He shrugs. Then a real emotion taints his features, tugging on the corner of his mouth. “My...my sister was one of the women that you saved.” He pauses to let that statement sink in. “Anastasia, a foolish little seventeen-year-old girl who fell for the first man who offered to take her to America ‘to be a model.’ It wasn’t her they were after, however. I have experience in the military, and my...unique skillset makes me a useful commodity.” His tone falls flat. He discusses his own value the same way someone might tick off their eye color. “Stacatto wasn’t the one who took her—a ‘business associate’ of his did—but as long as I worked for him, he promised that she would stay alive...even ifher soul didn’t remain intact.” His voice deepens, a gruff note straining the crisp edges. “A life for a life. I assume this makes us even. Besides...a man like Vincent Stacatto deserved to die alone.”
I can’t fucking agree more.
“I would have saved her regardless,” the man adds, “but I cannot pretend that I will not ask you for a favor that I am willing to repay. I need money to send my sister back home—but I am willing to work for it. If you are in need of a man with my...attributes, then call the number in your cell phone. Ask for Gino. With Stacatto dead, I am in need of a new employer, and my loyalty will lie with whoever is willing to earn it...”
I don’t say a damn thing, but the man nods as if I’ve given a goddamn speech.
“And one other thing,” he adds, frowning. “That boy. It was implied that he was you when his location was given to Stacatto—”
“Given?”
Something in my tone makes the man nod again, which confirms a suspicion before I even have to mention it out loud. Espi didn’t stumble into Stacatto’s clutches by accident; someone offered him up on a fucking silver platter.
“The information came from one man,” Gino admits. “A Donahugh. I do not know how he came across such intel, but something tells me that it won’t be hard for you to track him down and ask him yourself.” The words barely finish leaving his mouth before he raises the gun again and backs away toward the nearest alley. “We will part for now. I would suggest that you not follow me.”
I turn without bothering to note the direction he heads in. With only the sound of sirens to guide me, I run—straight through the upscale neighborhood and to the smoking ruins of Vinny Stacatto’s fucking castle. My gaze latches onto an ambulance as it starts up the driveway, and I pounce on the firstparamedic who leaps out. One look at the woman in my arms is all it takes for the man to call for a stretcher.
I don’t batan eyelash when a cop appears just outside the door of the girl’s hospital room a little after midnight. Apparently, “car crash” could only explain away some of her injuries, like the broken arm and four cracked ribs—but the lie doesn’t cover the burns or her partially missing ear. And, given how close she was “found” near Stacatto’s burning manor, I’m not surprised that some skittish nurse called the police.
I’m surprised by which cop has shown up, however.
Meeting his gaze, I shake my head once before he can even take a fucking step over the threshold. Then I rise to my feet, making sure not to jostle the kid dozing beside me. Nothing short of an earthquake could wake the woman lying in the hospital bed with “safe and legal” drugs flooding her system through an IV. Somehow, I still feel her gaze on the back of my neck as I cross the room without taking my own off the man lurking in the hallway.
“Vialle.” Van Hallen jerks his chin toward the room, his expression gruff. “Isn’t it funny that, not even a minute after you called, we got a tip about a house fire at that very address? Yeah, very funny indeed,” he grunts though I don’t say a damn thing. “But you know the partIfind interesting?” He hesitates for a beat as his eyes pierce my own like a laser homing in on its intended target. “That fire was a clear-cut case of arson, but I assume you know that already, huh, Vialle?”
“Are you trying to insinuate something, Detective?” I wonder, keeping my voice down as a nurse scurries by with a clipboard clutched to her chest. “That’s what I thought,” I reply when he responds with only a lift of his eyebrow. “Well, I guess those Dick Tracy detective skills have paid off for you after all, huh? So, let’sjust put the case to rest once and for all then, shall we? You’re right... I did it.” I step forward, kicking the sliding door to the room shut, and then I hold both hands out, baring the wrists. “You got your fucking wish—”
“You can knock it off with the smart-ass ‘detective’ shit, Vialle,” Van Hallen snarls. “And it’sInterim Police Chief Van Hallennow.” He shakes his head, unused to the weight of the figurative crown that’s just been shoved on top of it. “Those girls you sent my way had interesting stories to tell. Some of them claimed to be smuggled over state lines for ‘parties.’ That makes it the jurisdiction of the FBI.”
