Chapter 8
Jiya
For a week, I’ve been waiting for the knock on the door. For the wail of a siren stopping outside my building, or the cold shadow of Calloway Frost appearing at the end of a dark street.
For seven days, I’ve received nothing but silence. That means he doesn’t know. It means no one knows. It means the universe didn’t even notice my mistake.
The crash of the lighting rig. The man’s body crumpled beneath twisted metal and shattered glass. The screams that followed.
I’ve never killed the wrong person before. Never. My targets are carefully selected predators who escaped justice—men who hurt or kill and walked free. Not some gallery hustler who happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was sloppy. Emotional. Amateur.
I let jealousy cloud my judgment when I saw Calloway with Aanya. Let feelings compromise my mission. But I will make it right.
I ease the door closed behind me. The narrow alley stretches before me like a secret passageway between worlds.
Behind me, Nonna Grazia’s unmarked apothecary, ahead, the bustle of Salem Street and Boston’s North End.
The city’s sounds are a distant murmur here, muffled by brick walls that hum with history. I adjust my bag on my shoulder, the weight of my purchases a solid, satisfying reassurance.
“Remember, child,” Nonna had whispered, her accent thick as honey as she’d measured dried foxglove into a small scale. “This is not for tea. Not ever.”
I simply nodded, maintaining the facade of a woman seeking traditional remedies for a sickly grandmother. The old Italian woman didn’t need to know the true purpose. Better that way. Plausible deniability.
I straighten and continue down the alley, my footsteps firmer now. This is about reclaiming control. I have a method. A code.
Back to basics. No more elaborate schemes with rigged lighting or public spectacles. Just me, my expertise in chemistry, and the intimate kill I’ve perfected.
A single drop of water, cold as ice, hits the back of my neck.
I flinch, looking up from the cracked pavement just as the sky splits open.
One moment I’m walking with my bag of poisons, checking my watch and plotting my next move, then a torrent hits like someone upended the ocean. My blouse is a second skin, cold and clinging within seconds.
“Shit!”
I spot a faded blue awning and make a break for it, my shoes squelching with every step. I duck under the canvas, only to slam into a wall of damp, expensive-smelling man.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
The words die on my tongue. It’s him.
My blood runs cold. Every muscle in my body seizes, coiling for a fight or flight that is impossible in this narrow space. He knows. He followed me.
But his eyes aren’t cold with vengeance. They widen in simple, unfeigned surprise. “Jiya?”
The normalcy of his tone is a splash of cold water. He’s not here to kill me. He’s just a man caught in the rain.
“Calloway. What are you doing here?”
He lifts his camera. “Working. There’s an old Italian baker down the street with hands like topographical maps. Seventy years of kneading dough.” He glances at the wall of water trapping us under the small awning. “I wasn’t expecting the biblical flood.”
I shift my weight, aware of how close we’re standing. The store’s awning barely covers us both, and each time the wind changes direction, spray hits my back.
“You’re soaked,” he says, eyes dropping to my chest where my blouse clings to my skin.
I cross my arms. “Thanks for the update.”
His lips quirk. “And here I was about to offer you my jacket.”
“Keep it. I’ll dry.”
Lightning flashes, illuminating his face in stark white. Thunder follows almost instantly. The storm is directly overhead.
“Impressive storm.” His shoulder brushes against mine as he leans to peer up at the sky. “It's going to be a while before this lets up.”
I hoist the bag higher on my shoulder, a gesture I hope passes for casual. Three different poisons, each capable of killing him in painful ways, swing between us.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks, like he can read my thoughts.
“Groceries.” I shift it behind me.
“I love the markets here. Best produce in Boston if you know where to look.”
Water drums against the awning, creating a strange bubble of privacy in the middle of the city. Everyone else has disappeared, either inside or under whatever shelter they could find.
I place my bag on the floor and take a step backward, letting the edge of the downpour splash against my ankles.
“What are you doing?” Calloway asks.
I don’t answer. Instead, I take another step back, until I’m fully exposed to the deluge. Cold water streams down my face, plastering my hair to my scalp. My clothes, already wet, now cling to every curve of my body.
I close my eyes and tilt my face up. The sensation overwhelms me, cool drops hammering against my skin.
When was the last time I did something like this? Without calculation?
