A hole-in-the-wall place three blocks from Purgatory that serves decent coffee and asks no questions.
The owner knows who I am, what I am, and keeps his mouth shut in exchange for protection. Smart man.
I sit in the back corner, watching steam rise from my black coffee and trying to understand why I'm so fucking angry.
Not about David.
He's handled—jaw broken, three ribs cracked, dumped at an emergency room with no memory of how he got there, thanks to the drugs we gave him.
He won't be a problem.
The beating was artistic, really.
Lionel knows how to hurt someone just enough to send a message without creating permanent damage that leads to investigations.
I’m not angry about the journalist, either.
Rebecca Torres had an unfortunate accident last night—brake failure on a winding road.
Tragic.
The story about the judge's murder anniversary died with her.
Vincent handled it personally, which means it's clean. No connections back to us.
No, I'm angry about her.
About Selene.
About how she looked at me when she asked me not to kill him.
Like she had the right.
Like her opinion mattered in my world.
Like she thought she could gentle the monster with soft words and softer touches.
"You forget your place. I don't take orders from toys."
I'd called her a toy. I saw the hurt flash across her face before I walked away.
Good.
She needed to understand what this was.
What she was to me.
Except that's the problem, isn't it?
She's not just a toy anymore.
Somewhere between that first night and last night, she became something else.
Something dangerous.
Something that makes me want things I shouldn't want.
Something that makes me imagine her here, permanently.
