"Make yourself at home,” I say as I flip on the lights.
She hovers uncertainly near the door, clutching her backpack to her chest. The oversized jacket makes her look even smaller, more fragile.
"Can I..." she starts, then stops. "Would it be okay if I took a shower?"
"Course. Bathroom's there. Towels under the sink." I gesture, then add, "Lock's busted, but I swear I'll stay out here." I slap a palm over my chest and grin, my attempt at levity.
Gratitude flickers across her face. She retrieves some items of clothing from her backpack before disappearing into the bathroom.
I wait until I hear the shower running before approaching her backpack. I don't love the idea of invading her privacy, but I need to know who the fuck I just brought into my home.
The wallet comes out first. Thirty-five dollars in cash. Student ID from the local art institute. And a driver's license with an address just half a mile from my family's mansion. I recognize the address—the Carducci estate. My eyes narrow. Owned by one Vincent Carducci, a local bigwig businessman with suspected connections to the Falcone crime family.
The birthdate on her license confirms she’s not a minor, but she's only eighteen. I groan aloud. Eight-fucking-teen.
Far too young, far too vulnerable, and far too innocent for a rough, scarred-up, hardass biker like me.
Yet I can’t shake the attraction, the overwhelming need I feel for her. It’s overshadowed only by fierce protectiveness.
Yeah, but who’s gonna protect her from you, asshole?
How is this gorgeous, fragile woman related to Vincent Carducci? Daughter? Niece? Girlfriend?
The thought of that old bastard's hands on her makes my vision go red.
But she said her ex-fiancé’s name is Marco. Was that a lie? Before I can stop myself, I pull out my burner phone and dial Cipher's number. He picks up on the second ring.
"Yeah?"
"It's Hawk. Need a favor, brother.”
“Name it.”
“Looking for chatter on police scanners about a missing woman, name’s Aria Gallo."
“Priority level?” I can hear the interest in his voice.
“Top. I need the info asap. Call me back at this number when you've got something."
“You got it, brother,” Cipher fires back before ending the call.
I finish rifling around in the backpack. Tube of chapstick. Phone charger. Sketchbook.
Sketchbook. Hmm.
Out of curiosity, I flip it open. My jaw drops. I turn the page, and then another. The drawings inside are not at all what I expect. They’re fucking incredible—rendered in pencil with an eye for detail that borders on photographic. Urban landscapes. Wildlife. A series of hands in different positions. But it's the portraits that really grab me. Each face seems to tell a story, breathing life onto the page. There's an intimacy to them, like she's captured more than just features—she's captured emotions.
I flip through page after page, mesmerized by the skill, the raw talent bleeding through every line. I've seen a lot of portfolio work, hiring artists for my shop. This is next level. There's pain in these drawings, yes, but also hope.
The water shuts off, and I quickly replace everything, then move to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and two Tylenol. When the bathroom door opens, steam billows out, carrying the scent of my soap on her skin.
Damn. Why do I love that so much—her wearing my scent?
Aria’s dark curls are damp, and she's changed into clean clothes—a t-shirt and yoga pants that show off her deliciously curvy frame. My mouth’s about to water until I notice the bruises. With her face scrubbed clean, her bruises stand out in stark relief against her skin. Purple along her cheekbone, along her jaw, and angry red marks circling her throat. A palette of violence.
Rage. Pure, undiluted rage floods my system.
“Here," I say, offering the pills and water, struggling to keep my voice level.
