Skylar threw herself onto the couch with a dramatic groan, scrolling through her phone for takeout options, her bare feet hanging over the armrest like she had no worries in the world, while Reagan drifted toward the kitchen, flipping on the light, letting the familiar hum of the old fridge fill the silence, her movements automatic, mechanical, comforting in their repetition, tomorrow they would open the bar, tomorrow it would be sticky floors, cheap beer, broken jukeboxes and neon lights that flickered with the kind of tiredness Reagan felt in her bones, tomorrow she would fake it again, would wear the skin of someone unbothered, unbroken, untouchable She was halfway through making coffee when her phone buzzed once, twice, three times in quick, frantic succession, a sound too sharp, too urgent, cutting through the fragile peace she had built like a scalpel through silk, she wiped her hands on her jeans, reaching for it with a lazy motion, probably a spam text or a wrong number, but the moment her fingers brushed the screen she knew, before she even unlocked it she knew The air shifted, thickening like a stormfront rolling in, the walls pressing closer, the light feeling too bright, too hot, she swiped the screen and the first message blinked up at her, stark and ugly. You can't hide forever. Her breath hitched, a crack in her ribs that spread like wildfire, her thumb moved on autopilot, opening the next one. We're watching you. Another. Miss me? The bottom dropped out of her stomach, her hands trembling so hard she almost dropped the phone, but she didn't, she couldn't, because now the pictures started coming, one after another in rapid bursts, snapshots of a nightmare she had tried so hard to bury

Her, broken, bleeding, curled up on a filthy carpet, her lip split, her eye swollen shut, her body twisted in pain, the memory of fists raining down on her replaying so vividly she could almost feel them again, almost taste the blood in her mouth, hear the laughter that haunted her dreams, and then another image flashed up, this time from earlier that day, Skylar laughing in a dressing room, holding up a ridiculous sequined jacket, her face open and unguarded, happiness so raw it twisted something sharp in Reagan's chest. Another, Reagan caught mid-fall, horror etched across her features as the mannequin crashed to the ground beside her, and another, leaving the diner, her and Skylar, heads close together, a private moment stolen from across the street, grainy but clear enough to see the small, tentative smile tugging at Reagan's mouth, a smile that now felt like a target painted across her skin. The phone slipped from her hands, clattering to the linoleum with a hollow sound that echoed through the apartment, the screen still lighting up, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, each new vibration another bullet in a war she thought she had survived, but survival was a lie, survival was a pause between battles, and the next one was here. Her knees buckled, catching herself against the counter with fingers that scraped uselessly at the edge, her body locking up, her chest seizing tight like a fist had closed around her lungs, the room spinning, colors bleeding into one another, the ceiling bowing and buckling overhead, sounds warping and stretching until even Skylar's voice was a distant, muted roar.

"Rae? Rae, what's wrong?"

She couldn't answer, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, the panic rising so fast, so violently, it ripped the ground out from under her, left her drowning in open air, she clawed at her hoodie, yanking it over her head, desperate for breath, desperate for something solid to hold onto, her heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else, her body a trembling wire stretched so thin it could snap at any second Skylar was there, hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her just enough to anchor her, her voice cutting through the storm like a knife. "Breathe, Reagan. Look at me. Just breathe, dammit." The world tilted, twisted, shadows crawling across the walls, and Reagan squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to listen, to find Skylar's voice through the chaos, to count the words, one, two, three, again, again, until the sharpest edge of the panic dulled, until she could suck in a shallow, ragged breath that burned like acid down her throat Skylar's hands didn't leave her, solid and steady, grounding her, reminding her she wasn't alone, not this time, not anymore, Reagan wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking slightly, the linoleum cold against her bare skin, the last remnants of adrenaline shaking loose in her veins like shrapnel The phone buzzed again from the floor and Reagan flinched, a visceral, full-body jerk that made her stomach twist into knots, Skylar cursed under her breath, snatching the phone up and stabbing at it until the buzzing stopped, tossing it onto the couch like it was contaminated Reagan stayed where she was, pressed into herself, forehead against her knees, feeling the hot sting of tears she refused to shed burning behind her closed eyelids, every part of her vibrating with leftover fear, leftover rage, leftover shame, because no matter how far she ran, they found her, they always found her. Skylar crouched in front of her, one hand brushing lightly against Reagan's wrist, her voice rough but steady, a lifeline thrown into a storm. "They don't get to win, Rae. You hear me? Not this time. Not ever." Reagan didn't speak, couldn't speak, but something inside her shifted, something old and broken and furious stirred awake, baring its teeth in the darkness, a silent promise whispered through cracked lips and a heart stitched together by stubbornness and spite. Not again. Not this time.

For a long time, she stayed there, curled on the floor, breathing in shallow, shaky bursts, her body a map of old scars and new panic, but slowly, slowly, the world began to stitch itself back together, piece by bloody piece. She lifted her head, blinking against the harsh kitchen light, her muscles trembling with the effort, her heart a raw, bruised thing still beating defiantly in her chest.

Skylar didn't move, didn't speak, just watched her, hands loose at her sides, ready to catch her if she fell again, but trusting her to stand on her own.

