Chapter 15
Aurora
The wooden futon couch I stumbled upon on the curb that doubles as my bed has been gutted. Foam innards spill across the floor like pale intestines, the cushions I’d carefully stitched sheets onto in an attempt to reupholster slashed and scattered, the fabric hanging in ribbons.
My small bookshelf is knocked over, paperbacks and textbooks from my abandoned college days strewn across the floor, their pages ripped out and their covers bent back.
The fridge door hangs open, its meager contents dumped onto the linoleum. Even the ancient oven and microwave are open.
My few framed photos are shattered on the floor. Samantha and me at her high school graduation, my grandmother in her garden, my mother’s graduation picture that I’ve kept despite the pain it brings. The frames are broken, the photos themselves torn or stabbed through.
The site before me is not just one of destruction.
It’s violation.
Someone has ransacked my things and destroyed what little I have. Invaded the one space that was mine alone.
“No.” The whisper works its way up my throat and past my dry lips as horror spreads through me. “No, no, no.”
My gaze snaps to the corner that houses my art supplies—the one area of my life where I still feel some control, some purpose—and my heart plummets to the floor. My tile cutters, nippers, grout tools…are all thrown about the floor.
Boxes of salvaged glass and ceramic pieces are upended, colors mingling in a chaotic heap. The small work table is overturned. And both of the pieces I was working on, a commissioned piece and one special project for Samantha’s birthday, are smashed beyond repair.
Broken things I could always fix or reassemble into something beautiful. But this? This deliberate destruction feels personal. Malicious.
I turn in a slow circle, cataloguing the damage, striving to understand what they were searching for. Money? I have none, except for the meager amount in my bank account. Information? About what? The murder I witnessed? The conversation I overheard at Gio Falcone’s party months ago?
Gio.
The name rises in my mind like a dark tide as my gaze lands on a picture pinned to the far wall. A splash of white against the peeling paint. I drift closer, bare feet navigating the debris strewn across the floor.
A high-quality photograph. Clearly taken with an expensive lens. My body temperature plunges when I recognize the subject.
Samantha.
My beautiful, brilliant little sister walking out of her dormitory.
Her auburn hair glints in the sunlight, and she has her backpack slung over one shoulder, her coffee in hand.
She’s smiling at something out of frame, unaware she’s being tracked.
Unaware of the stark red crosshair superimposed over her face.
There’s a note below the captured image. The neat block letters seem almost mechanical in their precision.
“Silence is a sister’s best friend. Next time, we won’t miss.”
The message is chilling in its simplicity, and I know immediately who sent it.
Does Gio think I ran my mouth about the conversation I overheard at his mansion?
He knows I work at Red Bird’s. Knows I was there last night. Somehow, he’s connected me to Benny’s death and to whatever’s happening between his organization and Alexei’s. He believes I’m involved and might talk. And he’s reminding me of exactly what I’ll lose if I do.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the photo and yank it free from the wall. The paper tears, leaving Samantha’s smiling face bisected. The red crosshair is somehow more vivid against the damaged surface.
An anxiety I can’t contain mounts in my chest. A raw, primal sob rips from my throat. Then another. And another. Soon, I’m on my knees in the middle of my destroyed home, clutching the image of my threatened sister to my chest, body convulsing with the force of my fear.
No. Please, no.
Not Samantha. Not my baby sister. The only good thing I’ve managed not to ruin. She believes in me, depends on me. She doesn’t know I’m the reason our mother died and our father left. She’s the one person I’ve dedicated my life to protecting, to giving a future to.
The one person I cannot—will not—let them hurt.
But how do I stop them? Gio with his millions and his connections. Alexei with his gun and his threats. I doubt the police would believe me. They might even be on one of their payrolls.
My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stumble out of my apartment while still clutching the photo of Samantha. The hallway spins around me. Grimy walls close in. The ancient carpet beneath my bare feet is sticky with decades of spilled beer and God knows what else.
I need to run, to hide, to get as far away from this place as possible.
Heavy footsteps approach.
“Bailey.” The all-too-familiar voice sends a fresh wave of dread through my already overloaded system.
I whirl around, pressing my back against the wall.
My landlord stands five feet away, arms crossed over his stained white wifebeater, eyes roving over me with undisguised interest. Maurice Kaplanski, a fiftysomething man with thinning hair combed over a shiny scalp, has the perpetual stink of cheap cigars clinging to his clothes.
On the first of every month, he’s the bane of my existence. Given a choice between dealing with Maurice and my period, I’d choose stomach cramps and bloating every time.
