AK

The steel slide of the Glock 19 felt cool and grounding against Molly Vance’s palm. She sat at the scarred oak kitchen island of the Cody house, a lint-free cloth in one hand and a bottle of gun oil within arm’s reach. Methodically, she ran the patch down the barrel, her movements deliberate and practiced. It was the only way to quiet her mind these days. Two years in this house had taught her that survival required a cold, steady focus. The lingering ghosts of her family’s violent end still haunted the corners of her mind, but she refused to let the Codys see her sweat. She wasn’t a charity case, and she wasn’t a victim. She was an asset.

The heavy front door swung open, the sudden rush of warm Oceanside air cutting through the air-conditioned chill of the house. Molly didn’t look up immediately, keeping her eyes on the firing pin she was inspecting, but the shift in pressure in the room made her spine stiffen. When she finally raised her head, her breath caught in her throat.

J walked in. He looked as he always did—calculated, quiet, wearing a dark flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms—but his hand was resting firmly on the lower back of the girl beside him.

Mia Benitez.

Molly knew who she was the second she saw the sharp, dark ink creeping up her neck, the unmistakable markings of the Trujillo family. Mia possessed a sharp, dangerous beauty, her long black hair framing a face that was currently wearing a look of supreme amusement. The air in the kitchen turned instantly cold, the comfortable silence shattered by a sudden, heavy dread.

“We’re in the kitchen,” J called out, his voice quiet and level, though his eyes swept the room, immediately locking onto Molly. There was no warmth in his gaze, only the usual tactical assessment he gave to everything and everyone.

Deran walked in from the sliding glass doors by the pool, wiping a towel over his wet, tanned shoulders. He took one look at Mia, and his entire posture hardened. His blue eyes narrowed, and he tossed the towel onto a patio chair with a wet slap.

“What is this, J?” Deran asked, his voice rough and laced with immediate hostility. He didn’t step any closer, keeping a protective, angry distance. “Who the hell did you bring into our house?”

J didn’t flinch. He kept his hand right where it was, his fingers splayed against the small of Mia’s back. The sight of it felt like a physical blow to Molly’s chest, a dull ache that she forced herself to mask with a blank, unbothered expression.

“This is Mia,” J said, his tone precise and completely devoid of apology. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Mia’s dark eyes flicked from Deran over to Molly, lingering on the disassembled handgun on the counter. A slow, patronizing smirk spread across her lips. She stepped forward, deliberately breaking J’s touch to lean against the edge of the kitchen island, invading Molly’s space.

“So, this is the house stray I heard about,” Mia said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She tilted her head, her gaze scanning Molly’s faded band t-shirt and messy ponytail with obvious disdain. “The one Smurf took in. Cozy setup you got here, honey. Must be nice living off other people’s blood.”

Molly felt a hot surge of anger flare in her gut, but she didn’t let it reach her eyes. She picked up the slide of the Glock, slowly slotting the barrel back into place with a sharp, metallic click. She looked directly at Mia, her blue eyes cold and dead.

“I earn my keep,” Molly said, her voice direct and low-pitched, carrying the flat, dangerous weight of someone who had nothing left to lose. “Which is more than I can say for some trash that wanders in off the street.”

Mia’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, her eyes flashing with a promise of violence. “Careful, stray. In this world, dogs that bark too loud get put down.”

“That’s enough,” Deran snapped, stepping into the kitchen, his boots loud on the tile. He pointed a finger at J, his face flushed with anger. “Are you out of your mind? She’s a Trujillo, J. Her family has been trying to bleed us dry for thirty years. Pete Trujillo would love nothing more than to get a hook into this house, and you just walk her through the front door?”

“Pete doesn’t know she’s here,” J said calmly. He didn’t look at Mia, keeping his focus entirely on his uncle. “And it doesn’t matter. Mia has access to the shipping docks. She knows the schedules for the warehouse transport. She’s going to be helping us with our next logistics move.”

Deran let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Helping us? You’re bringing a local gang into our operations? Smurf finds out about this, she’ll skin you alive, J. We don’t partner with these people. We use them, or we avoid them. We don’t sleep with them.”

“Smurf doesn’t need to know every detail of how the logistics get handled,” J replied, his voice dropping an octave, carrying that cold, authoritative weight that had begun to define him. “I’m running this job. If you want the payout, you’ll deal with it.”

The argument escalated, Deran’s voice rising in pitch as he ranted about family loyalty and the sheer stupidity of J’s trust in a girl who would just as soon slit his throat in his sleep. Molly stood up slowly, her hands steady as she slid the assembled Glock into the waistband of her denim shorts. The suffocating weight of the room was becoming too much to bear. She couldn’t stand the way Mia looked at J, or the way J’s quiet defense of her presence felt like a total betrayal of everything they had built over the last two years.

Without saying a word, Molly turned and walked out the back door, sliding it shut behind her to drown out the shouting.

She walked past the pool, her boots crunching on the gravel path that led to the edge of the property overlooking the Pacific. The ocean was dark, the waves crashing violently against the rocks below. She leaned against the wooden railing, drawing the cool, salty air deep into her lungs, trying to wash away the scent of Mia’s cheap perfume that seemed to have clung to her skin.

She felt completely hollow. This family, with all its madness, greed, and violence, was the only home she had left. But standing out here in the dark, she had never felt like more of an outsider. She had spent two years keeping her mouth shut, doing the grunt work, and quietly watching J from the shadows, hoping he would see her as something more than just another soldier in Smurf’s army. But J didn’t see her. He saw a Trujillo girl with leverage, and he saw Molly as just another piece on his board.

Hours later, long after the house had gone quiet and Deran had left in a rage, Molly retreated to her small bedroom down the hall. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, her ears straining against the silence.

Then, she heard it.

Through the thin walls, the low, rhythmic thud of a headboard against drywall began. It was followed by Mia’s soft, breathless laughter, a sound that cut through the dark like a jagged blade. Molly closed her eyes tight, burying her face in her pillow, but she couldn’t block out the muffled, intimate sounds of J and Mia together. Every gasp, every quiet groan from J’s room was a physical ache, a raw, agonizing reminder of her own silent, useless devotion. She squeezed her eyes shut, a single, bitter tear escaping down her cheek, realizing with terrifying clarity that her silence would never be enough to save her.