The Moretti Obsession

Three

*Vivienne*

The SUV hit us from the side.

Not hard enough to kill. Hard enough to send the bike skidding. Metal screamed against asphalt. Lucien’s body jerked under my arms. The world tilted, then went sideways.

We hit the ground.

Pain. Instant, bright. My helmet cracked the pavement. The gun flew out of my hand, clattering somewhere I couldn’t see. I tasted blood.

Lucien was up first. Bleeding arm, road rash down his side, and he still moved like he owned the street. He had his gun out before I finished sucking in air.

The SUV doors opened. Two men. Automatic weapons.

No time to think.

I rolled, grabbed for my gun. It was gone. Under the bike, or kicked away. Useless.

Lucien fired. One of the men dropped. The other ducked behind the door, spraying bullets. Glass exploded from a storefront. Someone screamed.

Lucien grabbed my collar and hauled me up. “Run.”

We ran.

Bare feet on hot pavement. His blood on my arm. Sirens already starting somewhere distant — Mexico City PD, but they wouldn’t get here fast enough to matter. Not in this neighborhood.

He yanked me into an alley. Dumpsters, graffiti, the stink of piss and old food. He pressed me against the brick, his body caging mine, gun up, listening.

His chest was heaving. Mine was too. We were both bleeding.

“You saved me,” he said. Not grateful. Accusing. “Back there. In the room. On the bike. Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. And I hated that it was true.

Footsteps. Running. Getting closer.

Lucien checked his clip. Two rounds left. He looked at me, then down at my hands. Empty.

He cursed in Spanish, then shoved his gun into my palm. “Take it.”

“What—”

“I have another one in my boot. Go out the other end of the alley. There’s a blue door. Knock three times. Say you’re mine. They’ll let you in.”

“And you?”

His smile was all teeth. No humor. “I’m the distraction.”

He was going to get himself killed so I could run. Ten years of planning to murder him, and now he was throwing his life at me like it was cheap.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a request, Vivienne.”

“I didn’t spend ten years getting here to watch someone else kill you,” I snapped. The words ripped out before I could stop them. True ones. Messy ones.

Something changed in his face. The cop was gone. Something human cracked through.

The footsteps stopped at the mouth of the alley.

A voice called out, “Lucien Moretti. We just want the girl.”

Lucien went still. Then he looked at me. Really looked.

“She’s not yours to want,” he said, low. Not to them. To me.

Then he stepped out from cover, hands empty, arms out.

“¡Aquí estoy!” he shouted. Here I am.

I saw red.

I didn’t think. I moved. Ten years of training, and it came down to this — stupid, instinct, body before brain. I stepped out beside him, Lucien’s gun raised, aimed at the man in front.

“There’s two of us,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. “And I don’t miss.”

The man stared. At me. At Lucien. At the way we were standing — shoulder to shoulder, bleeding, furious.

He laughed. “La puta chose a side.”

Lucien moved faster than I’d ever seen. He had a knife in his hand — when did he pull a knife? — and it was in the man’s throat before the echo of _puta_ finished.

The second man ran.

Silence. Just our breathing and the city waking up like nothing happened.

Lucien turned to me. Blood on his hands. On his mouth. On his chest. He looked like what he was: a monster.

He reached for me. I let him.

His hand came up, thumb brushing the blood on my cheek. Wood splinters from the doorframe. His touch was careful. Too careful.

“You could have run,” he said.

“You could have let me,” I said.

We were both lying.

Sirens now. Close.

Lucien grabbed my hand, his grip wet and warm. “We need to move. Now.”

He pulled me down the alley, toward the blue door. My bare feet slapped pavement. My other hand was still holding his gun.

I didn’t give it back.

He didn’t ask.

He knocked three times.

The door opened.