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And then he was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of soap and cinnamon.
Mercer waited a beat before stepping closer, eyeing the coffee and bakery box. “Well,” he said, voice edged with something unpleasant, “looks like graveyard shift’s got its perks.”
Felicity didn’t look up, resentful as his overpowering aftershave obliterated the lingering trace of soap and cinnamon. “Got something you need, Mercer?”
“Just wondering if I should start working nights,” he said, lips curling. “Might score myself breakfast.”
Her gaze lifted then, cool and steady. “I’ll let the sheriff know you volunteered.”
“Bitch,” Mercer muttered, already turning away as he slunk to his side of the bullpen.
She returned to her report, sipping the delicious hot brew. The treat she’d save for later. When she could let herself think about it.
About Ronan Murphy bringing her coffee.
And a cinnamon bun.
And that he’s only ever had sex with two women.
And she was one of the two.
A smile tugged at her lips, the never-ending paperwork not quite so tedious anymore.
7
Reality
The past slapped Felicity upside the head a couple of weeks after the coffee-and-bun incident. In that time, she’d caught glimpses of the man occupying far too much real estate in her mind, but they hadn’t spoken.
The wake-up call came when someone turned up the volume on the television mounted in the bullpen.
“Previously pardoned Russian organized crime figure—”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers stilling over the keyboard.
And focused on the large screen across the room.
An image filled the screen. He was older. Heavier. Haggard, even.
“Vasily Liminov has been captured and formally charged—”
Her stomach lurched. The room tilted.
The fluorescent lights suddenly felt too bright, too close.
The anchor kept talking, words stacking one on top of the other — murder, trafficking, remanded to Rikers — but Felicity heard them as if underwater.
Someone snorted near the coffee machine. “Devil’s finally back behind bars.”
The word devil broke something open.
She was nine. Sitting at the dining room table with her sisters, her legs swinging because they couldn’t quite reach the floor. Uncle Vasily standing too straight, voice too calm, telling them their mother had died in a car accident.
No details. Just an explanation neat enough to swallow.
But his eyes … cold, dark. Soulless.
Devil eyes.
