Tina stepped out of the warehouse at dusk, the sky bleeding orange and purple over the river like someone had spilled paint on purpose. Her arms ached from eight straight hours of stacking crates, but the ache felt honest, earned, nothing like the phantom weight of Victor's favors pressing on her chest. She pulled her hoodie tighter against the wind coming off the Delaware, head down, pace quick. The new motel was six blocks away—a different one, smaller, seedier, paid for with yesterday's cash. No more envelopes under doors if she kept moving.
She cut through an alley between two brick buildings, the kind of shortcut that saved time but smelled like old beer and regret. Halfway through, footsteps echoed behind her—deliberate, unhurried. She didn't turn. Just walked faster.
A hand caught her elbow.
She spun, fist already rising, heart in her throat.
Victor stood there, coat open against the cold, breath fogging the air between them. No surprise on his face. Just that calm, infuriating patience.
"You're getting predictable," he said softly.
Tina yanked her arm free, stepping back until her shoulders hit the brick wall. "And you're getting bold. Following women into alleys now?"
"Only the ones who run." He didn't move closer. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at her like she was the only interesting thing in the city. "You changed motels. Smart."
"Stop tracking me."
"I'm not tracking you." A small smile. "I'm anticipating you."
She laughed, sharp and angry. "Same difference."
The alley was quiet except for the distant rumble of traffic and the drip of water from a broken gutter overhead. A single streetlamp flickered at the far end, throwing long, jagged shadows across the pavement. Victor's eyes caught the light and held it, green and steady.
"You got my envelope," he said. Not a question.
"I burned it."
A lie. The cash was still in her backpack, untouched, like tainted money she couldn't bring herself to spend or throw away.
He tilted his head. "You're a terrible liar."
"And you're a terrible stalker."
"I prefer admirer."
She pushed off the wall, closing the distance until they were inches apart. Close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar at the corner of his left eyebrow she'd never noticed before. Close enough to smell cedar and winter air clinging to his coat.
"Admirers don't buy people," she hissed.
"I didn't buy you." His voice dropped lower, almost gentle. "I bought your father's debt. You were the collateral he offered. I accepted because I wanted to meet the woman who could make a man like him desperate enough to trade his own daughter."
Tina's breath hitched. "You're twisting it."
"Am I?" He searched her face. "Or are you finally seeing the truth? Your family was drowning. I threw them a rope. The rope had your name on it."
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him. The urge shocked her so hard she took another step back, brick scraping her shoulder blades.
"You're sick," she whispered.
"Maybe." He shrugged, unapologetic. "But I'm honest about it."
Silence stretched, taut and electric. The wind picked up, rattling a loose chain-link gate somewhere nearby.
Then it happened.
A shadow detached from the alley mouth—two men, hoods up, moving fast. One held a knife that caught the streetlamp's flicker. The other cracked his knuckles like he was warming up for something ugly.
Tina tensed. Victor didn't.
The first man lunged at her.
Victor moved like water—smooth, inevitable. He caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted hard, and the knife clattered to the pavement. A knee to the gut folded the guy in half. The second man hesitated, then charged.
Victor sidestepped, grabbed a fistful of hoodie, and slammed him face-first into the brick. The crack of bone on masonry echoed. Both men groaned, dazed.
It was over in seconds.
Victor straightened his coat, breathing even, not a hair out of place. He looked down at the crumpled figures, then back at Tina.
"You okay?" he asked, voice soft again.
She stared at him, pulse roaring in her ears. The men on the ground moaned. One tried to crawl away. Victor stepped on his hand—gently, almost considerate—until he stopped moving.
"Who were they?" she asked.
"Rival crew. Small-time. Thought they could send a message." He met her eyes. "Message received."
Tina's knees felt liquid. She slid down the wall until she sat on the cold pavement, arms wrapped around her shins. "They were coming for me."
"They were coming for leverage." Victor crouched in front of her, coat pooling around him like ink. "You're safe now."
She laughed, shaky and broken. "Safe? With you?"
"With me," he confirmed. "Always."
He reached out, slow enough she could pull away if she wanted. She didn't. His fingers brushed a streak of dirt from her cheek, touch feather-light.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get you out of here."
She let him pull her up. Let him keep his arm around her waist as they walked past the groaning men, past the flickering streetlamp, out of the alley and into the open street.
A black SUV waited at the curb, engine idling. No driver visible. Just the promise of warmth and escape.
Tina stopped. Looked up at him.
"This doesn't mean anything," she said.
"I know."
"I'm not going back with you."
"I know that too."
She searched his face for the lie. Found only quiet certainty.
"Then why help me?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Because I told you." He brushed a strand of black hair from her forehead. "I'm patient."
She stepped away from his arm, hugged herself against the cold. "I need to think."
"Take all the time you need." He opened the SUV door anyway. "But tonight, you're not walking alone."
She hesitated.
Then climbed in.
The door closed with a soft, expensive thud.
The car pulled away from the curb, smooth and silent.
Tina stared out the tinted window at the city lights blurring past, heart still racing from the fight, from the touch, from the terrifying realization that Victor Kane hadn't just found her.
He'd saved her.
And the worst part?
She wasn't sure she minded.