Chapter 6 - Fault Lines
1314 Words
The morning started with silence.
Not the kind that crept in after chaos—but the kind that felt like a held breath.
Rori stood in the kitchen, watching the steam rise from her coffee. The kids had left for school. The house was still.
She didn’t trust stillness anymore.
Ren arrived first.
He didn’t knock. He never did.
He stepped inside like he belonged there, his eyes scanning the room before settling on her.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said.
“I watched the feeds.”
“Anything?”
“No movement. Just the memory of it.”
Ren nodded. “That’s how they work. They leave a shadow and let it do the damage.”
She studied him. “You speak like you’ve lived it.”
“I have.”
She poured him coffee. He didn’t ask for it, but he accepted it with a quiet nod.
“Where did you learn to read people like that?” she asked.
Ren stared into the mug. “Tokyo. Then D.C. Then nowhere.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She leaned against the counter. “What happened?”
Ren’s voice was low. “I was trained to see patterns. To find threats before they became headlines. But I missed one. A girl. Seventeen. She trusted someone she shouldn’t have. I saw the signs. I didn’t act fast enough.”
“What happened to her?”
“She disappeared.”
Rori’s throat tightened. “And you blame yourself.”
“I don’t have the luxury of forgiveness.”
Sandro arrived an hour later, all tailored charm and sun-warmed confidence.
He dropped a folder on the table and kissed her cheek before she could react.
“Good morning, bella.”
“You’re early.”
“I’m Italian. We’re either early or dramatic.”
She opened the folder. “More shell companies?”
“More ghosts. Whoever’s behind this knows how to vanish.”
She glanced up. “And you know how to find them?”
“I used to.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”
Sandro’s smile faded. “Before I left Naples, I ran intel for the Luciani family. We didn’t just protect—we hunted. But I got tired of blood. Of secrets. I wanted something quieter.”
“And you ended up here?”
“I ended up with Ren. And now, with you.”
That night, the house felt heavier.
The cameras blinked. The sensors hummed. But Rori’s chest felt hollow.
She sat in the living room, curled on the couch, staring at the tablet.
Ren entered first, silent as always. He sat beside her, close but not touching.
Sandro followed, dropping onto the other side with a sigh.
“You’re tense,” Sandro said.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re allowed to be both.”
Ren’s voice was quiet. “You’re allowed to be angry.”
She looked at them. “I’m angry that I still flinch when someone raises their voice. That I still check the locks twice. That I still hear Evan’s voice when I close my eyes.”
Sandro reached for her hand. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Ren added, “And you’re not powerless.”
She swallowed hard. “Then why do I still feel like I’m waiting to be punished?”
Sandro leaned in. “Because you were taught that love hurts. That safety is earned. That silence is survival.”
Ren’s gaze didn’t waver. “But it’s not. You don’t owe anyone your quiet.”
The room shifted.
The air thickened.
Rori’s pulse quickened.
Sandro’s thumb brushed her knuckles. Ren’s fingers grazed her wrist.
She didn’t pull away.
She didn’t speak.
But her body leaned in.
Sandro’s voice dropped. “You don’t have to choose.”
Ren’s voice followed. “You just have to feel.”
Her breath caught.
Her chest rose and fell faster. The tension between them became something alive—hungry.
Ren’s hand moved first, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingertips lingered, trailing down her neck, pausing at her collarbone.
Sandro watched, his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening.
Rori’s voice trembled. “What are we doing?”
Sandro’s answer came in a whisper, warm against her skin. “Whatever you need.”
Ren’s lips followed his hand, ghosting over her shoulder before pressing a kiss just below her ear. The sound she made—a soft, broken exhale—undid them both.
Sandro’s hand slid up her thigh, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines over her jeans before slipping beneath the waistband. She arched, breath stuttering, torn between restraint and the sudden, wild pull of wanting.
Ren caught her chin and turned her face toward him. His eyes were shadow and heat. He kissed her—hard at first, then slower, deeper, until she melted against him.
Sandro’s breath hitched as he watched. His hand gripped her hip, thumb stroking lazy circles against bare skin.
When Ren pulled back, her lips were swollen, her pupils wide.
Sandro caught her next, his kiss all heat and tongue, a taste of danger and comfort at once. Ren’s hand slid up her back, anchoring her between them.
The world outside ceased to exist—no cameras, no threats, no ghosts—just the friction of skin and breath and need.
Sandro’s voice was low against her mouth. “Tell us if you want to stop.”
“I don’t,” she whispered.
Ren’s mouth curved. “Good.”
Clothes became obstacles.
Her shirt was the first to go, tugged over her head by Ren’s steady hands. His touch was reverent, tracing the scars along her ribs like sacred lines.
Sandro’s lips followed the path of his fingers, kissing each mark as though rewriting her history. She trembled beneath them, caught between their rhythm—Ren’s calm control and Sandro’s reckless passion.
Ren knelt behind her, his breath hot against the back of her neck.
Sandro knelt before her, his lips finding the soft place beneath her collarbone, his hand sliding between her thighs.
Rori’s body bowed between them, caught in the fault line of pleasure and release.
Ren’s voice was a command wrapped in tenderness. “Look at me, Rori.”
She did.
His gaze held hers, grounding her as Sandro’s touch pushed her higher.
When she came, it wasn’t a sound but a shudder that broke the silence—the kind that carried years of fear and fire.
Ren kissed the back of her neck as she gasped for air.
Sandro held her against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
For a moment, they didn’t speak.
The world felt still again—but this time, the silence wasn’t hollow. It was peace.
The tablet buzzed.
Motion alert.
Ren moved first, tapping the screen.
The alley cam flickered.
A figure.
Hooded. Still.
Watching.
Sandro stood. “Same guy?”
Ren zoomed in. “No. Taller. Different build.”
The figure didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, facing the camera directly.
Then, slowly, it raised a hand.
Not a wave.
A warning.
A gloved finger pointed toward the lens.
Then across the screen.
Toward the house.
Rori’s breath caught. “He knows we’re watching.”
Ren’s jaw tightened. “He wants us to.”
Sandro muttered, “This isn’t just surveillance. It’s psychological warfare.”
Rori stared at the screen, heartbeat still uneven from what had just happened. Her voice was quiet, steel beneath it. “Then so will I.”
She didn’t sleep.
She sat in the living room, lights off, watching the feeds.
The figure didn’t return.
But the message had been sent.
She opened the folder Sandro had left earlier. Scanned the names. The accounts. The patterns.
She wasn’t a detective.
But she was a mother.
And she was done being afraid.
- Writer
