Shit.
Carmen is crouched in the corner, and Ivan is dealing with tech-bro number three. The only person to see is…
Mia slams the hilt of her knife into the dead man’s forehead, effectively covering the cause of death, before letting him slump to the floor.
She spins on the spot. Turns to look toward the broken window. Her jaw is set and downright furious as she glares.
I’m not even sure if she can see me, but I know from that look that she knows exactly who pulled the trigger.
Before she can do anything else, her attention is snatched by Carmen and she goes running to her side. Gathering the woman up in her arms and hoisting her trembling figure over her shoulder.
Ivan is with them a second later, having dispatched the rest of the men. I can’t make out the flurry of words he seems to be yelling at Mia, so I draw back.
The house was by no means empty, and now people are running out the back and spilling onto the front yard in various states of distress.
It won’t be long now until the cops arrive.
Ivan shoves Mia and Carmen through the door, and I take the opportunity to pack up my things and make a swift exit of my own.
13
MIA
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Carmen says for perhaps the hundredth time as I walk her to her front door.
“It’s okay, really,” I say once again, knowing my reassurance really isn’t going to do much. It hasn’t so far. “This is what you hired me for.”
“I shouldn’t have slapped him,” she whispers. Big brown eyes staring up at me. She only just stopped crying a few minutes ago.
“If you hadn’t, I would’ve. I’m kinda proud of you, actually.”
She half smiles at this. I take it as a win.
“Take it easy, all right?” I back away from the door and head back to the car.
She offers me a wave as I pull away, and I’m suddenly struck by how small she is. Logically, I know she’s probably slightly taller than me. But this poor girl seems so unprepared for the world she’s been thrust into, and it makes my heart ache a bit.
I focus on that as I drive back to the townhouse, as well as the throbbing pain in my arm that is concealed beneath my jacket. It’s easier than thinking about what I’m about to face.
There is probably still glass in the wound. The window had exploded out of nowhere, and I’d shielded Carmen instinctively.
But I wasn’t about to pull over to patch it up. Not when the keen sting was the only thing reminding me to keep to the speed limit.
Going home crosses my mind. It would serve him right if I never showed up at the brownstone again.
I tell myself it’s my anger that tethers me to him. That the reason I pull up to the familiar building is because confrontation is always inevitable when I’m in this state. I’ve never shied away from this before; hiding away wouldn’t serve me now.
I tell myself it’s anger when I open the door and find him waiting at the bottom of the staircase, head in his hands. Dark blonde hair, entirely unkempt, falling over his chocolate eyes.
It has to be the anger. That’s the only reason my heart begins to race.
His head snaps up the second I walk in the door.
And oh, oh…the concern in his eyes would make a lesser woman swoon.
But there would be no need for his concern if he hadn’t intervened like that.
I wrestle off my jacket and kick off my boots and don’t bother lowering my voice. “You weren’t supposed to fucking be there.”
