Silas Vescari.
He’s tall with broad shoulders and a solid build, the kind of frame that takes up space even when he isn’t moving.
His hair is dark, short, and slightly uneven, not styled but not careless either.
When he steps into the light, I get a better look at his face. At the defined jaw, high cheekbones, and straight nose.
Everyone knows who he is and what he does. He’s the head of the Vescari. The biggest crime syndicate in the state.
Not to mention the most ruthless man in the city.
What they don’t tell you is how he seems to suck in the darkness of the room. How even with dim lighting, it’s as if it avoids his space, and my instinct is to do the same.
His dark gaze sweeps around the room before it finally lands on me, as if I’m an afterthought that just stepped in. Instinct is great; it tells you when you should know better and when to run.Dealing with these types of men, however, you learn to ignore it and then some.
Annoyed at the intrusion, I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t let anyone but Tori into my morgue. That’s rule number one. I don’t care who you are or who you work for; when I’m with a body, I work alone. But it’s not just that I like to work alone. I also don’t like anyone standing behind me.
I like to keep everything out of my blind spot.
His invasion of my space sparks the fire in my blood. Men like this think they own everyone and everything.
“You falsified a report,” he says to me.
His voice is deep and smooth, and he holds himself with the confidence of a man who isn’t afraid of anything or anyone.
I know men like him because I’ve been surrounded by them my entire life.
“I prefer to call it correcting a narrative,” I say, refusing to be intimidated.
He takes a step forward, and in the fluorescent lights, I see his eyes are a deep blue, almost black, and they’re …beautiful.
Unlike Cian Hayes, this man doesn’t perform power.He is power.And he knows it.
“You knew who he was,” he says, his gaze drifting to the body on the table. “Knew he was one of my men.” His tone comes out more clipped, as if I was the one who put the bullet in him.
“Yes.” There is no point in lying. The Vescari crew all have a brand on them. A tattoo announcing their allegiance to the family. This guy had it on his back. A raven mid-flight. There is no way I couldn’t know he was a Vescari.
“Yet you did it anyway.” He drags those deep sapphire eyes back to me.
I can see why people are afraid of this man, why they cower in fear in his presence. But I refuse to be afraid. And I sure as fuck don’t cower.
Not anymore.
“It’s my job,” I say. I don’t look away. I’m not going to show him any fear. “There was no conflict of interest. I don’t work for you.”
“No, you don’t. You work for my enemies.”
“No, I work for the dead.”
He continues watching me in a very methodical way. The type of man I hate the most, because what’s more dangerous than a man with pure muscle and bloodlust? One who actually has a brain.
Silas steps closer. He’s wearing a suit jacket and a button-up shirt open at the collar. His chest and neck are covered in ink. Tattoos crawl out from his shirt cuff and travel along his hands to his fingertips.
I briefly glance at my scalpels, which are in reaching distance at the edge of the counter. He notices, but continues walking forward as he says, “By falsifying records?”
“By ensuring they don’t end up in a shallow grave in the woods. It’s because I do this that the dead get buried.”
“You do this for money.” He comes to a stop in front of me, pocketing his hands casually as if he’s every bit a gentleman. He leaves enough distance for me to reach for the scalpel first if I need it.
