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･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆. Years of homicide had made sure of that—kitchen floors slick with it, alleys painted in it, hotel rooms soaked to the grout. But the Moretti scene stuck in his head longer than most. Maybe it was the contrast… an entire estate that reeked of wealth, marble floors, silk curtains, the kind of quiet money that whispered instead of shouted. And then, right there in the heart of it, Matteo Moretti slumped in his own study, throat opened with the kind of precision that conveyed a message rather than rage, close range bullet wound straight to the heart.
The cameras had been cut. The guards bought off. Everything about it was too clean, too rehearsed. Holder had walked those halls, eyes cataloging details others missed—the half-drunk glass of scotch on the desk, the cigar stubbed out halfway, as though the man hadn’t believed death could walk right into his home. On the far end of the room, though, he’d noticed something else. A scuff on the floor, near the curtains. Small, slight. Not a man’s shoe.
That had been the first sign. The girl had been there.
Witnesses whispered her name like it was cursed—Isabella. Daughter of a titan. Heiress to an empire of steel and glass. Holder pieced it together through reports, through hushed interviews, she’d been close enough to see the Farinelli boss himself pull the trigger. Close enough to hear the words he left behind. Close enough that, if she lived long enough to testify, she could bury him.
The Farinellis weren’t just any family. Holder had traced their fingerprints across half a dozen corpses in three states. Smuggling, weapons, extortion. But their real weapon wasn’t just violence—it was the rot they left in people. Judges, businessmen, politicians. Men who smiled for cameras while signing their souls away. Holder had learned that one of Moretti’s closest associates, a man who’d practically raised Isabella at his table, had already rolled over and pointed her out like a pawn on a chessboard. Family friend turned Judas.
That’s when she’d run. Straight to the cops. Straight into Holder’s case. He hadn’t expected the captain to sideline him. When the file dropped on his desk, his first instinct was to argue. He wasn’t the type to play bodyguard—his job was chasing killers, not holding hands. But then the captain said it plain 'You’re too close to this, Holder. And you’re too stubborn to walk away. Better you carry her shadow than end up face-down in some alley'.
Now here he was, behind the wheel of a government sedan with her file sitting heavy in the passenger seat. The picture inside showed a young woman with dark hair, shoulders drawn tight, wide umber eyes in the flash. Holder had stared at it longer than he meant to. Heiress or not, she looked like anyone else who’d had their world ripped out from under them. Terrified. Alone.
He flexed his hands on the wheel. The city bled away into quieter streets, dusk leaning against the horizon, traffic thinning. He could feel eyes on him even when there weren’t any—paranoia came with the badge, but with the Farinellis, it wasn’t paranoia. It was survival.
The safe house was one of the department’s cleaner setups, tucked in an ordinary neighborhood where nobody asked questions. Two-story, blinds shut, reinforced locks. Holder pulled up across the street first, scanned the block—mailbox stuffed on one porch, kids’ bikes leaning against another fence, one old man smoking by a window but not watching too close. Normal. As normal as it got.
He parked, killed the engine, and let the silence settle. He reached for the file one more time, flipping to the crime scene notes. Her statement was redacted for security, but the margins carried his own scrawl, witnessed entire event / saw shooter’s face / ran. Simple words, but the weight of them pressed heavy.
Boots hit gravel as he stepped out. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and oil. He adjusted his jacket, checked the street again. The captain’s order rang in his ears—she lives because of you.
The front door loomed quiet, curtain pulled tight behind the glass. Holder raised a fist and knocked once, firm, the sound echoing through the stillness. This was his life now. Not chasing leads, not pinning suspects to walls. Guard duty. Watching a stranger’s back like it was his own blood. Babysitting duty, some might sneer. But Holder knew better. Babysitting meant someone was coming for the kid. And if the Farinellis wanted Isabella Moretti gone, they’d keep coming until someone stopped them.
He squared his shoulders. The lock clicked from the other side. Whatever stood behind that door, heiress or orphan, princess or pawn—it was his responsibility going forth. The door opened a crack first, chain still latched, just enough for one wary umber eye to sweep the porch. Holder caught a flash of pale knuckles gripping the frame tight before the chain slid back and the door widened.
She looked smaller in person than her photo suggested. Hair pulled back in a hurry, clothes wrinkled from too many hours on the run. There was a stiffness to her posture, like every muscle braced for the sound of gunfire that hadn’t come yet. Holder didn’t comment. He never did. Instead, he gave a curt nod, the kind that stood in for I’m not here to make you feel better. I’m here to make sure you breathe tomorrow.
He stepped past her into the foyer, eyes sweeping the interior as though he hadn’t just spent a decade doing this with crime scenes. Habits never changed. Corners first, windows second, back door latch checked with a flick of his fingers.
The house smelled like fresh paint and stale air, the kind of ready-to-rent neutral that gave nothing away. No photographs, no knickknacks, nothing to suggest a life. Just space and silence, four walls meant to hold back the wolves. ❛ You lock this behind me every time ❜. Holder muttered, jerking his chin toward the door. His voice was gravel, low and clipped. ❛ No exceptions ❜.
He dropped his duffel on the couch, unzipped it, and started pulling out the bones of his ritual. Glock checked, slide back, chamber clear. Notebook, pen, spare badge. A battered paperback wedged between spare clips—old habit from stakeouts. He set each piece down like he was building a perimeter out of objects.
From the corner of his eye, he caught her standing where he’d left her, arms crossed tight against her chest, gaze flicking between him and the door like she was still deciding which was more dangerous.
Holder ignored the weight of it, moving to the blinds. He tugged each one flat, peered through narrow slats at the street. The old man across the way still smoked his cigarette, still not watching. The bikes were still tipped over in the neighbor’s yard. No headlights lingering too long. For now, clean.
He exhaled through his nose and let the blinds fall. ❛ Safe house rule number one—if it looks normal, we keep it that way. You don’t draw attention. Groceries, walks, phone calls—all go through me ❜. He didn’t bother softening the tone. He’d learned long ago that truth went down easier blunt.
Holder straightened, finally giving her his full attention. Umber hues, shadowed and restless, locked on him like she was measuring how much faith she could afford to place in a stranger with a badge.
He let the silence breathe for a beat before speaking. ❛ know you didn’t ask for any of this. And I know you lost more than anyone deserves to in one night ❜. His jaw flexed, words measured. ❛ But the truth is simple. Right now, you’re the only witness who can put a man like Farinelli in a box. My job—the only job I’ve got—is to keep you alive long enough to do that ❜.
It wasn’t sharp, not quite soft either—somewhere in the middle, where his instincts warred with his empathy. He thought of Sawyer then, just a baby at home, tiny fists curling around his finger. If the world ever turned on her the way it had on Isabella, he wouldn’t want someone treating her like a burden.
Holder’s gaze held hers, unflinching. ❛ You’re not alone in this, not anymore. That’s the deal. You breathe, I watch the door ❜.
He dropped into the armchair nearest the entry, posture rigid, gun within reach. His stance said what his words didn’t—he wasn’t here to comfort, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her fall.
