Page 52 of Embrace Me Forever

Tosca sneers from the shadowed corner of the basement, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Look at you, Blake. Came charging in here like some avenging angel. Did you enjoy the little show I left you back home?”

I step closer, my gun unwavering in my grip, my voice icy calm. “Mourning’s over, Tosca. I’m not here to grieve. I’m here for you. Bet you didn’t think I’d come this fast.”

“I must admit you turned up faster than Spiderman. But you’re out of your league. This isn’t some heroic cop movie, Blake. You’re playing in the big leagues now.”

“And yet, here I am,” I retort. “Right in your hideout. Looks like the big leagues aren’t so tough after all.”

We pause for a moment, and Tosca’s eerie calm suggests he’s hiding more than he lets on.

“I didn’t kill Bane!” I grit out.

“Who cares who did!” Tosca chuckles dismissively. “I’ve always despised you, Blake. Honestly, it didn’t matter to me who I had to take down to avenge Bane. What’s that they say about husband and wife? Two become one?” His laughter rings out cruelly.

I step into the light, making sure he can see every contour of my face.

He reclines, treating the moment like a perverse show. “Your dear Flo, she’s gone, Blake. Long gone. And to think, I showed mercy letting you find her like that, instead of in your bed, with that man fucking the daylights out of her! God, it’s so satisfying. Taking everything from you—something that I honestly doubted I would’ve tasted.”

I meet his condescension with a harsh, humorless laugh. “You think you took everything from me? You just cleared my schedule. Now, I’ve got nothing but time. Let’s see how you handle being on the receiving end.”

His confidence wavers as he realizes his mistake. The air charged with the promise of vengeance as I drive a bullet through his temple. The exact spot where he had shot Flo. His blood doesn’t soak into the fabric. Instead, it paints a vivid trail down the leather couch, a macabre delight for my eyes. The executioner becomes the executed. My work is done.

In that instant, two doors burst open simultaneously—one behind Tosca and another behind me.

“Blake!” Dean Crawley’s voice pierces the silence as movements behind Tosca’s couch catch me momentarily off guard. Fortunately, my former partner reacts swiftly, neutralizing the emerging threat.

This was the source of Tosca’s misplaced calm, believing my grief was a sign of weakness. He failed to anticipate that his last hired muscle would be too slow to save him.

“Blake, what the hell!” Dean whisper-shouts in my ear.

Pivoting to face him, I drop my gun, raising my hands in surrender. “Do what you have to do,” I resign, my voice hollow.

Dean strides away from me. “It was self-defense, Blake!” he insists, surveying the grim scene before him, his gaze finally resting on Tosca. “Where’s his weapon?”

“He didn’t have one,” I confess.

“Shit, Blake!” he curses under his breath, his eyes darting around the room in a frantic search. He paces quickly to the coffee table, gloved fingers probing until they find a hidden compartment beneath its surface. With careful hands, he extracts a gun, the metal glinting ominously in the dim light. Methodically, he positions the gun in Tosca’s limp hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, disbelief and confusion swirling within me.

“Keep your mouth shut! The cavalry’s coming,” he hisses, his expression steely and resolute. “You and I are in this together now. You shot him in self-defense, do you hear me?”

The reality of Dean’s actions settles over me—a fabricated truth woven in desperation. As the distant sound of sirens grows louder, I realize the lines we’ve crossed. In this grim dance of justice and survival, my friend has tied our fates together. Yet, to this day, I still question if it was all worth it.

18

GEORGIA-MAY

At the end of that, Blake closes his eyes, his fingers still curled around Coco’s pram handle. He stoops to check on my little girl, ensuring she’s snug and safe. Satisfied, he murmurs, a whisper lost in the chill of the air, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I saved the senator’s wife and lost mine on the same day.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Blake. I mean it,” I say, placing my hand atop his. Between us, Coco’s stroller stands not as a barrier but as a bridge connecting our shared sorrows and solaces. Despite the pain etched in his gaze, Blake remains composed.

“I know you don’t like me to say sorry,” I add, acknowledging that I haven’t forgotten his wish for no apologies.

He shakes his head, not in denial but in acceptance of the complicated layers of our reality. His voice lacks enthusiasm as he says, “A revenge gone wrong paid with rightful revenge. Everything was too late. But my only comfort is that the case was closed without any question. Dean Crawley is still with the Anchorage PD. A captain now.”

I respond with a subtle tilt of my head, relieved, aligning silently with Crawley’s choices. In this twisted web of justice andrevenge, I would have done the same for a friend, understanding too well the blurred lines between right and wrong in our shadows.

Then he confesses, his voice a harsh whisper, “At the end of the day, I’m a cold-blooded killer who lost the woman I loved—not just to the bullet that ended her life, but to another man she chose in her final moments. It’s a regret that keeps haunting me.”

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