The Romano building didn’t have doors.

It had gates.

And tonight, every gate was closed.

Rain hit the black marble like gunfire.

The kind that doesn’t stop until someone bleeds.

I watched from the top floor.

42 stories up.

Scotch in my hand.

No one to tell me to stop.

My name is Nyla Romano.

I’m 28.

I inherited a war at 22.

I ended it at 24.

For four years I ran my family.

With spreadsheets and a reputation.

Disrespect me once.

You don’t get twice.

The city called me Ice Queen.

My men called me Boss.

The FBI called me a ghost.

I called it Tuesday.

“Miss Romano.”

The voice came from behind me.

Low. Even. Military.

I didn’t turn.

I knew who it was.

Elias Thorne.

Ex-Special Forces.

34.

New consigliere.

Hired 72 hours ago.

The last one was in the Hudson.

He was the first man in ten years.

Who didn’t flinch when I looked.

That’s why I hired him.

That’s why I didn’t trust him.

“The west gate is secure,” Eli said.

“All shipments are rerouted.

The docks are hot.

We’re moving through Jersey.”

“Who told you to reroute?” I asked.

Quiet. Worse than yelling.

“I did.”

Now I turned.

Black suit.

No tie.

Rain on his shoulders.

Six foot two.

Scars on his knuckles.

Eyes that didn’t blink.

The only man who said no.

And meant it.

“You don’t make calls without me.”

“You don’t answer your phone,” he said.

“There’s a hit on your cousin.

So I made the call.”

The glass got heavy.

Cousin Marco.

26.

Idiot.

But blood.

They sent his head this morning.

In a box.

With a red ribbon.

No note needed.

Santoro wanted the ports back.

Four years we had peace.

Tonight, peace was over.

“Get out,” I said.

Eli didn’t move.

“No.”

The word hung between us.

Security was downstairs.

Lawyers on standby.

Accountant counting money.

And this man said no.

In my own office.

“You heard me.”

“I did,” Eli said.

“If I leave, you’ll drink that bottle.

You’ll go down there.

You’ll die.

Grief makes you stupid.”

I set the glass down.

Slowly.

“You think you know me?”

“I know what war looks like,” he said.

“You’re starting one with a broken heart.

That’s how people get buried.”

Buried.

Like Marco.

Like the last consigliere.

Like anyone who tried to own me.

I crossed the room.

Three steps.

He didn’t back up.

I stopped at his chest.

Rain and gun oil.

Expensive cologne I didn’t approve.

“You work for me.”

“Not the other way around.”

“Then act like the boss,” he said.

“Not like the girl who lost family.”

My hand moved.

I grabbed his shirt.

Pulled him down.

Testing if he’d flinch.

He didn’t.

One hand at my waist.

One at my elbow.

Like he was catching me.

For a second, no one breathed.

The office was silent.

Except for the rain.

42 floors below, the city would burn.

The most dangerous thing was us.

“Don’t touch me,” I whispered.

“Then don’t go to war alone,” he whispered.

I let go.

Stepped back.

My hands were shaking.

I hated it.

“Fine,” I said.

“You want to be consigliere?

Advise me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want them to bleed,” I said.

“I want Santoro to scream.”

Eli nodded once.

“Not tonight.

Tonight we lock down.

We move money.

We move people.

We let them think we’re scared.”

“We’re not scared.”

“No,” he said.

“We’re patient.

Patient people win wars.”

I walked to the window.

Lights and lies below.

Behind me, he moved.

Just there.

Like a shadow that stayed.

“You talk a lot,” I said.

“You listen a lot,” he said.

I almost smiled.

“Get me a list.

Everyone who saw Marco.

Last 48 hours.”

“Already on your desk.”

A manila folder.

Names.

Photos.

Times.

Clean.

Military.

“You’re efficient.”

“I’m alive,” he said.

“Same thing in this job.”

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

This was a message.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I answered.

Speaker.

“Romano.”

“Who is this?”

“Next time it’s you.

In pieces.”

Click.

Silence.

Rain.

Eli’s jaw ticked.

“They’re in the building.”

“What?”

“The call came from inside.

They’re here.”

For the first time in years.

My heart sped up.

“Evac.

Now.”

“Too late,” Eli said.

“We go out, we walk into them.

We stay, we’re trapped.”

He moved to the bar.

Pressed three spots.

The wall opened.

A stairwell.

Black.

Down.

“Service shaft,” he said.

“Built in 1989.

Off the blueprints.”

“You knowing that is suspicious.”

“Being alive is suspicious,” he said.

“You coming?”

I grabbed my gun.

Followed him into the dark.

Metal stairs.

Cold.

Echoes.

Two floors down.

Shouting.

Gunfire.

Glass.

They were in my office.

“Stop,” Eli said.

He pulled me to the wall.

His body in front of mine.

I felt his heart.

Steady.

Mine wasn’t.

“They want me.”

“They want to break you,” he said.

“Different thing.”

He pulled a gun from his ankle.

Pressed it into my hand.

“You know how to use it?”

“I ended a war.”

“Good,” he said.

“Then don’t miss.”

Down, down, down.

A door.

He opened it.

Basement garage.

One car.

Engine running.

“Yours?”

“Borrowed it,” he said.

We ran.

He shoved me in.

Peeling out.

Ten minutes.

No talking.

Sirens.

Rain.

12 missed calls.

War started.

“You okay?” Eli asked.

I laughed.

Sharp.

“Is that in the job description?”

“No,” he said.

“Asking if the woman is okay.

That’s human.”

I looked at him.

No fear.

No pity.

Just presence.

“I don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Need people.”

“You don’t need me,” he said.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

The car stopped.

Underground parking.

Safe house.

He opened my door.

