Page 51 of Embrace Me Forever

But upon entering my street, the sight that greets me freezes my blood. My house is cordoned off. Police officers try to block my path.

“Get away from me!” I bark, their efforts to stop me falter as I push past them.

“Blake! No! Blake! Wait!” From the other side of the street, my old partner from the Anchorage PD, Dean Crawley, calls out to me.

His words fall on deaf ears. This is my goddamn house! It’s violated, and I need to know why. Need to know if she’s safe.

As I burst through the front door, a sinister tremor slams against my ribs. The first thing that catches my eye is a pair of men’s shoes by the entrance. Shoes that aren’t mine. A cold shiver runs down my spine as I step further into the chaos of my own home.

As I enter the living room, time slows, and a chilling sight grips me. Flo is laid out on the couch, unmoving. Her pale skin contrasts with the red stains spreading across the fabric underneath her head. Her face, still as beautiful as the day I met her, is serene yet still.

Dean holds me back firmly, preventing me from kneeling beside her to offer a final embrace. “Blake, you can’t stay here,” he murmurs.

I’m too weakened to protest, and the last thing I want is to disturb her peace. So I remain rooted to the spot, my heart tearing at the sight. It’s not just the devastating silence of her being, but the presence of another man next to her, equally lifeless, his features distorted in a gruesome final grimace. I don’t know what’s more agonizing—the sight of her lifeless bodyor the realization that she was with another man in her final moments. Someone I believed was long gone from our lives.

Pinned to her chest, a handwritten note sears through the haze of my shock:Since you weren’t home.

The chilling message leaves no room for doubt, I know exactly who he is, and Flo took the bullet that was meant for me. It’s the remnants of the gang I helped dismantle years ago, back when I was still Dean’s partner.

The room spins as rage takes hold. Next to me, Dean stands like a statue, surveying the same horrific scene. His voice is low and strained when he finally speaks, “Bane was shot this morning.”

So, it’s the younger brother, Tosca, driven by a vendetta to avenge his brother’s death. “Fuck! And Tosca thought it was me?” I growl, the name turning to poison on my tongue.

Over the years, I never shied away from my encounters with Bane and Tosca, even after my departure from the Anchorage PD. Whether by chance or design, we inevitably drew each other into conflict. But I had never imagined it would culminate in such bloodshed.

Dean puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

His apology boils within me, a fierce tide rising against the walls of my composure. I don’t need sympathy, not now, not ever. But I keep my reaction hidden. Dean Crawley isn’t just a former colleague; he’s a friend, a brother in arms. We’ve been through the fires of hell together, and our bond is unbreakable, even now.

He continues, “Someone must’ve sent the wrong message.” His gaze flicks across the room, finally settling back on the couch. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

No, it shouldn’t. Flo should still be alive. Yet, as Dean speaks, I sense the unasked questions hovering between us. He’s a friend but unaware of the full chaos unraveling at home, andtonight, the unexpected presence of our neighbor only deepens his suspicions.

“Did you know?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, he was coming over for a game of poker,” I fabricate swiftly, the lie settling in my mouth as if it were the truth. “Flo said they’d be waiting for me.”

Dean sighs and gives a small bow, a gesture that accepts my words without pushing further. “Come on, you’ve got to get out of here.”

Knowing there’s nothing more I can do at this crime scene, I heed his command, the need for action elsewhere fueling my steps. I’ve got to find Tosca. His swift action to avenge his brother was brutal, but I’m even swifter. I bet he doesn’t think his end could come tonight.

I head straight for my usual informant, a young man who drifts from one halfway house to another like a newspaper blown down an alley. As usual, he always says he doesn’t know. But his eyes can’t lie, and I bet he knows what Tosca has just done to my Flo.

“Where is he?” I demand, gripping his collar and waving a stack of crisp bills—one grand—before his eyes, a price he can’t resist.

“He’s jetted to Sacramento,” the informant stammers.

“Where in Sacramento?” I press, my patience wearing thin.

“I don’t know, man!” His voice quivers with feigned ignorance.

I’m not in the mood for games. I press the cold barrel of my gun against his temple and tighten my grip. “Where?”

“All right! All right! There’s a new Harley Davidson store opening uptown. His hideout’s in the basement,” he finally spills, desperation clear in his voice. True to form, the guy is easy to buy.

With the information secured, I storm out, driven like a bat out of hell. Just as Tosca didn’t bother with subtlety, I can’t be bothered with caution now. My life as I knew it has ended. Pursuing Tosca is the last thing I’ll do.

Upon arriving at the Harley Davidson store, I waste no time. The basement door is concealed but barely a challenge. Inside, I’m met with the cold stares of Tosca’s bodyguards. They reach for their weapons, but they’re too slow. I take them down one by one, my movements mechanical, driven by a rage-fueled precision.

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