Page 12 of Knot Like Other Girls

My gaze drifts to the window, where the first hints of dawn are starting to creep across the Sicilian sky. Shit, has it really been that long? My body aches, a bone-deep weariness settling into my muscles. The adrenaline from the fight at the party has long since faded, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion that no amount of coffee or whiskey seems able to touch.

I roll my shoulders, wincing at the pop and crack of joints that have seen far too much action even though I'm nowhere near old enough to be this sore. There was a time when I lived for this shit. The danger, the uncertainty, the constant state of readiness.

But now?

Now I want something... quieter.

The thought catches me off guard, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Liam Rourke dreaming of a peaceful life? What's next, Cole taking up motivational speaking?

But the longing persists, a quiet whisper in the back of my mind. I think about my cousin back in Dublin, with his littlepub on the corner. The way he described his days—pulling pints, chatting with regulars, closing up shop as the sun sets over the Liffey. It sounded... nice.

Fuck me, I'm getting soft.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the traitorous thoughts. This is who I am. This is what I do. I'm a soldier, a fighter. I don't know how to be anything else.

Do I?

The question lingers, uncomfortable and persistent. I push it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. We've got a job to do, a client to protect. No time for existential crises.

"Alright, lads," I say, my voice cutting through the banter. "Enough with the lover's quarrel. We need to figure out our next move."

Troy looks up from the floor where he's making sure they got the last bits of glass, a retort clearly on the tip of his tongue. But something in my expression must give him pause, because he swallows it back and nods instead.

"Right," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "What's the plan, boss?"

The question is directed at Roman, who's been pacing near the window, phone still clutched in his hand. He turns to face us, his expression grim.

"We need to move Caruso," he says. "The Biondis know where we are. It's not safe here anymore."

Savva raises an eyebrow. "And where, pray tell, are we supposed to take our esteemed client? I doubt the local Holiday Inn has adequate security measures."

Roman's jaw tightens. "I've got a place. Off the grid, hard to access. We'll head out at first light."

I nod, already mentally cataloging what we'll need for the move. Weapons, supplies, escape routes. The familiar routine iscomforting, pushing back against the unsettling thoughts from earlier.

This is what I'm good at. This is where I belong.

Right?

The doubt creeps back in, insidious and unwelcome. I push it down, focusing on the practicalities. "I'll do a final sweep of the perimeter," I say, already moving toward the door. "Make sure we haven't picked up any uninvited guests."

Roman nods. But he's being weird. Distant. I don't have time to examine it too closely, though. I've got a job to do.

The night air is cool against my skin as I step outside, a welcome break from the stuffy confines of the safe house. I take a deep breath, letting the salt-tinged breeze clear my head.

As I make my way around the property, my mind wanders again. I think about my ma, back in Galway. The way her face lit up when I told her I was leaving the military, how quickly it fell when I explained the private security gig. She didn't say anything, but I could see it in her eyes. The worry, the fear. The unspoken question.

When are you stopping for good?

I don't have an answer for her. I'm not sure I ever will.

My circuit of the property turns up nothing unusual, which should be reassuring. Instead, it just leaves me feeling... restless. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As I head back inside, a muffled thud catches my attention. It's coming from Caruso's room. Probably just the bastard rolling over in his sleep, but...

My instincts kick in, overriding any lingering thoughts of quiet pubs and worried mothers. I move silently down the hallway, one hand reaching for the gun at my hip.

The door to Caruso's room is slightly ajar. That's not right. We always keep it closed and locked from the outside. I push it open slowly, every sense on high alert.

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