Page 15 of Knot Like Other Girls

My fingers absently trace the rough skin along the right side of my jaw, a habit I've never quite been able to break. The scars are a constant reminder of the price of complacency, of what happens when you let your guard down for even a moment.

I won't make that mistake again.

Not here, not now, when everything's gone to shit in the most spectacular way possible.

Behind me, I hear the others moving about the safe house, their voices a low murmur of uncertainty. They're nervous, even if they won't admit it. I can smell it on them, that sharp tang of fear that cuts through even the lingering scent of gunpowder and sweat.

I don't blame them. A dead client is bad for business in the best of circumstances. A dead mafia don? That's the kind of shit that gets people buried in shallow graves.

But fear is a luxury we can't afford right now. Fear makes you sloppy, makes you miss things. And in our line of work, missing things gets you killed.

So I push it down, lock it away in that dark little box in the back of my mind where I keep all the other things I can't afford to feel. The pain, the doubt, the crushing loneliness that threatens to swallow me whole if I let my guard down for even a second. It's all there, waiting, but I won't give it the satisfaction of taking control.

I focus instead on the task at hand, my eyes methodically sweeping the street for any sign of movement, any hint of approaching trouble. A cat slinks across the street, its tail held high like a banner. An early-morning jogger passes by, oblivious to the drama unfolding behind these walls. A car turns the corner, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom.

I tense, my hand instinctively moving to the weapon at my hip. But the car doesn't slow, doesn't show any interest in our little sanctuary. It passes by without incident, leaving nothing but a fading engine note in its wake.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, forcing my muscles to relax. This hypervigilance is exhausting, but it's kept me alive this long.

It's all I know.

The sound of approaching sirens cuts through the quiet morning, growing louder with each passing second. I resist the urge to retreat further into the shadows. Old habits die hard, and there was a time when the sound of sirens meant nothing but trouble for me.

But we're not running this time. We're standing our ground. It feels... strange. Uncomfortable. Like wearing someone else's skin.

I watch as the first police car pulls up, its lights painting the street in alternating flashes of red and blue. More follow,along with an ambulance and what looks like some sort of crime scene unit. They move with purpose, these harbingers of law and order, secure in their authority and the rightness of their cause.

Part of me envies them that certainty. My world has always been shades of gray, morality a shifting landscape where right and wrong are determined by whoever's signing the checks. But there's no room for that kind of thinking now. We've made our choice, for better or worse.

I hear footsteps behind me, too heavy to be Savva, too measured to be Troy or Liam. Roman, then. The leader of the Vanguard Pack. The man who's led us through hell and back more times than I can count.

"Anything?" he asks, his voice low.

I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the street. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Local LEOs just showed up. Looks like they're setting up a perimeter."

Roman grunts, a sound that could mean anything from acknowledgment to frustration. With him, it's often hard to tell. "Keep your eyes open. The Russos might try to take advantage of the confusion. I'm sure their connections have informed them there's something going on here."

I nod, not bothering to point out that I don't need the reminder. Roman knows me well enough by now to understand that vigilance is as natural to me as breathing. It's everything else that I struggle with.

He lingers for a moment, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. There's something he wants to say, some burden he wants to share, but the words don't come. They never do, not between us. We understand each other too well for that, know the demons that haunt each other's dreams.

In the end, he just claps a hand on my shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that speaks volumes in its simplicity. Then he's gone,moving back into the depths of the safe house to deal with the storm that's about to break over our heads.

I return my attention to the street, watching as the first officers approach the building. They move cautiously, hands hovering near their weapons, eyes darting from window to window. They're expecting trouble, and I can't blame them. In their shoes, I'd be doing the same thing.

But we're not here to cause problems. Not this time, at least. We're here to face the music and hope like hell that honesty counts for something in this fucked-up world we live in.

Never has before, but we don't have much of a choice.

It's a gamble, and not one I'm comfortable with. In my experience, the truth is rarely as liberating as people like to claim. More often than not, it's just another weapon to be used against you, another crack in your armor for the world to exploit.

The sound of the front door opening draws me back to the present. I listen as voices fill the entryway, the clipped tones of authority mixing with the familiar cadences of my teammates. Roman's deep baritone, steady and controlled. Troy and Liam's easy charm, already working to smooth ruffled feathers. Savva's cultured accent probably confusing the hell out of some local cop who's never left Sicily. Good thing Savva's fluent in enough languages, I couldn't begin to list them if I tried.

I'm not like them. I've never been good with people, even before I looked like this and everyone else decided they weren't good with me, either. So I hang back, in the shadows where I belong. Let the others handle the social niceties. I'll do what I do best. Watch, listen, and be ready to act if things go sideways.

And they always go sideways, sooner or later.

It's the nature of our work, of the life we've chosen. Or maybe the life that chose us. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

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