The Moretti Obsession

FOUR

*Vivienne*

The blue door slammed shut behind us. Three locks. Steel. The sound was final.

We were in a kitchen. Restaurant, maybe. Closed. Chairs stacked on tables, air thick with old grease and bleach. A man in an apron stood by the stove, saw Lucien, and went pale.

“Jefe.” He crossed himself. “We heard—”

“Clear it,” Lucien cut in. Blood was still running down his arm, dripping on the tile. He didn’t look at it. “Everyone out. Now.”

The man didn’t argue. He grabbed a phone, barked something in Spanish, and left through a back door. Two seconds later, the place was empty.

Lucien locked the door behind him. Then he sagged. Just for a second. His hand hit the counter. His head dropped.

Then he was upright again. Mask back on.

“You’re bleeding,” I said. Stupid. Obvious.

“You’re barefoot,” he shot back.

We were both stating facts because the other facts were too big. Like how I’d just killed a man for him. Like how he’d given me his gun. Like how neither of us had run when we could’ve.

He walked to the sink. Turned on the water. Stuck his arm under it. The water ran pink. He didn’t flinch.

“First aid kit,” he said. “Under the counter. Left.”

I found it. Army green, well-used. I set it on the steel prep table.

He didn’t ask me to help. I did anyway.

I’d learned stitches in a clinic bathroom when I was sixteen. Paid a nurse in cash to show me. Said it was for my dog. She didn’t believe me. Showed me anyway.

His skin was hot. The bullet had grazed, not lodged. Lucky. I cleaned it. Poured alcohol. He hissed through his teeth but didn’t move.

“You’re good at that,” he said.

“You’re good at getting shot,” I said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

I tied off the bandage. My hands were steady. They hadn’t been with the gun. That meant something I didn’t want to name.

“Where’s your team?” he asked.

I blinked. “What?”

“Your backup. The people who helped you plan this. Ten years, Vivienne. You didn’t do that alone.”

The kitchen was too quiet. The fridge hummed.

“There is no team,” I said.

He went still. “No contact? No extraction?”

“No.”

“No safehouse?”

“I was supposed to be done after last night.” My voice was flat. “Kill you. Leave. Disappear.”

He stared at me. Really looked. Like he was seeing me for the first time, and what he saw was pathetic.

“You came after me with nothing,” he said. Slow. Like he couldn’t believe it. “No plan B. No way out. Just a dress and a knife you didn’t know how to use.”

“I had a gun,” I said. Weak.

“You had hope I’d be stupid enough to deserve it.”

He laughed. Once. Harsh. Then he dragged a hand down his face, smearing blood.

“You’re not calculated,” he said. “You’re suicidal.”

The word hit harder than it should have. Because he was right.

I’d spent ten years thinking revenge would fix me. Hadn’t planned for what happened if it didn’t. Hadn’t planned for after.

Lucien’s phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it. His whole body changed.

It was a text. Two words.

He turned the screen to me.

“ She’s here.”

From: Mateo.

His right hand. The man who’d been with him since he was sixteen, since before he was _Moretti_.

Lucien’s jaw locked.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Outside,” Lucien said. Voice dead. “With them.”