Within These Walls

Chapter Five: Behind Closed Doors

Nova Starling Quinn

Dante’s hand is like a shackle around my wrist. His skin is hot, his grip firm enough to bruise, and he’s so close I can feel the vibration of his breathing against my own chest. I want to spit in his face. I want to knee him in the groin and finish my job, but the sound from inside the room stops me cold.

Thud. The heavy sound of a safe door hitting its stride.

"Let go of me, you giant prick," I breathe, my voice a jagged whisper. I don't drop the knife. I just shift my weight, my high heel hovering over the bridge of his foot. "If you make a sound, I’m going to make sure you never walk a beat again."

"Shut the f**k up, Nova," Dante growls back, his face hovering inches from mine. His dark eyes are scanning the door, his instincts as a cop—or a killer, I can’t tell which—taking over. "There’s more than one person in there. You go in now, you’re a dead woman. Is that what you want? To die in a goddamn cocktail dress?"

"I'd rather die doing something than stand here being felt up by a detective who’s too scared to break a few rules," I snap.

I shove against his chest, but he doesn't budge. He’s like a mountain of charcoal-colored wool and muscle.

"I’m not scared of s**t," he hisses, his jaw tight enough to snap. "But I’m not an amateur. We don't know who’s in there with Thorne. If it's his security detail, we’re outgunned."

Suddenly, a voice drifts through the heavy oak door. It’s Thorne. He sounds frantic, his usual smug tone replaced by a high-pitched whine.

"I told you, the ledgers are all here! I just need more time to move the offshore accounts. The Hawke kid is a detective now, he’s sniffing around—"

My heart stops. I feel Dante go perfectly still beneath my hands. The name Hawke. I look up at him, my brow furrowed. I don't know his last name is Hawke. I just know him as Dante. But the way he reacts—the way his eyes go pitch black and his nostrils flare—tells me everything.

"Hawke?" I whisper, my voice trembling for the first time. "What the f**k is he talking about?"

Dante doesn't answer me. He doesn't even look at me. He reaches behind his back and pulls the Glock from his holster. The sound of the safety clicking off is the loudest thing in the hallway.

"Move," he commands. It’s not a request. It’s a death warrant.

Dante Richard Hawke

The sound of my own name coming out of Thorne’s mouth feels like a physical punch to the gut. The Hawke kid. He’s talking about me. He’s talking about the boy he helped orphan twenty years ago. The anger I’ve been feeding for two decades finally boils over, turning my blood into pure battery acid.

"Dante, wait—" Nova starts, reaching for my arm.

"I said move!" I shove her back, not caring if I’m being rough.

I don't use the lockpicks. I don't play it quiet. I lift my leg and drive my heel into the door frame right next to the lock. The wood screams and splinters, the door flying open and slamming against the interior wall with a bang that sounds like a gunshot.

I’m inside before the echoes stop. My gun is up, my sights level.

"Police! Nobody move a f*****g muscle!" I roar.

The room is a blur of gold leaf and expensive furniture. Marcus Thorne is standing by a wall safe, his face as white as a sheet. Opposite him is a man in a gray suit—thick-necked, professional, a silencer already attached to the pistol in his hand.

"Hawke?" Thorne gasps, clutching a leather-bound ledger to his chest like a holy relic. "What the—how did you—"

"Shut up, Marcus," I growl, my eyes locked on the hitman. "Drop the piece. Now. Or I’ll put a hole in that expensive suit that your tailor can't fix."

"Dante, look out!"

Nova’s voice cracks through the air just as the hitman shifts his aim. I don't think. I dive to the left, the muffled thwip of a silenced shot whizzing past my ear and shattering a crystal decanter on the sideboard.

I return fire—bang, bang—two rounds into the hitman’s chest. He flies back, his blood spraying across the cream-colored wallpaper.

Nova is suddenly beside me, having dived into the room behind me. She’s stay-low, moving like a shadow. She doesn't have a gun, but she’s got that goddamn knife, and she’s heading straight for Thorne.

"The ledger!" she screams. "Don't let him burn it!"

Thorne is scrambling toward the fireplace, a lighter in his shaking hand. He’s terrified, crying like a child.

I scramble to my feet, my ears ringing, my vision tunneling on the man who killed my family. I want to pull the trigger. I want to end this right here. My finger is tightening on the steel.

"Give me one reason, Marcus," I growl, stepping over the dead hitman. "Give me one f*****g reason not to paint the floor with your brains."

"Wait!" Nova yells, stepping in front of my barrel. She’s glaring at me, her blue eyes fierce. "If you kill him, we never find the money! We never find the rest of them! Move the gun, Dante!"

