Page 29 of No Words
Instead, he nods and retrieves a soft blanket from the bedroom.
In the living room, he builds a fire in the extensive woodstove. The cabin fills with warmth and dancing light. Wood smoke drifts through the air, mixing with the lingering scent of sex and sweat. He settles on the couch, pulling me against him, my back to his chest, both of us wrapped in the blanket.
For a long while, we simply exist in the quiet. His heartbeat steady against my spine, his arms secure around my waist. The silence feels comfortable, as if we’ve known each other far longer than these few intense days.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice a gentle rumble I feel through his chest.
“That I didn’t know it could be like this,” I answer honestly. “That control isn’t always safety.”
His arms tighten slightly. “It isn’t. Sometimes, surrender is strength.”
We stay like that, watching the fire, our bodies still connected though the urgency has passed. Eventually, he shifts, reaching for his communications equipment on the side table. I watch as he checks the messages, his professional demeanor returning as he scrolls through the data.
His face tightens at whatever he reads.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Borsellini’s men. They’ve narrowed the search area. We may not have much time left here.”
Fear spikes through me, but it’s different now, not the paralyzing terror of before, but something sharper, more focused.
“How close?” I ask, sitting up straighter, the prosecutor in me momentarily resurfacing.
“Too close for comfort. Three neighboring towns have reported strangers asking questions. They’re working in a grid pattern. Methodical.”
I nod, processing the information. “And our options?”
“We move before they find us. Change locations, possibly identities.” He studies my face. “Or we make a stand. Killian could have a team here in a few hours.”
Killian. Another name, another connection I know nothing about. How many people does Cole have at his disposal? Yet I trust him completely with my life, with my body, perhaps with more.
“What will happen to us when we leave here?” The question encompasses far more than our physical safety.
Cole looks at me, his expression softening slightly. “That depends on what you want to happen.”
I used to lecture law students about the importance of working within the system, about how vigilante justice undermines everything our society stands for. Those lectures feel like someone else’s memories now. The system I defended so passionately couldn’t keep me alive for a single week.
The woman staring back from the reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows has steady hands and clear eyes. She could kill if she had to. She could disappear if she wanted to. Most importantly, she could choose. The reflection isn’t Molly Morrone, federal prosecutor. She’s not quite Isabella Gallo either. She’s someone formed in the crucible of danger and desire, someone unafraid of her own darkness.
“I want to survive,” I tell him, though part of me wonders what survival means now. The Molly who believed in due process and constitutional rights is dying piece by piece. But maybe she was naïve. Maybe the world was always this dark, and I was just too sheltered to see it. “And I want this. Whatever this is becoming.”
He nods once; the gesture contains volumes. His hand finds mine beneath the blanket, our fingers interlacing.
“Then we’ll make it happen.”
8
COLE
Two million dollars. That’s what Alessio Borsellini is offering for Molly’s head. I’ve seen men kill for far less, hell, I’ve done it myself. But it’s not the number that pisses me off. It’s the fact anyone thinks she’s an easy target. I stare at the encrypted message on my laptop screen, my jaw clenching as I read the timestamp. Six hours ago.
‘Fuck.’ The word comes out harsh in the cabin’s silence. Six hours means they’re close. Twenty-four hours, maybe less, before they close in.
I slam the laptop shut. Hard. Not because it’ll help, but because breaking something I can replace is easier than admitting I can’t control every angle. Pushing back from the desk, I move to the window. The tree line looks calm, undisturbed. But they’re coming. I can sense them with the same instinct that kept me alive through three tours and five years undercover.
Alive! That’s what the bounty specifies. They don’t want Molly dead. Which means she’s worth more to them alive. That’s not the math I like anyone else doing. They want what’s in her head. Every detail of their operation, every piece of evidence shecould testify to. Keeping her alive isn’t the same as keeping her safe.
The shower is still on upstairs. Molly, unaware that our borrowed time just ran out. I can hear the water running, a mundane sound that seems surreal against the countdown that’s just begun in my head. One day to prepare, to decide: run or fight.