I bristle at the news of FBI involvement. This shit isn’t going to go away easily now. Van Hallen nods as if he can read my mind.
“Of course, none of this is official until the press conference tomorrow, but you can cut the fucking heroic act now. I know she did it—I know she set that fire.And I’m not going to do a goddamn thing about it, so you can take a step back, Vialle,” he warns.
I say nothing, and I don’t move a fucking muscle, either.
“I am planning to reopen the Manzano murder case though,” Van Hallen continues after a second’s pause.
“Why? Stacatto’s dead.” I spit the words out, though I’m not even sure if I really believe them. At least, in the girl’s case, he was alive and well. Killing a monster doesn’t erase the scars they inflicted—I know that for a fucking fact.
“Yes,” Van Hallen says with a nod. “Dead, but not off the hook. The bastard’s organization will feel the legal ramifications of his crimes for years to come—you can bet your ass on that. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that Stacatto had some powerful criminals in his fold who were complicit in his crimes. It’s only a matter of time before they pick up where he left off...like your friend Arno. Let’s hope he has seen the light and the Gardai will all suddenly become upstanding citizens—”
“So, if you aren’t here to arrest anyone, why the visit,Interim PoliceChief?” I cut in. “Sending your condolences?”
“Look, I only came here to let you know that she’s safe, Vialle,” Van Hallen says, his tone softer, and hell, I think he might even mean it. “At least from me. As far as the hospital knows, she’s still your ‘sister,’ Gabriella Vialle, who was in a terrible ‘car accident.’” He scoffs at the lie, shaking his head. “I guess they didn’t teach creativity one-oh-one in prison.” He starts to head down the hall, but only a few yards away, he stops. “Oh, that reminds me... Aboutyourcase... I did some digging.”
A heartbeat later, I’m stone, already contemplating which part of the bastard I’ll break first. “Is that so, Detective?”
“Yeah. I looked into the victim’s background,” Van Hallen admits, oblivious to the darker note in my voice and the way my hands are shaking. “I dug up some old allegations—very old—from a son he had. Seems none of it was founded or even investigated—things like the boy not wanting to strip down for gym class or being jumpy in the showers. Small stuff, but it’s clear the system screwed that kid over. In my opinion, if that boy did eventually take a whack at that man with a hammer, no one could blame him—intheory. But, even then, something still didn’t add up...”
Nearly a full minute passes before he finally shrugs and inclines his head to the door to the girl’s room. “I know the kid did it, Vialle.And,” he adds before I can even start toward him, my fists drawn, “the case is closed. Sealed. Done. The debt to society was paid...byyou.” He turns on his heel, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “I would say ‘see you around,’ but quite frankly, I don’t want to.”
I watch him go, my hands still clenched. The heat surging through my fingertips doesn’t fade no matter how fucking tight I grind them together. When I turn and throw the door to the girl’s room open, she’s still unconscious, but Espi isn’t. He’s watching me from the bench beside her bed. So far, he hasn’t complainedabout being forced to share the same space as me—apparently, his concern over the girl overrides his hate for me. Still, I don’t expect him to speak to me directly the moment I cross the room.
“What did he want?” His gaze cuts over to the doorway. Apparently, an ingrained suspicion of the police is an inherited trait.
“Nothing,” I grunt. “But I will say that your little antics with Arno haven’t gone unnoticed—”
“I had an audition,” Espi blurts out, shifting to sit upright. “At an art school up north. Arno gave me the money for the application process, but I wasn’t going to take his charity, so I did the tagging stuff for him as payback. The placement stuff was this week. That’s where I was.”
