Heartbeat in the Crossfire

AMARA

I've been invisible for three years. 

Working as a waitress in a small town was never a part of the plan. But, when your house burns down with your entire family inside, survival becomes your only goal. I still don't know if it was an accident or a hit. Either way, someone wanted the Valentis gone. 

So, I disappeared. New name, new face, new life. I move every year, careful not to leave a trace. I don't stay too long. Because dead girls can't slip up. 

As far as the world knows, the Valenti bloodline died that night. The news reported that my body was never recovered. The fools. Whoever ordered that hit knows the truth: I wasn't in that house. And as long as I'm breathing, I'm a loose end. 

I wake up in a cold sweat, my hand immediately reaching for the dagger under my pillow. My heart hammers as I scan the darkness. Just a nightmare. Just the same nightmare I've had a hundred times. But I know better than to believe that I'm safe. 

Somewhere out there, someone is still hunting me. 

I force myself to my feet and stumble to the bathroom. My reflection stares back. Haunted eyes, sweat-matted hair, fear carved into every sharp line of my face. 

Will this ever stop?

Will I ever stop looking over my shoulder?

The answer is no. 

No one can ever know who I am. No one can ever know I survived. 

I wash my face and pack for work: uniform, cash, dagger. Always the dagger.

My shift is the same as always: small talk, fake smiles, flirting just enough to earn bigger tips. All while dodging the hands of a manager I'd put six feet under if I still lived by the rules of my old life. 

If my brother were here, he'd do it for me. 

But I'm alone. 

And I've learned one thing in the last three years: the only person I can trust is the one holding the knife.

"Lynn," someone shouts as I top off a customer's coffee. 

I turn automatically, the name still foreign to my tongue no matter how many times I've answered to it. "Yes?"

One of the waitresses flashes me a smile. "Booth at the front is all yours,"

"Thanks,"

I set the coffee pot down, wiping my palms on my apron. Something tightens low in my stomach as I make my way to the booth. I don't know why. Just a feeling. The kind I've learned never to ignore. 

I pull out my notepad, forcing a practiced smile. "Hi, I'm Lynn, and I'll be your server tonight,"

The man sitting there looks up. Smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. There's something wrong with the way his lips curve. Something too sharp, too delicate.

"Hi," he says.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. 

"Are you ready to order, or can I get you a drink to start with?" I ask, my voice steady. Too steady. My heart is already starting to pick up speed. 

He glances at the menu, barely looking. "What would you recommend?"

"Our burgers are really popular. The pasta, too,"

He smiles wider. "I think a plate of pasta will do," he says...in Spanish.

I blink, caught off guard. My breath catches. My mind lurches into overdrive. 

Spanish?

That...that's not right.

I shake my head slightly, managing a polite frown. "I'm sorry. I don't speak Spanish. Do you mind repeating that in English?"

He chuckles softly. The sound is wrong too. Like it was practiced in a mirror. "You don't speak Spanish? Funny. You look like you do,"

"I'm sorry?"

"You look like you have a little Italian in you," he says, fixing the collar of his black leather jacket. His eyes never leave mine. Not even for a second. "You sure Lynn's your name?"

A spike of ice shoots through me. My hand tightens on the notepad to keep it from shaking. 

He's testing me. Why is he testing me?

"Uh, well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I can assure you it is,"

He studies me. A beat too long. I feel sweat gather at the base of my spine. 

"Ever been in New York, Lynn?"

The blood drains from my face. 

No. No. No. Too close. Too soon. 

"Nope," I say with a casual shrug that feels like its going to snap my bones. "I've only been around Mississippi,"

"Hmm," he hums. "You remind me of someone,"

I force another smile, my skin stretched too tight over the panic clawing inside me. "An old love, maybe?"

He laughs, but the sound scrapes like broken glass. "Oh, no," he says softly, leaning back. "Not a love."

My heart hammers so loud I'm sure he can hear it. Every survival instinct I've honed screams at me to get away, to run, to grab my knife and disappear. 

But I don't run. I can't.

"Pasta and a soda, please," he says, his voice flat now, empty.

I nod, my legs moving before my brain catches up. "Sure. Coming right up,"

I'm almost breathless by the time I make it back behind the counter. I grip the edge hard, steadying my hands as I suck in shallow breaths. 

Calm down. Don't draw attention. You can't afford to slip up. 

But I feel his eyes on me. Watching. Measuring. 

And I know, with a sick certainty deep in my gut: He wasn't just here for the pasta. 

When my shift ends, I'm dead on my feet. All I want to do is crawl into bed and pretend, for a few hours, that I'm not living in someone else's skin.

I grab my backpack and say goodnight to my co-workers before throwing on a jacket. The man in the leather jacket is gone. He slipped out half an hour ago without a word. 

But somehow, that doesn't settle me. 

The air outside is sharp, cold. The streets are nearly empty, the kind of quiet that makes you hear every footstep twice. Yours and the one you imagine behind you. 

I tell myself I'm being paranoid. That it was just a weird customer. Just another creep. But still. 

My fingers tighten around the hilt of the dagger in my bag. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine rumbles to life. I don't look back. I just walk faster. 

I walk quickly down the street toward my apartment complex, passing a black sedan parked along the curb. There are always cars in the street belonging to neighbors, visitors. But this one…

Something about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I don't look too long. Just enough to clock the tinted windows. Too dark to see inside. Too polished. Too deliberate.

My heart's pounding by the time I reach my building. I all but sprint up the stairs, my breath tight in my throat. Once inside, I lock the door, shove a chair under the handle, and dump my backpack onto the bed. My dagger hits the sheets with a dull thud.

I drop to my knees and drag the duffel from under the bed. The life I swore I'd buried. The one I've avoided for three years. But my instincts have never been wrong.

If I feel it, it's real.

I rip the zipper open. The first thing I pull out is the old newspaper. The headline screams back at me in bold black letters:

VALENTI FAMILY EXECUTED IN POWER STRUGGLE.

I exhale sharply through my nose. Every article was speculation. Lies. I still don't know what really happened that night. All I know is I survived. And I ran.

I dig deeper: fake IDs, burner phones, cash. My hands move on autopilot. But in the back of my mind, I know the truth: it might be time to run again.

A sharp knock at the door nearly sends me through the ceiling.

I lunge for the dagger. My pulse is a deafening roar as I creep toward the door. No sound. No footsteps. Just… silence. Until I spot it: a manila envelope, slid under the door. My blood runs cold.

I don't open the door. I don't even breathe. I pick the envelope up carefully and step back.

There...on the back. My name.My real name.

My fingers tremble violently as I tear it open. A single photograph slides free and flutters to the floor before I can catch it.

I freeze.

I can't breathe.

That face.

That smirk.

"Lorenzo…" I whisper, dropping to my knees.

Bruised. Bloody. Tied to a chair. But alive.

I snatch up the photo with numb fingers, my mind spinning.No. He died. The fire. The dental records. They said he was dead. They swore...

I flip the photo over. The message scrawled on the back is the nail in the coffin:

He's not dead. Ask Moretti.

A sound escapes me—a strangled, broken thing. And then something inside me snaps. A fury I thought I'd buried surges to the surface like wildfire in my veins.

Lorenzo is alive. And Dante Moretti has him.

I don't hesitate. I'm already moving—back to the bedroom, to the duffel, to the weapons. My voice is a whisper of venom:

"I should've killed him when I had the chance."