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He slipped out of bed and eased open the bedside drawer, palming the handgun and holding it at his side. Riley’s brow furrowed as she rolled over, pulling the covers over her shoulder, but she didn’t wake up.

She trusted him to keep her safe.

He crept across the floor, reached past the curtain, and pulled the window shut. The latch creaked into place.

The alley below was still and empty.

It was too quiet.

Cookie watched him, and the hair on his back started to lift.

He sensed it too.

“Pass auf,” he whispered, and Cookie rose to his feet, tail rigid. He stood guard over Riley’s legs while she continued to sleep soundly.

He grabbed his phone and moved out into the loft, closing the bedroom door silently.

The click of the safety was loud, and he scanned the loft. It was silent until the fridge cycled on, a quiet whir in the background.

Saint swept the loft and then moved down the stairs to the shop. His phone buzzed with an incoming call when he reached the bottom.

The number was blocked.

He slid his finger across the screen and held it up to his ear.

“Sebastian St. James.” The voice lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. It was smooth and devoid of inflection. Unrecognizable.

No one he spoke to used that name. His legal name. He retreated up the stairs and waited, the gun at his side.

He toyed with the safety.

“Did you have Giovanni Ricci killed?”

He tore the phone away from his face and pulled up the security app. There were no alerts, and each screen was quiet, trees still. The evening breeze should have been moving the leaves, at least a little.

There was quiet breathing on the phone, and then almost a laugh.

Saint hung up and ignored the blood rushing loud in his ears.

A text message came through. He squinted at the dark image. It showed Riley and him sleeping soundly, and Cookie’s eyes glowing in the night vision camera.

Saint was wearing the same t-shirt now as in the photo.

He ran back to the bedroom. Riley still slept soundly, and Cookie stood at her feet, ears pricked as he listened. His tail wagged once in question, black eyes too trusting.

Saint’s mind flinched as images of death and carnage flashed. Him waking up too late. Riley and Cookie reduced to gore spread around the room. Gone. A pit opened below him.

They’d become complacent.

He dialled.

“Go.” Aaron’s voice was calm and professional, and Saint clung to it with every scrap of strength he had.

“We have a fucking problem.”

The end