Heartbeat in the Crossfire

AMARA

I don't know how I make it back upstairs. All I remember is the cold. The weight in my chest. The image of the finger burns behind my eyes like an afterimage I can't blink away.

My brother is alive. Or at least...pieces of him are.

The door to my bedroom clicks softly shut behind me. I barely notice. My hands shake, useless at my sides, but my mind is sharp. Razor-edged.

This is what they want. For me to unravel. To fall apart.

I'm not going to give them the satisfaction.

A knock breaks the silence. Two short raps. Firm. Familiar.

I steady my breathing. "Come in."

The door creaks open to reveal Moretti, shadows spilling at his back. He doesn't speak at first. Just steps inside, closing the door with quiet finality. His eyes rake over my face, dark and searching, but his expression is unreadable. Controlled.

"You shouldn't be alone right now," he says at last, voice low.

I don't know where this is coming from. I don't know why he's here, not really. Moretti doesn't care about people. He doesn't care about me...Or maybe he does. Just a little.

"I'm not a child."

"No," he agrees softly, his gaze still fixed on me. "You're not."

The silence stretches. Something unspoken swells between us, thick with exhaustion, fury, and something quieter. Softer.For a second, I wonder if he's going to step closer.For a second, I don't know if I want him to.

Then he blinks, pulling back. "There's a meeting," he says, tone clipped. "With Grayson's crew. They've been circling Black Scythe for months. We need them neutral. Or gone."

My voice comes out steady. Cold. "And you're telling me this because…?"

"Because you're in this now," he says simply. "You can sit it out. Or you can come with me."

My heart hammers. My pulse rushes in my ears. But the words come without hesitation.

"I'm in."

Something flickers in his eyes at that, something quick and unguarded. A flash of respect. Or maybe something more.It's gone before I can name it.

"Get some sleep," he says, turning toward the door. "We leave at noon."

His hand lingers on the handle for a breath too long. Then the door clicks softly shut behind him.

I drop onto the bed, breath steady but bones still shaking. The darkness presses close but I don't flinch. I sit there for hours, waiting for the weight of sleep that never fully comes.

When the first light breaks behind the cracked blinds, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.And I smile.Thin. Breakable. But still there.

#

The meeting is set in a crumbling cathedral on the east side, long abandoned except for the echoes of sins no one remembers and the deals no one speaks of. The stained glass is shattered. The marble pews cracked and forgotten.

It is neutral ground, which means dangerous ground.

I walk beside Moretti through the ruined aisle, my heels silent against the stone. His men flank us, sharp-eyed and silent. Ahead, the Grayson Outfit waits. Four men, one woman, dressed in the kind of slick, expensive suits that reek of dirty money.

At the center sits Lawrence Grayson. Silver-haired, viper-thin, and smiling like he already owns the outcome.

"Didn't think you'd come in person, Moretti," Grayson says, his voice oily. "Figured you'd send one of your dogs to deliver the message."

A soft chuckle ripples through Grayson's men. I feel Moretti still beside me, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

"You're not worth a middleman."

Grayson's smirk twitches. His eyes shift to me, lingering too long.

"And this? This must be the Valenti ghost everyone's whispering about," he says with a slow, leering smile. "Pretty face for someone carrying so much bad luck."

The words slide between my ribs like a blade, but I don't blink. I meet his eyes, calm. Cold. Unflinching.

"I brought you here out of respect, you understand," he says to Moretti. "I believe in opportunity. I believe in… peace. But peace requires cooperation. Give me temporary clearance to move a small shipment through the south docks, and we can all avoid unnecessary bloodshed."

The words are smooth. Too smooth.

The man to Grayson's right shifts slightly at the mention of the shipment. A flicker of discomfort. A tightening of the jaw.

I see it instantly. I also hear what Grayson doesn't say. The way his threats come dressed as kindness. This meeting isn't about peace. It's about distraction. Expansion. Control.

"All I'm offering is stability. No trouble. No misunderstandings."

Moretti takes a step forward, but I move before I can think, placing a steady hand on his arm.

My voice cuts through the still air. "Funny. Stability doesn't usually come in unmarked crates through borrowed docks." My words come out even and steady.

Grayson's smirk falters.

"You've never touched that port before," I continue. "But suddenly you need it. Makes me think this isn't about stability at all. It's about leverage,"

The man beside Grayson twitches again. Nervous. Guilty.

