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“You can trust me, Sierra,” he says gently. “I found out recently that my father planned that arranged marriage nonsense. I would have never agreed to it. I would never force someone into anything like that.”

“But you are in the mob,” I whisper-yell. My voice is fragile, my words desperate. “Isn’t that something someone in the mob would do?” I ask, without filter.

He throws his head back and laughs. Dangerous, but not threatening. His eyes are sincere, his voice calm.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Sierra. But more than that, you’re someone I respect. I respect your husband. Yeah, I know you’re married to Nick.” He winks at me, grinning. “And I respect your brothers and in-laws. I’d never cross that line.”

He gives me a small smile.

“Even if I’m in the mob.”

Something about the way he says it calms me. Like he’s not trying to be anything other than he is.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “For saying that. And for being decent.”

“Decent is the least I can be.”

I nod, slowly. My body aches. My head throbs. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

In his apartment—clean, quiet, modern, luxurious—he makes coffee while I change into something he gave me because my clothes are covered in vomit. I move like a ghost, numb and mechanical.

Curled up on the edge of the couch, I clutch the white cup he hands me, along with a couple of nausea pills.

And that’s when I tell him everything. The message. The screenshots. The photos. How I felt my heart breaking, slowly and completely. How it felt like the ground disappeared from under me.

It doesn’t make sense, he’s a stranger—a dangerous one. But I feel like I can trust him, like a friend.

Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, and I’ll regret it in the morning.

He listens without interrupting, without judgment. And when I finish, he leans back in the armchair opposite me.

“You need to talk to him, Sierra. Don’t believe every message or screenshot you see. Nick deserves the chance to explain.”

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” I whisper.

“You are,” he says simply. “And you’d want the same if the roles were reserved.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

My eyes are heavy, my limbs finally giving out. I lean against the couch pillow, my body too tired to fight anymore.

The last thing I hear is his voice, quiet and steady.

“I know Nick, and I’m sure you two will be okay.”

And for the first time this night…

I almost believe it.

THIRTY-FOUR

Nick

The puck drops on the third period, and I’m in the zone.

I skate fast, sharp—fire in my chest. Every movement feels calculated, instinctual, like my body was made for this. I dodge, I pass, I shoot—and the crowd roars behind me as The Lions lead 5-2. I’ve already put two in the net tonight—this is my third, and I want one more.

Not for the stats.