Omerta ||ʙᴏᴏᴋ 1||

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ғɪғᴛᴇᴇɴ

Two Weeks Later

What am I even supposed to say anymore?
"Things are great, thanks for asking"?
Or how about the classic, "I'm fine"?

The truth is—I'm not. I haven't been for a while.

The nights are the worst. When I do manage to sleep, my dreams are ripped apart by nightmares—bloody, frantic, suffocating. Max's scream. My dad's last breath. The flash of the bullet that should've killed me. Then I wake up, drenched in sweat, eyes dry because I've already cried too much to cry anymore.

I didn't even go to the funeral. I couldn't. I knew I'd shatter into a thousand pieces if I heard one more person say "I'm sorry for your loss" or "They're in a better place." What the hell does that even mean? No one can begin to even comprehend the pain of having both your loved ones brutally die in your arms.

The media didn't help either. My family's blood had barely dried, and already we were front-page news. "Owner of Hayes Enterprise assassinated." The vultures picked at our bones, speculating, twisting facts, digging up old dirt like we were just another headline. Thanks, society. You can't keep your nose out of anything, can you?

I stopped sleeping much after that. Planning, strategizing, obsessing over revenge—it became my oxygen. It's the only thing that keeps me from drowning.

Emilio's been the only one I really talk to about the mafia stuff. He told me my dad wasn't just his business partner—he was his best friend. That hit harder than I thought it would. Emilio's been helping me organize intel on the Cobras, and he's just as ready as I am to burn them to the ground.

Turns out, there are way more threats than I imagined. Rival mafias with half the power and twice the ego. We had more money, more control—and apparently, that makes us a target. I guess I should've seen that coming. In this world, power makes you a god—or a corpse.

After everything happened, Cheryl disappeared. Took Jack and left the day after the shooting. No goodbye. No explanation. I'm still tracking her down—it's suspicious as hell, but I haven't had the time to focus on her.

Jack... God. He's a walking target now. Hayes blood in his veins and not enough people to protect him. If she slips up, it's his life on the line. That thought alone makes me sick

I had to leave the house. Every room was haunted. Max's drawings on the fridge. My dad's coat still hanging by the door. I couldn't breathe in there. Hunter said he would have it but I could see the walls were haunting him too.

So I moved into Cole's. Temporarily. Emphasis on temporarily.
We aren't together—not really. But sometimes, late at night when the silence gets too loud and my chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself, I end up in his bed.

It's not love. It's distraction.
It's an escape from the memories that won't leave me alone.
When his body is pressed against mine, I can forget, just for a moment, that I'm broken.

But as soon as it's over, the ache comes back even worse.

I curled up in Cole's guest bedroom, my dad's laptop hot against my thighs. The soft hum of the fan was the only sound in the room. My fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up a list of possible Cobra affiliates—names, dates, movement logs. I couldn't sleep, so I worked. That was the rule now.

Sleep meant dreams. Dreams meant pain.

I opened my phone and scrolled to Dimitri. Hit call.

He answered on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep. "Jesus, Skylar, what time is it?"

"Time to get to work. I need these names run by sunrise."

"You're serious?"

"I'm always serious now." I sent the picture, stared at the screen like it might erase the ache in my chest. "Don't make me repeat myself."