“Late on rent, Bailey. Again.” He clicks his tongue against his yellowed teeth, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I know, I know. I get paid next Friday. I swear I’ll have it then.” At least, I hope Nick honors his word.
“Hmm.” His lust-filled gaze skims over me, catching on where my bare legs meet the short hem of the filthy maid costume.
My skin crawls more than usual.
“I promise I’ll pay you then. I’ve got half of it in the bank already. And I’m working special gigs. They pay extra! Tips are great for—”
“Heard that before.” A calculating expression narrows his eyes. “And rent’s going up.”
The words knock the breath from my lungs. “What? How much?”
“A lot.” Maurice comes closer and places a hand on the wall beside my head, invading my space. The scent of cheap cigars and body odor engulfs me. “But you and me, we could work something out.”
His gaze crawls over the costume again, lingering on places I want to scrub. Understanding dawns. This isn’t the first time he’s suggested alternate payment methods. But there’s something more predatory in his current approach, as if he senses my desperation, my vulnerability.
He’s like a jackal, circling in when the prey is already wounded.
“I don’t think so.” Though I try to sound firm, my voice wavers. I’m exhausted, terrified, and at the end of my rope. I have no leverage or power in this situation.
A shadow detaches from the end of the hallway, elongating across the grimy carpet. I sense the shift in the air before I even fully register what I’m seeing. A presence, massive and silent, moving with deliberate purpose toward us.
My heart stutters, then quickens once recognition zips through me.
Alexei.
Maurice’s body goes rigid. Animal instinct. A predator sensing a larger, deadlier predator. His arm drops from the wall, and he retreats a little.
A silent, surprisingly intense cheer blossoms in me. This is the first time I’ve ever seen my landlord scared. The satisfaction is brief but potent.
Alexei prowls forward with controlled, measured steps, his cold blue eyes flicking between us as he assesses the situation. Anger is banked but visible in the tight line of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders.
Maurice puffs up his chest, trying to reclaim the authority that just evaporated. “Who the fuck are you?”
Alexei doesn’t answer. Not right away.
He stalks closer, towering over us both like a small mountain of barely contained violence. His gaze sweeps over me—noting the crumpled photo in my hand, my bare feet, the fear I can’t hide—before settling on the landlord.
Too fast to track, Alexei’s hand shoots out and encases my landlord’s throat. Maurice chokes, eyes bulging, hands rising up to claw at the fingers around his windpipe.
“I’m hers.” Alexei’s quiet voice is conversational, as if he isn’t one twitch away from crushing a man’s larynx. “But what you should really worry about is that she’s mine.”
My head spins at the words.
Hers. Mine.
A raw, possessive claim, spoken with a certainty that rewrites reality around us. He hasn’t touched me, but he’s just thrown a cloak of ownership over me in front of a threat. Like I’m territory being marked.
Like I belong to him.
Maurice’s face has become an alarming shade of purple. “She…owes…rent.”
“You own this building?” Alexei studies Maurice as if that possibility stuns him.
Unable to speak with the pressure still on his throat, the landlord nods frantically.
Alexei’s lips curl into the ghost of a smile. “By tomorrow morning, you won’t.”
My jaw drops.
The implication is clear. Alexei plans to buy the entire property just to solve my rent problem. Just to punish this man for threatening me. The casual display of power and wealth leaves me light-headed.
Alexei releases Maurice, who staggers to the side, gasping and rubbing his throat. The purple recedes from his face, restoring his skin’s natural olive hue. His neck shows no visible marks, but the man’s eyes are wide with terror and humiliation.
“Get out of my sight.” Alexei doesn’t need to raise his voice.
Maurice glances between us before backing away, still rubbing his throat and mumbling about the rent being due regardless.
He retreats down the hallway, the usual swagger in his gait replaced by more of a scurry. Only when he disappears around the corner do I release a breath.
I’m alone with Alexei in the dingy hallway. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the scent of mildew and old carpet heavy in the air.
I’ve spent my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the next disaster, the next abandonment, the next person to hurt or leave me. There’s a twisted security in being with the guy who picks up the shoe and squashes anyone who tries to harm me.
But he’s also the man who shot Benny in that alley. Who tied me up, gagged me, blindfolded me, and held me captive in his loft.
Confusion wars with all the other emotions boiling up inside me. The man I should fear most is the one I currently feel safest with. The killer has become the protector.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Nothing except the primal instinct that whispers, “Stay close to the most dangerous predator in the room, and hope he continues to see you as his.”