Page 72 of Don’t Say Mafia

“She was at work.”

There was a pause, then Cruz said thoughtfully, “Okay, when you say it out loud like that, it sounds less healthy.”

“Shocking revelation,” I muttered as we stopped about a block from Eden’s apartment. “We should probably all unpack that in therapy. Together. In a group.”

“Just try not to traumatize the girl,” Cruz said as I thanked Zachary and got out.

“That’s the plan,” I answered before I pulled out the earpiece and threw it in the car.

That was the plan.

CHAPTER 16

JAGGER

Zachary had confirmed earlier that chicken noodle soup had been delivered at six for Eden to eat for dinner . . . along with a precise dose of tasteless sedative stirred in. It was perfectly harmless, of course, but it had been a high enough dose to push her into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I pulled up the camera feed on my phone while I walked the last block to her building. The live view loaded in seconds. She was curled on her side, knees drawn close to her chest, and her dark hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. Her breathing moved in slow, even waves, steady and untroubled, and her lips were parted just slightly. There was no tension in her shoulders, no restless shifting beneath the blanket . . . just peaceful, drugged oblivion.

I watched for another thirty seconds, my thumb hovering over the screen as I made sure her breathing stayed even and nothing happened that would force me to adjust my plan. The cameras had shown her finishing her soup earlier, but you never knew.

She stayed completely still, though. Perfect.

I locked the phone and slipped it into my pocket.

The back stairwell smelled like mold and old cigarettes as I took the steps two at a time. When I got to her door, I slid my key into the lock and turned it slowly until the deadbolt gave with a soft click. Pushing the door open just enough to slip inside, I closed it behind me without letting it latch too loudly.

The apartment was dark except for the faint blue glow from the oven clock in the kitchen. 3:16 a.m. The living room smelled more like her and less like him, which was just how I liked it. Another day or two, and any trace of him, at least scent-wise, would be gone.

Her apartment was so cramped that it only took me a few steps to get to her bedroom doorway, and when I got there, I took a second to savor the sight.

I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it.

Something tightened beneath my ribs when I saw her. I was still getting used to the way I orbited her even when I wasn’t with her. Whatever I was experiencing didn’t feel like fear . . . or nerves.

It felt like pressure, something almost violent in its insistence. Like my body had decided that proximity to her was oxygen, and distance was suffocation.

I’d killed for less than this feeling.

I stepped closer, watching the gentle rhythm of her breathing. The way her lashes cast faint shadows against her cheeks. The way her fingers curled into the sheet as if even in sleep she was holding on to something.

I wondered, briefly, if this was what people meant when they talked about love.

Not the soft, polite version. Not the kind that fit inside greeting cards.

But the feral kind.

The kind that makes you feel like your lungs might collapse if you go too long without seeing someone’s face. The kind that convinces you your hands were built for the sole purpose of touching them. The kind that rearranges your moral compass until right and wrong become secondary to mine.

If I couldn’t see her, I felt restless.

If I couldn’t touch her, something inside me scraped and clawed.

If she disappeared, I wasn’t entirely sure that I wouldn’t burn the world down looking for her.

My chest tightened even more.

I crossed the room in three strides, dropping to my knees beside the bed. My hand hovered over her face, and I couldn’t stop myself from brushing my fingers against her cheek. She sighed and turned toward my touch like a flower seeking sun.