I think you're being hunted, Rena."

For a split second, he sounded like he cared.

I turned away, anger swelling in my throat.

This was what I'd feared. Not the violence, not the betrayal. But the fact that the mask I wore was slipping. And someone—someone who wasn't Killian—was starting to see through it.

That made me vulnerable.

And in this world, vulnerability was a death sentence.

---

Later that night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the picture of me clutched in my hand. I stared at it, every detail burned into my memory. Who had taken it? When? How long had they been watching me?

I thought I was the predator.

But someone else had me in their scope.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

"You don't belong there. He killed your father."

I stared at the screen, the air thick in my lungs.

No name. No clue. Just a gut-punch of truth—or manipulation.

Because I already knew Killian Moretti was involved.

I just hadn't heard it from anyone but my own demons.

I swallowed hard and stared at the message until the screen went black.

Then I did what I hadn't done since the day my father died.

I pulled out the worn black notebook I kept hidden beneath the floorboards. My father's old records. Codes. Contacts. Clues.

I flipped to the last entry. The one he'd scribbled just two nights before his execution.

"KM – deal going bad. Must get proof. If anything happens to me, it's because of him."

KM.

Killian Moretti.

I slammed the notebook shut, my breath ragged.

I needed to end this.

Tonight.

---

I drove fast. No helmet. No backup. Just the weapon in my coat and a storm in my chest.

Killian was at the Rose. Of course he was. In the V.I.P. lounge, sitting alone, sipping something amber from a crystal glass.

I didn't wait for the guards.

I stormed in, gun drawn, heart pounding.

He stood the moment he saw me, eyes wide but not surprised.

"You came in hot," he said.

"Don't move."

"Amara—"

"That's not my name!" I shouted, the first crack in my voice in weeks.

His eyes narrowed. "Then what is it?"

I stepped closer, trembling. "My name is Amara Taves. My father was Marco Taves. You had him killed."

Silence. Deafening.

The entire room stopped breathing.

Killian didn't blink.

"Marco Taves was a traitor," he said finally. "He sold intel to three syndicates. My father gave the order. I executed it."

I swallowed the scream in my throat.

"So you admit it?"

"I admit I followed orders," he said. "And I don't regret it."

I raised the gun.

His voice softened. "But I didn't know he had a daughter. I didn't know he was doing it for you."

My hands shook.

"Liar," I whispered.

"I'm not," he said. "And if you pull that trigger now, you'll never know the rest."

"There is no rest. He's dead. That's all there is."

He stepped closer. "He died trying to protect you. I found the recordings, Amara. He wasn't selling secrets. He was blackmailing the other bosses—threatening to expose what they were doing to kids in the trafficking ring."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

Killian pulled out his phone, clicked a file, and played the audio.

My father's voice. Clear. Angry. Desperate.

"I don't care what you think. I won't let these bastards use my routes to move children. If they come for me, so be it. But I'll expose them all."

Tears burned in my eyes.

"He wasn't dirty," I whispered.

"No," Killian said softly. "He was the only clean man in the entire syndicate."

My knees buckled. Killian caught me before I hit the ground.

He didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Just held me while the truth tore through me like shrapnel.

He wasn't the monster.

And I… I was drowning in guilt.

---

I didn't remember falling asleep.

But when I woke, I was in Killian's bed.

Not tied. Not trapped. Just… safe.

He sat in the chair across the room, watching me.

"You knew," I said.

"I suspected," he replied. "But I had to be sure."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you to see me as anything but your enemy," he said. "That made it easier for both of us."

"But I kissed you."

"You did," he said quietly. "And I let you."

I looked away.

"I should hate you," I whispered.

"I wouldn't blame you."

I met his eyes. "But I don't."

He stood and walked to the edge of the bed.

"What do you feel then?"

I couldn't answer.

Because I didn't know.

But it felt a lot like scar tissue burning back to life.

And I wasn't sure if that was the beginning of something… or the end.