Isla POV
I couldn't meet Marcus at noon. I wouldn't.
My phone buzzed for the tenth time as I carried the trash bags through Romano's kitchen. Marcus again. Each text more demanding than the last.
You're making a mistake.
Your mother will suffer because of your pride.
Noon tomorrow. Final offer.
I shoved the phone in my apron pocket and kicked open the back door. Cold air hit my face. Two AM, and the alley smelled like rotting food and broken dreams—just like my life.
The dumpster lid squealed as I lifted it. My arms ached. Everything ached. Three jobs, four hours of sleep a night, and Mom getting worse every single day. The hospital called again tonight. Friday's deadline wasn't moving. Pay or they'd transfer her to county.
County meant death.
I threw the first bag in, then the second. Grease splattered on my uniform. Perfect. Another thing I couldn't afford to replace.
"Please," I whispered to nobody. To God, maybe. To the universe. To anyone listening. "Just give me a way out."
That's when I heard it.
A voice. Low, cold, speaking Russian.
My mother's language.
I froze, one hand still on the dumpster lid. The words drifted from deeper in the alley, where the streetlight didn't reach. Where shadows pooled thick and dark.
"Ty znal pravila." You knew the rules.
Another voice, shaking. Begging. "Pozhaluysta, ya mogu zaplatit'—" Please, I can pay—
"Slishkom pozdno." Too late.
I should have run right then. Should have gone back inside, locked the door, pretended I heard nothing.
But I'd grown up with Russian words. They were my mother's bedtime stories, her songs when I was sick, her prayers when things got bad. Hearing them in this dark alley felt wrong. Twisted.
I took one step forward. Then another.
The shadows moved.
A man knelt on the concrete, hands tied behind his back. Even in the darkness, I could see the terror on his face. The way his whole body shook.
Another man stood over him. Tall. Dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire year's salary. He held something in his hand.
A gun.
My heart stopped.
This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.
The kneeling man sobbed. "Moya sem'ya—" My family—
"Your family should have taught you not to steal from me."
The suited man's voice was smooth. Calm. Like he was discussing the weather instead of holding someone's life in his hands.
He raised the gun.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to move. Wanted to do something.
But my body wouldn't work. I just stood there, frozen, watching.
The gunshot shattered the night.
The sound punched through my chest. The kneeling man fell forward, hitting the concrete with a wet thump that I'd hear in my nightmares forever.
Blood pooled. Dark. Spreading.
Dead. He was dead.
I'd just watched someone die.
My trash bag slipped from my hand, hitting the ground with a crash that echoed like thunder.
The suited man turned.
Our eyes met.
The streetlight caught his face. Sharp cheekbones. Jet-black hair. And eyes—green eyes that glowed like a wolf's in the darkness. Beautiful and terrifying.
He stared at me. I stared at him.
One second. Two seconds. Three.
Then my brain screamed: RUN.
I ran.
My shoes slapped against wet concrete. Behind me, voices shouted in Russian. Heavy footsteps pounded.
They were chasing me.
"Ostanovite yeye!" Stop her!
I burst onto the main street, my lungs burning. A taxi sat at the light. I yanked the door open and threw myself inside.
"Drive! Please, just drive!"
The driver, an old man with gray hair, frowned at me. "Miss, you okay?"
"Drive!" I screamed.
He pulled away from the curb. I twisted around, looking through the back window.
Three men in black suits stood on the sidewalk, watching. Not chasing anymore. Just watching.
Like they knew something I didn't.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out with shaking hands.
Unknown number.
The text made my blood freeze:
We know where you live. We know where your mother is. We know everything about you, Isla Monroe. Don't run. You can't hide. We'll find you.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
The taxi driver glanced at me in the mirror. "Where to, miss?"
Where? Where could I go? Home? They knew where I lived. The hospital? That's where Mom was—I couldn't lead killers to her.
My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone.
Another text appeared:
417 West Street. Warehouse District. You have twenty minutes. Come alone, or your mother gets a visit tonight. Don't test me.
Below the message, a photo loaded.
My apartment building. Clear as day. Taken tonight—I could see my bedroom light on through the window.
They'd been watching me.
"Miss?" The driver's voice seemed far away. "Where am I taking you?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My whole body trembled. I'd witnessed a murder. A real murder. And now they wanted me.
They wanted me.
And they had my mother as collateral.
"Warehouse District," I finally managed. "417 West Street."
"That's not a safe area this time of night—"
"Just go. Please."
As the taxi pulled away, I watched the city blur past. Lights. Buildings. Normal people living normal lives.
And me? I was driving toward my own execution.
Because I'd seen something I shouldn't have seen.
Because I'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Because God had finally answered my prayer—just not the way I'd hoped.
Another text:
Tick tock, Isla. Nineteen minutes. Your mother is sleeping so peacefully in room 304. Would be a shame if she never woke up.
Room 304. Mom's exact room.
They really did know everything.
I pressed my forehead against the cold window and tried not to cry. Tried not to scream.
Twenty minutes until I met the man with the green eyes and the gun.
Twenty minutes until I learned if witnesses died quickly, or if he'd make it hurt.
Twenty minutes to live.
The warehouse appeared ahead, dark and waiting. The taxi slowed.
"Last chance to change your mind, miss," the driver said softly.
But there was no changing my mind. No choice. No escape.
Mom's life depended on me walking into that warehouse.
So I would.
I paid the driver with the last cash in my wallet, stepped onto the empty street, and walked toward the open warehouse door.
Toward the man who'd killed without hesitation.
Toward my fate.
The door swung wider. Someone waited inside—a massive shadow that moved forward into the dim light.
Not the man from the alley.
Someone bigger. Scarier.
"Isla Monroe?" His accent was thick Russian. "Boss is waiting. This way."
Boss.
The green-eyed killer had a title. Had people who called him boss.
What had I walked into?
I followed the giant man into darkness, the warehouse door slamming shut behind me with a boom that sounded like a coffin closing.
And somewhere in that darkness, I heard him.
That smooth, calm voice from the alley.
"Hello, Isla. Let's talk about what you saw tonight. And what it's going to cost you."