Moretti's gaze flicks to me, sharp and measuring, then back to Grayson.

"You're lying," he murmurs, menace curling beneath the words.

Grayson laughs, tries to brush it off, but the crack is already there. The mask slips.

Moretti's voice drops lower—ice over iron. "We're done here."

No deal.

Grayson's men stiffen but don't move. Not yet.

Moretti turns. His hand grazes my back lightly as he guides me from the ruined cathedral, and despite the cold in the air, my skin burns where his fingers touched.

The drive back to the club is silent. Tense. The hum of the engine fills the space between us, but beneath it… unspoken words, sharp glances, the weight of the confrontation we just walked away from.

I can still feel Grayson's eyes on me. The danger hasn't passed. It's sharpened.

When the SUV pulls up outside the club, Moretti moves first. He steps out, smooth and composed, but something lingers in his expression. As we approach the doors, he hesitates. Glances back.

"Come upstairs," he says quietly. His voice is low, unreadable.

It's not a command.

It's not quite a request either.

I follow.

The office is empty when we step inside. Warm light. The faint scent of whiskey. The chaos of the city dulls behind these thick walls. For a moment, it feels… suspended. Like the night itself is holding its breath.

Moretti pours himself a drink. Then, after a beat, he pours another. He hands me the glass without a word.

"Celebrating?" I ask dryly, fingers brushing his as I take it.

"Survival," he murmurs.

I hesitate, then take a sip. The whiskey burns, sharp and bitter, but it steadies me. For a moment, we stand there. No weapons. No masks. Just two people held together by something neither of us can fully name.

"You were right. About Grayson," he says quietly.

I tilt my head. "Didn't think you'd admit it."

The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. Not quite a smile, but close enough to unnerve me.

"I underestimated you," he says.

The words land heavier than they should. I set the glass down carefully on the desk, my fingertips brushing the wood.

"Everyone does."

Our eyes meet. The air thickens. Taut. Unspoken.Something sharp. Something dangerous.

My breath hitches.

Then Moretti takes a step back. Whatever flickered in his expression shutters again. Not as cold as before, but guarded.

"Take a breath, Amara. Get some rest. This doesn't end here."

I nod and turn to the door. My hand finds the handle. But something stops me. Just for a breath.

I glance back over my shoulder. My voice is soft, but steady. "For the record… I'm not just here for survival."

#

My room upstairs is quiet when I step inside. Too quiet. 

The city buzzes with distant noise. Sirens, engines, the heartbeat of a world I no longer belong to. I lock the door. Take one shaky breath. And let my hands fall to my sides.

My fingers tremble. For the first time since last night, since Grayson's smirk, since the weight of Moretti's careful stare, I let the mask slip. 

My knees hit the edge of the bed and I sit heavily, dragging my hands through my hair. The whiskey still burns on my tongue but it doesn't chase the cold from my veins. My brother's face, laughing, alive and safe, flicks behind my eyes. 

Is he still alive?

What if I'm too late?

I press my palms against my face. My breath comes short. Shallow. The edges of panic lick at my ribs, sharp and unforgiving. For a moment, just a moment, I feel the weight of it all. 

The blood. The danger. The secrets. The people who would gladly tear me to pieces just to make Moretti bleed. 

And worse...I feel the shift inside me. The creeping knowledge that I'm becoming something else. Someone else. 

A Valenti who knows how to survive in a world of violence. 

A woman who could play this game, and win. 

My hands drop. My breath steadies. 

"I'm not breaking," I whisper to myself. 

I won't. I can't. 

A knock comes a few hours later. After I've inspected and tortured myself over the photos once more. After I laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling because I can't dare to stare at my brother's bloodied watch anymore. 

Luca stands stiffly at the door when I crack it open. His face is pale, his voice clipped when he speaks. 

"The boss needs you downstairs. Now."

My stomach drops. Fuck. 

The club was a flurry of quiet urgency. Moretti stands near the bar, phone in his hand, his jaw tight. The moment he sees me, he hangs up. 

"One of my warehouses. South side. Burned to the ground," he says, voice low and flat. 

The words hit like a hammer. 

"Black Scythe left their mark," he says, quiet. 

My blood chills. My hands curl into fists. 

War has begun.