Wrong Girl

※※※Cross

The race had been a hollow thing tonight. The win, the money, the slap on the back from the crew—it all rang flat. My side still ached with a dull, persistent throb, a permanent reminder of her. Of the alley. Of the cold, final look in her eyes as I walked away.

I’d thought, maybe hoped in some twisted part of me, that she’d be here tonight. Her pattern had been predictable for a week: stalking my clubs, hovering at the edges of the races, a flash of red hair in the crowd, and a ghost I could feel but couldn’t catch. A game of cat and mouse where I wasn’t sure who was which anymore. But it had stopped. The sudden silence was more unnerving than her presence.

Had she given up? Had the knife, the withdrawal, finally driven the message home? The thought should have been a relief. It felt like a loss.

I’d raced a few times, won easily, had a few drinks that tasted like nothing, and finally called it. Guiding the H₂ back onto the main road, the cool night air did little to clear the fog in my head. As I came up the rise, the one that gave a view of the far perimeter of the airstrip, I saw it.

Her car. Parked alone on the far end, away from the lights and the noise, a dark silhouette against the star-dusted sky. She’d come. But she wasn’t in the thick of it. She was watching. From a distance. A spectator to a world she’d tried so hard to claw her way back into.

I slowed, the bike purring beneath me. I could see her through the windshield, leaning back in the driver’s seat, eyes closed. Not sleeping. Just... still. Isolated. The urge was a physical pull in my gut—to gun the engine, ride up beside her, yank her door open, pin her there against the car, and finally have the fucking fight she seemed to want so badly. To shake her until the real Lissa, whatever was left of her, fell out.

But she looked so still. So utterly alone in that metal box. The fight seemed suddenly cheap. Petty. Another performance in a long line of them. And I was tired.

I twisted the throttle and kept on driving, the bike carrying me past her lookout and onto the dark highway. I wanted to stop. I wanted to give in. But I had things to do. A debt to collect from Monty tomorrow. And a fight in a deserted parking lot wasn’t on the agenda. Not tonight.

The itch wouldn’t leave me, though. Something was off. The silence. Her distance. It felt wrong.

I pressed the call button on my helmet’s comm system. It connected after one ring.

“Mikey.”

“Boss.”

“Did you find Celeste?”

A pause. “Yes, Boss. She’s at Lux. In your office. She looks... pretty beaten up.”

A cold fist clenched in my stomach. “I’m on my way.”

Lux was between sets, the main floor a sea of cleaning staff and the low thump of after-hours music. I took the private elevator straight to the top-floor office suite. Mikey was standing guard outside my door, his face grim. He nodded and opened it for me.

Celeste was sitting on the leather couch, curled into herself. She flinched when I entered, then relaxed marginally when she saw it was me. Mikey hadn’t been exaggerating. One eye was swollen shut, a violent purple and yellow. Her lip was split, and dried blood crusted at the corners. Bruises mottled her arms where she’d tried to shield herself. Her signature sleek, red bob—a style that had made my breath catch the first time I saw it, for all the wrong reasons—was matted and tangled.

“Who did this?” I asked, my voice low, careful to keep the rage out of it. I didn’t move closer, not wanting to scare her further.

She swallowed, wincing. “I don’t know, Cross. Some guy... he was handsome. Expensive suit. Said he was taking me to a fancy dinner. A friend of a friend set it up. I thought...” She shook her head, a tear tracing through the grime on her cheek. “The next thing I know, I’m shoved into the back of a car. There were two others. They started hitting me. Asking questions.”

“What questions?”

“If you were seeing anyone, they want to use people near you to hurt you. They knew we were close; they also saw you at the racetrack kissing some redheaded women, saying they took the wrong girl and asking me her name and who she is. I told them I did not know, then they beat me again. The one did say he has a message for you.” She looked so fragile, looking up at me. Fuck, so this was about hurting me, getting to me by using Lissa to do it. “They said they wanted to hurt you for your little stunt with Pavel and Monty; you cost them a lot of money.

Then the thought came: Where the fuck was Pretty Boy Prince Douchebag not protecting Lissa? If someone was snatching redheads off the street looking for her, where was her loyal Russian guard dog? Something here was not adding up. The weird, unsettled feeling from the airstrip crystallized into a cold, sharp dread.

I finally moved, kneeling down in front of her so I wasn’t looming. I reached out, touching her unhurt cheek with a gentleness I rarely showed anyone. Her skin was cold. “I am sorry this happened to you, Celeste. I will take care of it. I promise. Family takes care of family.”

She looked at me, her expression shifting from fear to a desperate hope. “I hope so, Cross. Before my father does this himself.”

The unspoken weight of that sentence hung in the air. Celeste Moretti. Her father was Ivan “The Judge” Moretti, a mid-level but fiercely respected capo in the Damingo organization. Not a direct rival, but an ally of convenience. And a man known for his brutal, Old-World sense of justice, especially where his only daughter was concerned. If he thought I’d let his girl get beaten on my watch, in my city, because of my... entanglements... it wouldn’t just be a business problem. It would be a blood feud.

“He won’t need to,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. I stood up. “Mikey, get a doctor up here. Then get her cleaned up somewhere safe. The Harbor House. No one knows she’s there.”

“On it, Boss.”

I walked to my desk and sank into the chair, the leather groaning. My mind was racing, connecting jagged pieces.

What shit were Pavel and Monty getting themselves into, and why is this now knocking at my front door?

Jace enters my office. “Boss, I had a tip-off; it was Cruz. Moving against you,” he said. Why would Cruz have beef with me? The man is a businessman, I wondered. He does not deal in mafia or familia shit.

“Jace, are you sure?” I ask. “Yes, boss, he has been spotted around the area, and he had a meeting with Monty days before you killed him.” “This is not good; he is a ghost, a whisper. We all know the things he has done. Why will he be coming for me? Thank you, Jace. I will look into this.” He nodded and left me there to wonder why Pavel and Monty would get involved with a man like Cruz.

Fuck.

The one thing that was clear: she was in danger. Real, concrete danger that had nothing to do with our personal psychodrama. And she was out there, alone in her car on a dark hill, or back in her penthouse, completely unaware.

“Mikey,” I said as he was guiding a shaky Celeste out the door. He looked back. “Get a couple of guys. The best shadows we have. I want them on Lissa Damingo. Twenty-four seven. Don’t let her pick up on it. I need to know who’s watching her. Who wants her so badly they’re beating up look-alikes in the street?”

Mikey nodded, understanding the gravity. “You think it’s linked to the Monty hit?”

“I know it is. And I need to know who we’re dealing with before they get the right girl and find out for me where Lissa’s watchdog is.” I stared out the window at the city lights, my reflection a grim mask in the glass. The game had just changed. It was no longer about possession or pride or past hurts.

It was about survival. And for reasons I wasn’t ready to examine too closely, the thought of anyone taking her—anyone but me—was utterly unacceptable.

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