Chapter 7: The Other Side of the Search

In this gilded life, reminders came in the form of well-dressed staff whispering into one's ear, not a scramble through a pocketful of notes written on paper scraps. The torpid comfort of a silk bed couldn’t mask the tension tugging at my nerves. One of the butlers, Fletcher, knelt beside me, crisp envelope in hand, his face half-shadowed by the pale glow of a bedside lamp. I’d spent too many nights trading bourbon for sleep; this one felt no different until he broke the hush.

“Boss,” he said, voice low and taut as a bowstring. “News from Antonio.”

My spine stiffened. I sat up, every muscle protesting the unfamiliar luxury of these sheets. My heart kicked against my ribs like a caged bird. “Go on.”

He slid the envelope across the silken spread. Its seal bore a red wax crest—a bull’s head encircled by thorns. Inside, a single sheet of heavy white paper carried a terse update:

Three associates have Lila Harper’s trail.

She was last seen three nights ago near in the hills above Mount Fairwood.

They’ll close in tonight unless given new orders.

My mind went haywire. The goons were closing in on the girl I’d promised to find. To rescue from... well, me. I pressed fingertips to my forehead, rubbing an unfamiliar wrinkle. I had enough familiarity with the dark and bloody underworld in this city to know that no one in this family, from the lowest grunt to the Don at the very top, would ever have a second thought about crushing a delicate flower. In this life, power was always on a knife's edge; mercy was a weakness they couldn’t afford. Yet every fibre of me ached to pull her back from the edge.

I swung my legs over the bed and stood, buttoning my silk vest with a deliberate touch and Fletcher's help. Outside, the ocean wind rattled the lanterns in the eaves, a hollow echo of my own dread. All this opulence—marble floors, grape-scented air—couldn’t drown out the roar of guilt. If I didn’t get to Lila soon, I’d watch her be dragged into the dark.

I tucked the dispatch note into my coat pocket, its corners crisp like a promise unkept. I stood listlessly. Missing the ensconcing comfort and anonymity of my trench coat. Sharp suits and overcoats spoke to me of back-slapping and back-room deals. The salt-stung breeze out on the terrace pulled me like an old friend. I needed fresh air—and a cigarette to steady my hands. I lit a cigarette and drew the smoke into my lungs, letting it burn away strands of tension that twisted my gut. The nicotine stung like a truth I’d been avoiding. This borrowed life granted me the keys to kingdoms—and left me gut-shot by violating every principle I'd ever held. Principles that had cost me- the real me, not the one wearing this mob boss's skin and life like a cheap fur coat- everything I had held dear.

I exhaled a plume of white and still could not shake the thoughts of Lila Harper. She’d borrowed every cent she could get to keep her flower shop open and pay her grandfather’s medical bills. I’d seen her ledgers—chalked debts, Brisa interest clawing at her earnings. She wasn’t just a missing person; she was a sunflower in winter, fighting to bloom against a world that would see her dead.

I closed my eyes and saw her face in that brass mirror—a gilded trap. Sea-glass eyes bright against polished metal, bending hope through a prism of fear. That haunted smile—fragile, resolute—tugged at every promise I’d ever made. If I could just find her, maybe I could atone for every sin I’d commit in this stolen skin.

A low whistle drew my attention. Fletcher stood at the glass doors, raindrops pearling down his immaculate suit. “The car’s ready, boss.”

I stubbed out the cigarette on the stone balustrade and flicked the butt into the waves below. The sea swallowed it without protest. I nodded, voice rough as gravel. “I’m on my way.”

Fletcher bowed slightly, silent as a shadow. In that moment, I felt the weight of two lives. Cole Vane, the detective who chased down dead ends in the pursuit of justice and dignity, never quite seeming to get either. Don Brisa, a boss whose name meant fear and fortune, never mind the lives splattered on the windshield along the way. Neither could ever walk away clean. There was a third life. A life that might still get out, if I had something to say about it.