Chapter 2 Chapter 2: The Connection (Doris Vale POV)

The highway to Vegas stretches like a black ribbon under the night sky, my headlights slicing through the dark. My hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, the envelope with the check burning a hole in my purse. Five hundred thousand dollars. A deposit for death. My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. What have I done? I hired a killer—The Surgeon—to destroy the family of the man who took Sarah from me. I didn’t want to know their names, their faces, but now the weight of it crashes over me. Innocent people. Lives snuffed out because of my rage.

I fumble for my phone, nearly swerving off the road. My fingers shake as I scroll to the last number I called. I have to stop this. I hit redial, the ringtone shrill in the quiet car. One ring. Two. He picks up.

“Yes?” His voice is smooth, cold, like a blade sliding across silk.

“I… I made a mistake,” I stammer, my voice barely steady. “I want to cancel. Call it off.”

A low chuckle, sharp and mocking. “No take backs, Ms. Vale. You gave the order. It’s in motion.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I say, my voice rising. “I changed my mind. Stop it. Please.”

“Too late,” he says, his tone hardening. “The job’s started. I’ll finish it, and you’ll get updates. Have my money ready when it’s done. Or I come for you.”

My breath catches, heart pounding. “You can’t—”

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, my hands trembling so hard I drop it into the passenger seat. My vision blurs with tears, the road wavering. He’s going to kill them. And if I don’t pay, he’ll come for me. I slam my fist against the steering wheel, a sob breaking free. Sarah’s face flashes in my mind—her smile, her blood. I did this for her. But now? Now I’m drowning in it.

Vegas looms ahead, a glittering mirage of neon and noise. I pull into the parking lot of a hotel on the Strip, the kind of place where nobody asks questions. My hands are still shaking as I grab my purse and stumble out of the car. The desert air is warm, thick with the promise of escape. I need a drink. I need to forget.

The hotel lobby is a chaos of light and sound—slot machines chiming, laughter echoing off marble floors. I weave through the crowd, my black dress clinging to my skin, my hair loose and wild. The bar is tucked in a corner, all dark wood and dim lights. I slide onto a stool, the bartender glancing my way.

“Gin and tonic,” I say, my voice hoarse. He nods, pouring with practiced ease. The glass is cold in my hand, the first sip sharp and bitter. I close my eyes, trying to block out the voice on the phone, the threat, the blood I’ve already paid for.

“Rough night?” a voice says, low and warm, cutting through the noise.

I open my eyes. He’s sitting two stools down, a man in his early forties, maybe, with gray at his temples and a jaw that could cut glass. His eyes are dark, haunted, but his smile is easy, almost reckless. He’s handsome in a way that looks like it’s been through hell and back. A glass of whiskey dangles in his hand, half-empty.

“You could say that,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. I tilt my head, studying him. “You don’t look like you’re having a great one either.”

He laughs, a short, rough sound, and slides onto the stool next to me. “That obvious, huh?”

I shrug, taking another sip. “Takes one to know one.”

He raises his glass, the ice clinking softly. “To shitty nights, then.”

I clink my glass against his. “To shitty nights.”

We drink in silence for a moment, the bar’s hum wrapping around us. He sets his glass down, his fingers tracing the rim. “You don’t strike me as the Vegas type,” he says, glancing at my dress, my posture. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I say, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “I’m… running from something, I guess. You?”

He leans back, his eyes searching mine. “Same. Something I can’t outrun, no matter how hard I try.”

I nod, the weight of his words settling in my chest. There’s a rawness to him, a crack in his armor that feels familiar. “What’s chasing you?” I ask, my voice softer now.

He hesitates, his jaw tightening. “A mistake,” he says finally. “One that cost someone their life. You don’t come back from that.”

My heart stumbles, Sarah’s face flashing in my mind. I grip my glass tighter, the cold biting into my palm. “I get that,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I lost… the only family that mattered. It’s like a piece of you gets ripped out, and you’re left with the hole.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment, it’s like he sees me—really sees me. “Yeah,” he says. “Exactly like that.”

We’re quiet again, but it’s not awkward. It’s heavy, like we’re both carrying the same kind of pain. He signals the bartender for another round, and I don’t stop him. The drinks come, and we toast again, wordless this time.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “you gonna tell me what’s got you looking like the world’s ending?”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Not a chance. You gonna tell me about your mistake?”

He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Touché.”

The conversation flows, easy and dangerous. He’s funny, in a dry, self-deprecating way, and I find myself laughing despite the weight in my chest. He talks about his job—something vague about law enforcement, but he doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. I tell him about London, about the gray skies and the way the city felt like a cage after Sarah died. We don’t trade names, don’t need to. It’s like we both know this is temporary, a stolen moment.

“You ever feel like you’re not you anymore?” I ask, the gin loosening my tongue. “Like the person you were is gone, and you’re just… this?”

He leans closer, his elbow brushing mine. “All the time,” he says, his voice low. “Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin, trying to figure out how to live in it.”

I nod, my throat tight. “I don’t know who I am tonight,” I admit. “And I don’t know if I want to.”

He looks at me, his eyes searching, and there’s something electric in the air, a pull I can’t ignore. His hand brushes mine, deliberate this time, and I don’t pull away. My pulse races, my skin alive under his touch.

“You don’t have to be anyone tonight,” he says, his voice rough. “Just… be here.”

I swallow, my heart pounding. “And who are you tonight?”

He smiles, a little sad, a little reckless. “Just a guy who’s tired of running.”

We talk for hours, the bar emptying around us.

By the third drink, his hand is on my arm, warm and steady. By the fourth, we’re standing, too close, the air between us charged. “You want to get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, urgent.

I hesitate, the weight of the check in my purse pulling at me. But his eyes, his voice, the way he makes me feel alive—it’s too much. I nod. “Yeah.”

We stumble into the elevator, his hand on the small of my back, my fingers brushing his. The doors close, and he’s closer now.

His lips find my neck, and I tilt my head back, letting the world fall away. For the first time in years, I’m not thinking about Sarah, about the check, about the blood I’ve paid for. I’m just here, with him, two broken people clinging to something real, if only for a night.