His inscrutable gaze lifts to mine as he holds out the card between two fingers in offering. When I return and try to take the card from him, he retracts his fingers, denying me.
“Is it a man?” he asks with an edge.
“Is what a man?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, so the question throws me for a loop.
“The problem with no easy answer.” His eyes take a swift glance at the 13thPrecinct sign beside us. “Were you here to report someone?” This time, his calculating stare looks me over as if trying to glean an answer from my outfit.
“No,” I snap before grabbing the card from his hand, but I don’t get far when his other hand clamps around my wrist. I gasp in disbelief that this wild confrontation is happening, and in front of the police station, no less.
My wide eyes collide with his, then follow his gaze to my hand, where I notice red paint stains on my fingers and under my nails. I’m always covered in paint, so I don’t even notice it anymore. But this man noticed, and he thought it might be blood. My blood. He thinks I’m here to report an assault or abuse, and I get the sense he’s livid on my behalf.
All my indignant irritation evaporates, leaving me physically and emotionally drained.
“It’s paint,” I say softly. “My problemisa man, but not like that.” I gently tug my wrist away from him, and he lets me go. “Look, I’m sorry for everything. It’s been a rough day.”
I flash a weak smile and give him one last look before walking away for good. I’d wonder what he must be thinking, except Biba’s horrific ultimatum looms with such catastrophic potential that nothing else even registers.
An arranged marriage to a violent criminal or refuse and risk the lives of the people I love.
It’s an impossible choice. Even the mere thought breaks my heart until I can feel pieces crumbling away and trailing behind me like breadcrumbs to a past where life was worth living.
CHAPTER 2
TOMMY
“You’re not Sante.”
I sit in the visitor’s chair opposite the cop and audibly sigh. “With such keen observational skills, it’s no wonder they made you a detective. Did you have something to say or not?”
The pig pen isn’t my favorite place to be, and I certainly have no interest in sticking around if this clown is going to question my ability to handle business. Sante swears that Officer Malone has half a brain, unlike so many of his colleagues. I haven’t spent much time around him. So far, I’m unimpressed.
He rounds the desk to close his office door, waiting to speak until he can’t be overheard. “A week ago, three men were murdered.”
“Sounds like a pretty normal week in the city.”
Malone sits at his desk, ignoring my attempt to goad him. “All three were Russian and appear to have been killed by the same weapon—likely the same person. The blade that was used was small with minimal damage inflicted. This guy struck fast enough that it looks like the three had no chance to fight back, each receiving a single stab to a critical artery with surgical precision. We’ve seen seven other kills over the last year with the same signature methods, though never three at once. Thisguy is so good at what he does that we don’t have a single scrap of evidence giving us a lead. We’ve heard rumors of the name Reaper, but nothing more.”
“And you want our help.”
“I was hoping for information—anything is better than nothing, and that’s all we’ve got right now.”
Sante chose the wrong man to come in his place if he thought I’d give this guy anything. I have no allegiance to other organizations, but that doesn’t mean I’ll share anything with our common enemy. The cops would lock me away just as quickly as they would The Reaper. However, Sante was adamant that I play nice when he sent me on his behalf.
That fucker is going to owe me.
“We don’t have much information to give. There have been rumors of a new organization building in power, but they’ve been feeding off the weak. We haven’t had any issues, and without reason to step in, we’ve not actively pursued information.” It’s mostly true. We’ve garnered a few tidbits, but Malone’s right in his assertion that The Reaper stays off the radar. The man earned his moniker for a reason.
“So he’s not just a random vigilante,” Malone says through a grimace.
“You didn’t honestly believe that, did you?”
His gaze shifts irritably to the wall. “No, but it would have been nice.”
“It doesn’t change anything. A killer is a killer whether he works alone or heads an outfit.”
Malone scrutinizes me astutely. He’s wondering if I’m speaking from experience. I stare right back at him and, for once, project what I’m thinking.
You better fucking believe it.
