chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: choose your monster

The silence between us was deafening.

Killian hadn't said a word since I collapsed in his arms last night. And I hadn't asked him to. The weight of what I'd heard—the truth of my father's death—was still sinking into my bones, poisoning every lie I'd believed for two years. The truth didn't set me free. It shattered me.

I sat at the edge of his bed now, fully clothed in last night's clothes, with his voice playing in my head on loop. "Your father wasn't dirty. He was trying to stop them."

The gun I had brought to kill him lay cold on the nightstand, untouched.

I should have pulled the trigger.

Instead, I'd slept in his bed. Not because I trusted him. Not because I wanted to. But because I was too broken to go home, too hollow to be alone with the ghosts. And somehow, being near him felt like the only thing stopping me from collapsing.

Killian sat across the room, arms folded, back against the wall. He hadn't moved all morning, watching me like I was a ticking bomb, unsure of when I'd finally explode.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I asked quietly, eyes locked on the floor.

"I needed proof. Something undeniable," he said. "I knew your father wasn't working for the enemy. But I also knew if I told you too soon, you wouldn't believe me. You would've still tried to kill me."

"You let me spiral."

"I watched you survive," he replied. "I gave you the space to decide what kind of monster you wanted to become."

I looked up. "And what did I decide?"

"You didn't pull the trigger," he said. "That's something."

"Is it?" I asked. "Or is that just another weakness I'll regret?"

Killian stood, walked toward me, then stopped a few feet away. "Weakness would've been shooting me and still living with the guilt. This... this is control."

I laughed bitterly. "No, Killian. This is confusion. And it's killing me."

He nodded, as if he understood. "Then maybe it's time we stop pretending you're still here for the job."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said, voice low, "that if you're done playing assassin, I need you to start being something else—my partner."

I blinked. "Partner?"

"I've cleaned house. Anton's gone. The other traitors are being hunted as we speak. But Natasha's still out there, and whoever's feeding her information knows who you are. That means your time undercover is up."

"And you still want me beside you?" I asked, surprised.

"I don't trust you," he admitted. "But I trust your motive. And right now, that's enough."

I stood, walked past him, and grabbed my coat.

"What happens if I say no?"

Killian looked at me without blinking. "Then I can't protect you anymore."

That was the thing about Killian Moretti—he never threatened. He just stated the consequences, like facts written in blood.

I didn't give him an answer. Not yet.

Instead, I left.

I needed air. Space. Distance.

But most of all, I needed to figure out who I was now.

---

The apartment I'd been staying in wasn't safe anymore. I knew that the moment I stepped inside and saw the envelope sitting on the kitchen counter. No stamp. No return address. Just my name—Amara—scrawled across the front in tight, rushed handwriting.

I opened it with shaking hands.

Inside was a photograph. A grainy, black-and-white image of my father sitting in an alley, bruised and bloodied. And next to him... Killian's father. Smiling.

I dropped the photo like it burned.

There was a note taped to the back.

"Your father died for nothing. They were both guilty."

My breath caught.

I sank into a chair, the image swimming in my vision. I didn't know what to believe anymore. Killian had given me one version of the truth. This was another. And in the middle of it all was a girl with a loaded gun and a broken heart, trying to make sense of a war she didn't start.

My phone rang.

Killian.

I stared at the screen, unsure whether to answer.

Then I did.

"Come to the safe house," he said. "Now."

"What happened?"

"They tried to hit Luca. Missed him. Barely."

I didn't ask questions.

Twenty minutes later, I was inside a reinforced townhouse tucked between two warehouses in the south district. It looked abandoned from the outside, but the moment I stepped through the steel-reinforced door, I knew I was in a fortress.

Luca sat on the couch, a bandage across his shoulder. Blood soaked through part of it.

"Sniper," he said, wincing. "Missed the heart, caught the edge."

Killian paced behind him, a storm in his eyes. He looked up when he saw me. "Someone knew our route. Which means someone is still feeding Natasha."

"She knows who I am," I said, breath shallow. "She sent me a message."

Killian stopped pacing. "What kind of message?"

I handed him the photo. The note.

He stared at it for a long time.

Luca cursed under his breath.

"You recognize it?" I asked.

Killian nodded once. "That's from twelve years ago. My father was interrogating your father over stolen funds. But it turned out the funds weren't stolen. They were funneled to an orphanage your father supported. He just didn't get permission first."

"So my father was being punished for helping kids?"

Killian nodded grimly. "It wasn't about the money. It was about control. My father wanted absolute loyalty. And your father refused."

I felt sick.

"So he was always the outlier," I whispered. "And I walked into the belly of the beast hoping to become like him."

"No," Killian said. "You walked in hoping to destroy me. And now you see why it's not that simple."

Luca stood slowly. "We need to move. Natasha's closing in, and if she figures out we're consolidating power, she'll hit us before we're ready."

Killian nodded. "Set the meeting with the eastern crew. Midnight."

He turned to me.

"I want you there."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Luca asked, arching a brow.

"She's not a spy anymore," Killian said. "She's my leverage."

I stared at him. "That's comforting."

"You want revenge?" he asked. "Then help me end her."

His words were cold. Ruthless. But they rang with something real.

A truce. Or the beginning of one.

I didn't respond right away. I was still processing the new reality, the way my father's legacy kept reshaping itself every time someone opened their mouth.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

There was no going back to who I was.

Not anymore.

---

The meeting was held in an old distillery on the edge of the docks. Moonlight filtered through the broken ceiling, casting fractured light over the armed men gathered inside. These were the eastern crew—volatile, territorial, and heavily armed.

Killian walked in like he owned the place.

I followed him, gun holstered, eyes scanning every shadow.

Luca flanked us, despite his injury.

"Where's the message?" one of the eastern men asked.

Killian raised a manila folder and tossed it onto the table.

"Proof that Natasha has been leaking internal routes to the Colombian cartel. She's planning to cut you out entirely."

The man opened the folder, eyes narrowing as he scanned the contents.

"Why come to us?"

"Because if she succeeds," Killian said, "you're next."

A beat passed.

Then the man nodded.

"We're in."

Just like that, Killian turned an enemy into an ally.

I watched him from the shadows, realizing something I should've seen long ago.

He wasn't just a killer.

He was a kingmaker.

And I wasn't sure if I was his queen... or just another piece on the board.

---

Later that night, as we returned to the safe house, Killian poured a drink and handed it to me.

I took it, sipped, and said nothing.

"I know this hasn't been easy for you," he said finally.

"That's the understatement of the year."

He sat beside me.

"If this ends badly," he said, "I want you to know I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You already did."

"I know."

We sat in silence.

"I'm not your enemy anymore," I said quietly.

He didn't look at me.

"No," he replied. "But you might still be mine."

I turned to him. "Then shoot me."

He finally looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable.

"You know I won't."

I nodded. "Yeah. That's what scares me."

Because when the gun doesn't fire, that's when the heart starts to.

And we were both in too deep to crawl out clean.