A memory flashes—Cyrus’s teeth on my shoulder, Ace’s fingers digging into my hips, the exquisite pain blending withpleasure until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“No,” I say truthfully. “Not in any way I don’t want.”
Marco’s eyes widen. “Jesus, Keira. This isn’t like you.”
That’s because I’m not the same person who walked into Purgatory. That woman seems distant now, incomplete.
“You don’t know everything about me, Marco.” I zip up my bag with finality. “And my relationships aren’t up for discussion. Not now, not ever.”
“Fine,” he snaps, pushing off the mirror. “But when this guy shows his true colors?—”
“Stop.” My voice cuts through the studio. “This conversation is over.”
The twins are my secret—my beautiful, dangerous secret. And no one else would understand what we share, this strange three-sided relationship that somehow feels righter than anything I’ve ever known.
20
ACE
The text from Xavier comes at the precise moment Cyrus and I finish our morning coffee. A simple string of numbers that means only one thing: we’re needed.
“Blackwood wants us,” I say, sliding my phone across the island counter. Cyrus glances at it, his expression shifting from relaxed to focused in an instant.
“Been a while.” He drains his cup and sets it in the sink. “Think Keira will notice we’re gone?”
“She’ll be at the studio all day.” I’m already mentally cataloging what we’ll need. “We’ll be back before she finishes rehearsal.”
Within twenty minutes, we’re sitting in Xavier Blackwood’s office—a minimalist space of black leather and chrome that matches his coldly efficient personality.
“Vincent Marconi.” Xavier slides a file across the polished surface. “He’s been pushing product in the east district. Three of our dealers have disappeared in the last week.”
I flip through the file, absorbing details: locations, habits, security measures. Cyrus reads over my shoulder, our breathing falling into a synchronized rhythm.
“Clean?” Cyrus asks.
Xavier’s mouth curves into what might be called a smile. “Messy. Send a message.”
We nod in unison. No further questions needed.
Two hours later,we’re parked outside Marconi’s favorite restaurant, a small Italian place downtown. I check my watch.
“Three minutes,” I say.
Cyrus adjusts his leather gloves. “Fool has lunch at the same place and time every Tuesday. You’d think a man in his position would vary his routine.”
“They never learn.” I slide a silenced pistol into my waistband, hidden beneath my tailored jacket. “We’ve eliminated how many like him?”
“Lost count at fifty,” Cyrus replies with indifference. “Exit through the kitchen?”
“Always.” I nod toward the back alley. “I’ll herd him, and you execute.”
We move in tandem, wordlessly splitting up as we approach the restaurant. I circle around to the main entrance while Cyrus slips toward the back.
Tracking Marconi is disappointingly easy. His security is lax—two men at his table. Amateur work. I take my position at the bar, ordering a drink I won’t consume, eyes scanning.
Our gazes lock across the restaurant—Cyrus through the kitchen window, me at the bar. A slight nod passes between us. This is what we do. This is who we are.
The killing will be simple. Just another Tuesday.