"Get out of the way, Nova!" I roar, the red mist blinding me. "This bastard watched my house burn! He took everything!"

"He took mine too!" she screams back, her voice raw and breaking.

I freeze. The room goes silent, save for Thorne’s heavy sobbing. I look at her—really look at her. The cross tattoo. The blue eyes. The tall, defensive stance.

"What did you just say?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

The air in the room was electric, thick with the smell of gunpowder and the sudden, shattering realization that we were two halves of the same jagged coin. We stared at each other for a heartbeat too long—long enough for the sniveling coward on the floor to find his legs.

"f**k!" I roared, seeing Thorne scramble through the side door that led to the service stairs. He still had the ledger clutched to his chest.

"Move your ass, Detective!" Nova screamed.

We sprinted for the door, but the hallway was no longer empty. The sound of my shots had pulled every suit-wearing gorilla in the building to the twelfth floor. Four men in earpieces rounded the corner, submachine guns raised.

"Get down!" I shoved Nova toward a decorative alcove and leveled my Glock, taking out the lead guard with a shot to the shoulder.

But Nova didn’t stay down. She moved like a f*****g shadow. She used the wall as a springboard, her long legs propelling her into a backflip that would have been impressive in a gym, but in five-inch heels and a gown, it was goddamn terrifying. She landed behind the second guard, her thighs locking around his neck in a brutal headscissors. With a sickening crack, she twisted, sending him to the floor before he could even blink.

"Nice moves, Catwoman!" I yelled, double-tapping another guard who was trying to flank us.

"f**k you! Just keep them busy!" she barked. She grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp, swung it like a mace into the fourth man's jaw, and then dived over the railing of the service stairs.

We tore through the back hallways, a trail of broken glass and bruised egos behind us. Two more guards tried to cut us off near the kitchen. Nova didn't even slow down; she slid across a stainless-steel prep table, grabbed a chef’s knife, and buried it in a guy's thigh while I handled the other with a heavy elbow to the temple.

"The car! Go!" I shoved the exit door open.

The humid Miami air hit us like a brick. We sprinted for the SUV. I peeled out of the lot just as the sirens began to wail in the distance, the tires screaming against the asphalt.

The silence in the car was heavy enough to choke on. I looked at the clock on the dash: 11:48 PM. Almost midnight. My knuckles were white on the wheel, my tuxedo shirt was torn, and there was a smear of someone else’s blood on my cheek.

Beside me, Nova was a mess of tangled black hair and smudged eyeliner. She was staring out the window, her chest heaving. Then, out of nowhere, a sound came from her throat.

A laugh. A sharp, genuine, hysterical laugh.

"What the f**k is wrong with you?" I muttered, glancing at her. "We almost died, Thorne got away with the evidence, and my career is probably in the shredder. What’s funny?"

She turned to me, her blue eyes bright with a manic energy. "We’re so f*****g bad at this, Dante! We spent all night trying to out-alpha each other while the man who killed our families literally walked out the back door!"

I stared at her for a second, the absurdity of it finally hitting me. I started to chuckle, a low, rough sound that turned into a full-blown roar of laughter. "I told you you were a liability."

"And I told you you were a prick!" she shouted, hitting my arm. "You almost shot me in the face!"

"I was aiming for the guy behind you, you ungrateful brat!"

"Oh, f**k off! I saved your life in that kitchen!"

We bickered all the way to her loft, the adrenaline finally fading into a dull, throbbing ache. I pulled the SUV to the curb, the engine idling loudly in the quiet street.

I looked at her as she reached for the door handle. The cross tattoo on her cheek was a stark reminder of the fire that linked us.

"Nova," I said, my voice dropping into a serious, warning tone.

She paused, her hand on the door. "What?"

"Stay away from Thorne’s office. I mean it. Tonight was a fluke, but next time, those guards won't be using rubber bullets. If I see you near that building, I’ll arrest you myself for your own goddamn good."

Nova stayed still for a minute, her back to me. The silence stretched between us, thick with everything we hadn't said—about the fire, about the name Hawke, about the fact that we were now stuck in the same hell.

She stepped out of the car and shut the door. She walked toward the glass entrance of her building, then stopped. She turned around, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face.

She raised her hand and flipped me a very deliberate, very elegant middle finger.

"See you tomorrow, Detective," she mouthed.

I watched her walk inside until the lobby lights went dim. I shook my head, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself.

"Yeah," I whispered to the empty car. "See you tomorrow, you crazy bitch."