Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 158

Fourteen Years Later.

Fourteen years later…

Sage

“Diego!”

My voice cuts through the hallway, sharp enough to shake the walls. “Can you hurry up? Conner is leaving for the meeting with the Italians in less than ten

minutes!”

From somewhere upstairs comes a lazy yell back. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, sissy!”

The way he says it, drawn out and teasing, makes me roll my eyes. Some things never change. I wipe my hands on a towel and glance at the clock. Connor’s already in the garage, half–suited, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, barking orders in that calm, measured tone that means the day’s about to turn serious. Footsteps echo on the stairs. Heavy now. Confident. When Diego rounds the corner into the kitchen, I have to stop for just a second and take him in.

He’s grown into every inch of himself, tall, broad–shouldered, with that same effortless swagger Conner used to hide behind when he was younger. The boy with the toy dinosaur is long gone; what’s left is a man who moves like he knows exactly what he’s capable of. Blonde hair, shaved close at the sides, left messy on top, the way he likes it. His jaw is dusted with stubble, which he keeps insisting makes him look “experienced.” Tattoos snake up both arms black ink, clean lines, pieces of his story written on his skin. The barrel of a gun glints at his hip, holster snug against a tailored black shirt rolled to the elbows. And that scar. A thin, pale line cutting down through his lips from his first official mission earlier this year. I’d told him he wasn’t ready. He’d told me he’d been ready his whole life. The mission went wrong, as most firsts do, but he came back standing, head high, bleeding but grinning, and I hated how proud I’d been.

—

Now, watching him pour himself coffee like the world isn’t waiting for him, I see flashes of both Connor and myself in him. He’s got Conner’s confrol, my recklessness, the strange balance of calm and chaos that somehow keeps our family alive.

“Morning,” he says, grabbing an apple from the counter.

“It’s nearly noon,” I shoot back. “And wipe your boots before you track dirt across my clean floor.”

He smirks. “You sound like Ma.”

“I am Ma,” I remind him, shoving his shoulder as he passes. “Now, hurry up. Conner’s been waiting.”

He takes a bite of the apple, chews, and says around it, “He’s always waiting. He likes the anticipation.”

“You say that like you didn’t inherit it,” I mutter.

He grins, sharp and wicked, and I swear I catch a glimpse of the boy he used to be. All mischief and light. “Where is he?”

“Garage. Cleaning guns. You’ve got five minutes before he leaves without you.”

“Relax, sis. I know how to move fast.”

“Not fast enough,” I say, but he’s already halfway through the door, laughing.

The house is louder now than it has ever been. It’s bigger too, rebuilt, expanded, and lived in. There are voices everywhere: staff in the kitchen, someone training out back, a pair of guards patrolling the fence line. The life we built after everything burned down never really quieted. It just grew roots. I lean

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Fourteen Years Later.

against the counter, watching sunlight spill across the floor. My reflection in the window is older. The years have softened some edges, sharpened others. I still train. I still lead. But I’ve learned to rest. To let the world exist without my hands on its throat. Outside, the hum of engines cuts through the air. 1 wander to the window just in time to see Diego step into the black SUV beside Connor. They’re almost mirror images now, same broad shoulders, same easy command, though Connor’s hair is streaked with grey and his smile comes slower and deeper. He catches my eye through the window, winks, and my chest squeezes. Fourteen years, and he still manages to make my heart trip over itself. The engines roar to life. The convoy pulls out toward the road, dust curling behind the tyres and I stand there until the sound fades, a small smile tugging at my mouth.

By afternoon, the house settles again. The staff clears out, the guards switch shifts, the sunlight drifts lower. I wander out to the back deck, mug in hand, and look over the fields. The same oak tree still stands at the far edge, older now, branches thick and sprawling. Sometimes, when the nights get quiet, Connor and I like to sit out there, the two of us wrapped in a blanket, talking about the old days. About ghosts and wars and how we somehow got lucky enough to build peace out of all that wreckage. I think about Diego’s laugh echoing through the hall this morning. About the scar on his lip, the ink on his skin, the way he still calls me “Sissy” even when he’s wearing a gun. And I realise that this this messy, noisy, unpredictable life is the proof of everything we fought for.

–

The sun starts to dip, painting the world in honey and rose. I hear tyres crunch on gravel out front, telling me the convoy’s back. I head to the door just as it opens. Connor steps inside first, brushing dust from his jacket. He looks tired but content, the kind of peace that only comes from a meeting that didn’t end in bloodshed. Diego follows, a little scuffed, a lot smug.

“All good?” I ask, folding my arms.

“Better than good,” Connor says, kissing my cheek in passing. “The Italians agreed to the terms.”

I raise a brow. “Without a gunfight?”

“Without a gunfight.”

“Miracles do happen,” I murmur.

Diego grins, tossing me a folded piece of paper. “Got your signature on it already. See? I can be professional.”

“Barely,” I say, skimming the page. He handled it right. “You did good, kid.”

He flashes that same cocky half–smile. “You mean man.”

I smirk. “We’ll see about that.”

Connor chuckles from the kitchen. “Don’t start, you two. Let the ink dry first.”

Later, when the house is quiet again and the sky’s gone deep indigo, I find myself out by the oak tree. Connor comes up behind me, arms sliding around my

waist.

“Thinking?” he murmurs against my hair.

“Always,” I say. “About how fast it all went. About how that boy turned into a man while we were still catching our breath.”

He hums. “You did good with him, little ghost.”

“We did good,” I correct softly.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Yeah. We did.”

“So, he’s doing alright then? With the business?”

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Fourteen Years Later.

Connor laughs, shaking his head. “Alright? He’s a wee bit terrifying. I think the Italians only signed because he scared the bloody shite out of them, but it worked.”

I grin, leaning against him. “Sounds familiar.”

He arches a brow. “You saying he gets that from me?”

“I’m saying,” I murmur, resting my head on his shoulder, “that he’s got the best parts of both of us.”

Connor chuckles, “God help whoever crosses him, then.”

Comments

Heather Sweat

yes god yes so good

18 hours ago

5

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