Offered his hand.

I stared at it.

Romano women don’t take hands.

But the building was on fire.

My cousin was dead.

He stood between me and bullets.

I took his hand.

Warm.

Strong.

He pulled me up.

We stood too long.

“Boss,” he said.

“Don’t.”

“Nyla.”

My name.

From him, it sounded like a vow.

“Tomorrow we bury them.”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tonight, we survive.”

He let go.

We walked inside.

The safe house was clean.

Two bedrooms.

Scotch on the counter.

Eli set his gun down.

Then mine.

“Get some sleep.”

“Not tired,” I lied.

He looked at me.

Then nodded.

“Alright.

Stay up.

I’m in the other room.

Need anything, yell.”

“What if I need you?”

Eli stopped.

Didn’t turn.

“Then I’m already coming.”

He was gone.

I stood in the kitchen.

Gun.

Dead cousin.

War outside.

For the first time in years.

I wasn’t thinking of killing.

I was thinking of him.

I poured a drink.

Didn’t drink it.

Rain kept falling.

The Romano war started.

The safe house smelled like nothing.

Someone cleaned it.

I dropped my gun.

Eli dropped his.

Two pistols.

Side by side.

Like us.

I hated that.

“You want food?” he asked.

“I want a shower,” I said.

“And answers about that stairwell.”

“Second door.

Hot water works.

Every Romano building has one.

Your grandfather was paranoid.”

“Was he.”

Eli looked at me.

Soaked blazer.

Hair stuck to my neck.

Blood under my nails.

“You look tired.”

“I look fine.”

“You haven’t slept since the box.”

I didn’t answer.

He was right.

He poured water.

Poured whiskey.

Pushed water to me.

“Hydrate first,” he said.

“Basic.”

“You’re not my handler.”

“No,” he said.

“I’m your consigliere.

Keep the boss functional.”

I drank the water.

Too tired to fight.

Silence.

The kind after gunfire.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“About what?”

“Why you’re not scared.”

He didn’t laugh.

“Scared men make mistakes,” he said.

“I don’t make mistakes.

Not with you.”

That word hit my chest.

Hard.

“You said my name.”

“I did.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“No one says it.”

“Names matter,” he said.

“They make you human.

They make you feel loved.”

“They make you feel protected.”

I looked away.

My throat hurt.

I hated that.

He turned to the cabinets.

Pulled out bread.

Cheese.

Ham.

Started making food.

Like the world wasn’t ending.

“You’re cooking?”

“I’m keeping you fed,” he said.

“You don’t eat, you get reckless.”

“Reckless gets you killed.”

“I can feed myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” he said.

“But you won’t tonight.”

He slid a plate over.

Ham.

Swiss

I woke up to silence.

No sirens.

No gunfire.

Just the sound of Eli.

He was in the kitchen.

Making coffee.

The smell hit me first.

Dark.

Strong.

Like him.

“What time is it?”

“5:12 AM,” he said.

“Didn’t sleep much?”

“I slept,” I lied.

He turned.

Looked me over.

Sweats too big.

Hair wet.

No makeup.

No armor.

“You look human,” he said.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make me soft.”

“Too late,” he said.

“Already happened.”

I sat at the counter.

He pushed coffee to me.

Black.

No sugar.

Exactly how I like it.

How did he know?

“You have a file on me?”

“I have a brain,” he said.

“And eyes.”

We drank in silence.

The TV was off.

Phones were off.

For 10 minutes,

the war didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed.

Once.

He looked at it.

Jaw tightened.

“What?”

“They hit the docks,” he said.

“Jersey.

3 AM.

Santoro’s men.”

“How bad?”

“Two of ours dead.

Four in hospital.”

The coffee turned bitter.

I set it down.

“Names.”

“Already texted you,” he said.

“They were 22.

And 24.”

Kids.

Marco was 26.

Now these two.

Because of me.

“I have to go,” I said.

“No,” Eli said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not going to a morgue.

Not like this.”

“I’m their Boss.”

“And I’m your consigliere,” he said.

“And I’m telling you no.”

We stared at each other.

Again.

Me vs the man who said no.

“If I don’t show up,” I said.

“They’ll think I’m weak.”

“If you show up broken,” he said.

“They’ll know you are.”

He was right.

I hated it.

“So what?”

“So we hit back first,” he said.

“Before sunrise.

While they’re celebrating.”

I stood up.

The sweats fell off my hips.

I had to hold them.

“Clothes,” I said.

“Gun.

Car.”

“Already ready,” he said.

“Downstairs.”

Of course it was.

15 minutes later we were moving.

Black SUV.

Tinted windows.

Me in the passenger seat.

Gun on my lap.

Hair in a knot.

No jewelry.

No Romano diamonds.

Just me.

“Where to?”

“Warehouse on 4th,” he said.

“Santoro’s using it.

To store the guns they took.”

“How do you know?”

“I was Special Forces,” he said.

“I know how people hide things.”

The city was gray.

Dawn coming.

No traffic.

Just us and the ghosts.

We parked 2 blocks away.

Eli cut the engine.

“Plan?”

“In and out,” he said.

“You stay in the car.”

“No.”

“Nyla.”

“Don’t ‘Nyla’ me,” I said.

“I ended a war.

I can handle a warehouse.”

He sighed.

“Fine.

But you stay behind me.”

“Always.”

We moved.

Quiet.

Like shadows.

Like we were made for this.

The warehouse had 2 guards.

Outside.

Smoking.

Laughing.

Eli took the first.

Silent.

Fast.

The second turned.

I shot him.

Once.

In the chest.

No hesitation.

No shaking.

Just cold.

“Good,” Eli whispered.

Inside was worse.

Crates.

Guns.

And 4 more men.