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“Both are pretty bad,” she confirms.
I grin at her. “You were terrifying just now, you know that?”
She snorts. “You’re the one that threw him into a tree.”
“That’s easy. You stood there looking at him like you were going to crucify him.”
“Who said I’m not going to?” She tugs on her hair. It’s a small, nervous gesture. “I don’t like this.”
“You think the detective is involved?”
“I don’t know. Either that or someone higher than her.”
“Five dead cartel members and nobody heard a thing. Makes sense someone in law enforcement might be covering it up.”
“Don’t go there.” She jabs a finger into my arm. “You hear me, Angelo? I know you mobsters love to hate the cops—”
“We love to love the cops. They take our envelopes of cash and we stay out of prison. Mostly, anyway. It’s a great relationship.”
She flinches and rubs her face. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Oh, grow up. You think cops love to make eighty grand a year to put their lives on the line and get shit on by the public every day? ‘Back the Blue’ doesn’t mean a damn thing for some guy trying to buy diapers. They take a little something on the side to make it all worth their effort and you people still get to stay safe. It all evens out.”
“Right, the world’s so messed up.” She trudges back to the motel. “You don’t have to make it even worse.”
“Can you really blame me? I was born with nothing and I was given nothing, so what if I bend the rules in my favor where I can?”
“That’s the difference between us,0 I guess. You bend the rules toward yourself, and I stick to the rules to help everyone else.”
I follow after her. I really can’t tell if Sara’s naive or just principled. No reason it couldn’t be both, and I respect her for it, I really do, but I’ve been in this shit long enough that I know how things go.
Nothing is easy and nothing is free—and nobody is too expensive to buy.
Not even cops. Not even detectives.
Chapter 13
Sara
The case spreads out in front of me on the floor of the hotel room.
Files, interviews, photographs, handwritten notes. All the evidence, no matter how flimsy. All my commentary, no matter how worthless.
And it’s not enough.
Not nearly enough.
I pull my knees to my chest and keep seeing Angelo chase the manager down in my head. Over and over, the scene plays out: Angelo sprinting after him, the manager slamming into the tree, Angelo standing over poor Wally like an avenging angel. It was everything I didn’t want to do and yet I felt a strange, almost sickening rush knowing that Angelo could hurt the guy—would hurt the guy—if given the chance.
If I gave him the word.
That’s a strange power, knowing that a man like Angelo would do something like that for me. It’s a strange, disgusting power, and I feel an odd self-loathing as the excitement of the idea rushes down into my veins.
Angelo’s raw power. He’s violence, and fear, and strength. He’s everything the law isn’t supposed to be and I should try harder to hold him back, but I don’t want to.
And that terrifies me.
My whole life I’ve been told to do the right thing. Work hard, get ahead, stay in my lane. And now Angelo’s here and I feel like breaking away from all that and doing things I never dreamed were possible before.
Horrible things.
The door to the bedroom opens. Angelo comes out wearing a pair of tight joggers and nothing else, a small towel over his shoulders, his hair still damp from the shower. His skin glistens, clean and bright, and he walks over to the minifridge and grabs a drink. “You want something?” he asks.
“Working.”
“You’re always working.” He sits on the chair across from me. “Why not take a break? We could go out for dinner.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?”
He laughs and looks me up and down. God, I hate when he does that, but a strange thrill jolts my stomach. “I was thinking more like a friendly meal between colleagues, but I’d love to make it something more.”
“No, thanks. To both versions.”
“You work too hard.” He sighs and takes a long slug from his can. “Why not relax?”
“Because if I relax then Nicolas remains in jail.”
His expression darkens. “You know I don’t want that.”
“Then you should let me work.”
“All I’m saying is you’re going to burn out and you won’t do Nicolas any good once that happens.”
“I’m fine.” I studiously avoid looking at him. His muscular chest is a damn distraction, and I can’t afford a distraction right now.
“You’re clearly not. You’re trying to avoid reality.”
I scoff and glance over, which is a mistake, because he’s got one arm behind his head and his bicep flexes like heaven.
