For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The air between them seemed to hum with electricity — the kind born of fear, confusion, and something far more dangerous. Frank stood by the window, his shadow cutting through the pale morning light. Delia remained frozen against the sill, her breath catching in short, trembling bursts.
He’d said it so casually. I took care of it.
As if the words could erase the blood on his sleeve, the chaos in the apartment, or the horror of the last few minutes.
Delia’s voice cracked when it finally emerged. “You took care of it?” Her tone trembled somewhere between disbelief and rage. “That’s what you call this?”
Her voice rose sharply, echoing off the walls. “There’s blood on the floor, Frank! Someone tried to break in — someone shot at us — and you just…