Reagan braced her hands against the cold tile, pushed herself up inch by inch, legs trembling like a newborn deer, but she didn't fall, didn't crumple, she stood, shaky but standing, and that counted for something.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, breathing through her teeth, feeling the rage bubbling under her skin like magma ready to break the surface.

Skylar opened her mouth, probably to ask if she was okay, but Reagan beat her to it. Her voice was low, rough, scraped raw by smoke and nightmares, but it didn't shake.

"Get the shotgun."

Skylar blinked, a flicker of something wild flashing across her face, something almost proud.

Reagan squared her shoulders, the weight of fear still pressing against her lungs, but there was something else now, burning hotter, fiercer - survival, vengeance, a promise written in blood.

"They wanna find me," she rasped, voice steadying with each word. "Let's make sure they regret it."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled - a small, broken, brutal thing. 

The bar was still open, the dim lights flickering softly above the tables, casting long shadows over the worn wood and the scattered patrons nursing their last drinks of the night. The clinking of glass, low murmurs of conversation, and the steady hum of music filled the air, blending into the usual rhythm of the place as Reagan wiped down the counter, her hands working mechanically, pushing away the remnants of the long shift. It was a feeling of comfort, of normalcy, the routine that had become her lifeline.

And then, the door opened.

It wasn't loud, but the noise from the room seemed to cut off for a split second. The world stilled as if the atmosphere itself had taken notice. She didn't need to look up to know who had entered. The temperature in the bar dropped, the air thickening, and Reagan could feel her heartbeat shift into a faster rhythm, instinctively aware of his presence. She took a breath, but it didn't help. She didn't have to see him to feel the way the room responded.

The man in the lead was tall, nearly imposing in stature, with broad shoulders and a presence that cut through the bar like a blade. Rocco Mancini. He didn't have to do anything to command attention. His presence was enough. His eyes scanned the room, sweeping over the people like they were nothing more than an afterthought. When he moved, everything around him seemed to part, as if the world had to make way for him.

He was followed closely by Tommaso, a man just as hard, just as intimidating, his dark eyes sharp and calculating. But it was Rocco who held the power here, who made the air crackle with his energy. Behind them, a handful of other men followed, all of them in black, all of them wearing that same air of quiet dominance. They moved with a purpose, walking with that kind of grace that only comes with knowing you're in control, knowing that no one could challenge you without consequences. There were six of them total, but Rocco was the one who drew every eye. Even the chatter in the bar slowed, a tension settling in the room like something heavy was about to drop.

Reagan's fingers froze around the glass she was holding, her breath caught in her chest for a moment. The recognition hit her like a freight train, and before she could stop it, her eyes were drawn to him. To Rocco.

He wasn't looking at her, not yet. His eyes slid across the room, his gaze briefly pausing on the others, but it was the way he moved, the confidence in every step, that made everything feel wrong. Everything in her wanted to look away, to ignore him, but she couldn't. The pull was undeniable. His presence felt like a magnet, forcing her to keep watching even though she knew better.

He was familiar, and yet, he wasn't.

Rocco Mancini reminded her of Travis and Owen. Men who thought the world was theirs simply because they existed. Men who used power as a weapon, who believed that their size and strength made them untouchable. She hated them both, for what they'd done to her, for how they'd twisted everything she once knew, for how they'd shattered her into something she never thought she could be. And yet, here was Rocco, a man who didn't need to shout, didn't need to throw his weight around to show that he controlled everything around him.

She hated that he reminded her of them.

She hated that his very existence felt like a flashback to every awful thing she had run from. She could feel it, the pull in her stomach, the way her body responded to him even though every part of her screamed to look away. He had that same coldness, that same confidence, the same air of danger that she recognized from the men who had destroyed her past.

But unlike Travis and Owen, Rocco was quieter. Colder. He didn't need to be loud to be dangerous. His silence spoke volumes. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. His power, his dominance, were written all over him, in the way he carried himself, in the way people shifted and stepped back just a little when he entered. The way the men who followed him hung on his every word, listened to him without question. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to make people remember his name, to remind them that he was the one they answered to.

The bar was suddenly smaller, suffocating, the walls closing in around her, and all Reagan could do was stand there, pretending she wasn't affected, pretending she wasn't already caught up in the magnetic draw of this man who owned the room without trying. The heat in her body, the way her heart picked up pace. She hated it. She hated that she couldn't stop watching him.

Rocco turned, glancing across the room, his gaze locking onto hers for a fleeting moment, just long enough for her to feel that sharp, raw, possessive look pierce through her, leaving her breathless. Her stomach twisted, her throat went dry, and for the briefest of seconds, she felt exposed, like everything about her was laid bare for him to see.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

He just moved, settling into a booth in the far corner with his men, the table creaking under their weight as they all sat down, their presence still hanging in the air.

Reagan's fingers tightened around the towel she had been holding, her knuckles white, and her breath shallow. She should look away, she should focus on something else, anything else. But she couldn't. He was there, and she couldn't ignore him.

She hated him.

She hated that he reminded her of everything she had been through.

But more than that... she hated that she couldn't stop wanting him.