I open my eyes and extend my hand toward Calloway. “Come on.”
“You’re insane,” he says, but his smile contradicts his words.
“Maybe. But we’re already wet.”
He hesitates, glancing at my bag still sitting under the awning. The bag containing everything I need to end his life. He places his camera case beside it and steps into the rain.
Rivulets stream down his face, tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones. In this moment, with water darkening his hair and his usual careful composure dissolved, he looks younger. Vulnerable.
I take his hand. His fingers close around mine, warm despite the chilly rain.
I spin slowly, and he follows my lead, our movements creating swirls in the water pooling around our feet.
“I haven’t danced in the rain since I was a kid,” he says, his voice rougher now.
“Me neither.”
We move together, finding a rhythm in the storm’s percussion. His hand slides to my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs. The space between us shrinks until there’s nothing but heat and rain and the intoxicating scent of his skin.
His eyes trace the curves of my face, then lower, drinking in the sight of my rain-soaked body. When his thumb brushes against the small of my back, I arch into him involuntarily, a soft gasp escaping my lips.
I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like this. Not as a target or a tool or a means to an end, but as a woman. As Jiya.
The realization hits me with more force than the rain. For the first time in seven years, I don’t want to complete a mission. The thought terrifies me more than any of my victims ever have.
What if I’m wrong about him? What if those gallery deaths aren’t what I think they are?
His eyes darken as they focus on my parted lips, and I can’t breathe.
For one terrifying moment, I want nothing more than to forget why I’m here. To let him kiss me. To lose myself in the heat building between us.
But Amber’s face flashes in my mind. My roommate, broken and lifeless because a monster wearing a charming smile convinced her to trust him. I can’t let my guard down. Not even for this. Not even when my body is screaming for his touch.
I step back, breaking contact, my heart hammering against my ribs. Water drips from my chin as I retreat to the shelter of the awning, leaving him standing alone in the downpour.
“Getting too cold,” I lie, wrapping my arms around myself.
Cold is the last thing I am. The space between us is a furnace, and the heat radiating from his body sinks into my skin. Each breath draws in his scent. Rain-slicked skin, expensive cologne, and something else beneath it all. The scent of him, undiluted.
Calloway points down the street. “There’s a laundromat a few stores down. We can dry our clothes there.” His eyes meet mine. “If you want.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my traitorous body betrays me as goosebumps rise along my arms.
He notices. Of course, he notices. Those artist’s eyes don’t miss a detail.
“Your lips are practically blue,” he says.
They’re not. My eyes fix on his mouth, on the small space between us. A single step. A slight tilt of my head. That’s all it would take.
I bite my lip hard, using the sting to focus. “Fine. Laundromat it is.”
I need to put some space between us. This proximity is dangerous. I’m forgetting who he is.
“Ready?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s a short sprint, but we’re going to get soaked.”
“We’re already soaked.”
His eyes darken. “Three, two, one—”
We bolt into the downpour. Rain hammers against us as we splash through puddles. My fingers clutch the bag tight against my chest.
Calloway reaches the laundromat door first, pulling it open. “Ladies first,” he shouts over the storm.
I duck inside, dripping onto the worn linoleum floor. The fluorescent lights hum overhead in the space. Rows of washing machines line the walls, and the warm, humid air smells of detergent and fabric softener.
At least I can breathe again.
I squeeze my dripping hair, watching a small puddle form between my rain-soaked shoes.
An older man sits behind a small counter near the entrance, his face illuminated by the blue light of his phone. Deep creases line his face like a roadmap of years spent in this humid space. He barely looks up as we drip all over his floor.
“Need detergent?” he mumbles, glancing at our soaked clothes before returning to whatever has captured his attention on the small screen.
“We’re fine,” Calloway answers, water still streaming from his jacket.
The man grunts and hunches further over his phone, the conversation clearly finished.
I scan the laundromat. Besides the owner at the front, we’re alone. Two machines hum and spin, creating white intimate noise. Most of the overhead fluorescents work, but the ones at the back flicker, creating alternating patterns of shadow and harsh light.
“Come on,” Calloway says, nodding toward the rear of the laundromat. “More space back there.”
I follow him past rows of industrial washers and dryers. The back corner offers some privacy—out of the owner’s line of sight, hidden behind the large commercial machines.