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Couldn’t save my mother when I was seven, can’t save my wife now.
I’m stroking her cheek and beginning to move her head into my lap when a deep, dark voice calls over my shoulder. “You’re not supposed to move head injuries.”
Recognition flickers before I even turn my head, and when I do, I’m met by a flash of black—the Grim Reaper in the flesh.
Kal Anderson smirks down at me, reaching up to adjust the black knit cap he constantly wears, like that kid from the Archie comics. He shoves his hands in his trench coat pockets, rocking back on his heels. “So, this is the infamous Caroline Harrison?”
“Montalto,” I correct, even though I’m sure she hasn’t changed her name yet. And why should she, when she thinks this is all over after our prenup expires?
“Hm. She know that?”
“Does she know she’s married to me? Yes, dick.”
Kal chuckles, crouching down to his knees beside me. “That’s not what it looked like when she flung herself onto the lap of that man you just murdered. Looked like she was trying to take him for a ride. And not on the River Styx, if you catch my drift.”
“Gesù Cristo.” I huff out a breath, running a hand through my hair. “You looking to join that fucker?”
Shrugging, he presses his palm to Caroline’s forehead. “You couldn’t kill me even if you really wanted to.”
He’s not wrong, and it only pisses me off further. What Kal lacks in outright muscle and weight, he makes up for in stealth and medical knowledge. The man is cold, calculated, and too smart for his own good.
It’s part of the reason why the Riccis in Boston, our parent outfit, hired him in the first place; there isn’t a man on the East Coast with a higher body count or more skilled in torture.
“I’m just saying, something fishy was going on here.” Pulling back, he reaches into his pocket for a handheld flashlight and uses his opposite hand to peel Caroline’s eyelids back, checking the pupils. “I don’t give a shit who you kill, but have you ever seen someone sit around and watch while you did it?”
“We all do that. New recruits, especially.”
“A civilian, though? She couldn’t tear her eyes away.”
He pockets the light, hand dropping to her right ankle. My fingers itch to dig into his skin and pull him away—to keep him from touching her. But a sliver of metal catches my attention as he rolls her limb, turning her heel, so it faces me.
Tucked into the strap of the stilettos she has on is a tiny pocketknife, folded shut and clipped on for safekeeping.
“That’s the same one she had in her underwear when we met.” I run a finger over it, remembering how she’d acted like it wasn’t an unusual accessory.
“Know many girls that carry?”
“Around here? Just about all of them.”
“Yeah, strippers employed at a club known for its high-quality blow.” He rolls his eyes. “What’s your over-protected, sheltered wife doing with this? How’d she get in here with it?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw, the stubble rubbing me raw—irritation spikes in me at his presence, at his logic. More now than ever, it’s clear to me that Caroline was being abused behind the scenes by her father, but I still don’t know exactly what she’s doingnow.
If this is a plan for revenge, why not go straight to the source?
Why involve me at all?
“What are you doing here, Kal?”
“Just finished up a meeting with your dad, since I was told you weren’t taking calls.” He stands, brushing a piece of fuzz from his black jeans. “Now, I see why.”
“Why did you meet at all?”
Hesitating, he sighs. “Because Kieran Ivers owes me a favor, and your dad wants to collect.”
“Of fucking course, he does. Save the favor, Kal.” I glance over my shoulder at the body lying on the ground, then slide my gaze back to our fixer. “Can you handle that?”
He scoffs. “Don’t fucking insult me.” Gripping the balcony in one bony hand, he sweeps past me, coattails swishing behind him. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he turns his head. “She probably has a concussion, so when she comes-to, don’t let her go to sleep for a few hours. Try to keep her from vomiting and exerting herself.”
