Chapter 4
Matteo
Steam billows out behind me as I step from the shower, water droplets racing down the black ink etched across my chest. I hum to myself as I catch them all and dry off.
Fuck, I can’t wait to get my hands on Raven again. I wonder what part of the country has produced a woman like her; quick-witted and sexy as sin. And if she noticed my prosthetic eye, it never once seemed to bother her.
Not once.
While I prefer my eyepatch, the prosthetic is better when going out. Still, most people can sense the wrongness.
It’s not that I haven’t gotten my dick wet since losing my eye. Of course I have. But unlike Raven, those women knew about my injury and put up with it because of my name. Bagging a Russo would be their life’s dream.
That’s what I get for picking up women at the Leone Room.
I pause, one hand absently drying my hair with a towel, the other reaching for a clean pair of boxers. I’ve just managed to pull them up when I hear the soft mechanical ping announcing the elevator’s arrival.
Throwing open the bathroom door, I shout, “Raven?”
I’m out of the bathroom and across the bedroom in only a few strides. I make it to the living room just as the elevator doors slide shut, and I catch a glimpse of blonde waves and defiant brown eyes.
Her middle finger rises in a salute, lips curving into that smirk as she blows me a kiss.
“Thank you for all the orgasms,” she says, grinning widely.
Then she’s gone from view.
“Fuck.” It lands like a laugh.
A part of me—a significant part—appreciates the audacity. Most women linger, hoping to stretch one night into something more permanent. Raven does the opposite, slipping away like she’s the one who got what she wanted and now she’s done with me.
But I’m not done with her. Not even close.
I get dressed in record time before grabbing my keys. My fingers skim over the hidden drawer near the elevator where I keep my weapons. Without taking the time to think it through, I pick a blade—thin, six inches, sharp enough to split a hair.
Since she’s using the elevator, I exit through the front door and run toward the stairs. The stairwell door slams behind me as I take the steps three at a time. Twenty-seven flights.
I could wait for the other elevator on the landing, but something primal is buzzing under my skin, urging me faster.
By the twelfth floor, my breathing is still even, but sweat coats my skin. My mind catalogs the possibilities. She could be calling a car, waiting in the lobby, maybe already outside. If I’m lucky, she’ll still be there. If I’m not…
The knife is cool against my palm. The burn scars on my face prickle the way they do before sex or blood.
Rather than heading for the lobby, I swerve left and burst through the emergency exit into the side courtyard, the pre-dawn air chilling my damp skin. The building’s elaborate stonework creates shadows upon shadows, but my one good eye adjusts quickly.
Movement draws my attention to the left. A flash of blonde hair catching the glow of a street lamp. Raven. And she’s not alone.
Two men flank her, one with his hand tight around her throat, pressing her back against the rough brick wall. The other looms beside them, scanning the area like a guard dog. Even in the dim light, I recognize the set of their shoulders, the aggressive stance.
These men, whoever they are, mean business.
My blood turns to fire, and I move before I’ve consciously decided to. The dog sees me too late; shock registers on his face a millisecond before I’m on him.
My first target is the one with his hand on Raven’s throat. I slam into him from the side, one arm hooking around his neck as I use our combined momentum to throw him to the ground. His skull meets the concrete with a sickening crack.
I turn on the dog, the one who should have worn a motherfucking leash and stayed out of my territory. He reaches inside his jacket. I don’t give him time to find whatever he’s grabbing for.
The knife in my hand flashes once in the dim light before I bury it in his chest, angling up under the ribs to find his heart. His eyes widen in surprise—they always do, like they can’t believe death found them so quickly.
“Bad dog,” I snarl as I twist the blade, ensuring the damage is irreversible, then pull it out in one smooth motion. Blood sprays across my face, warm and copper-scented. Some lands on my lips. I don’t wipe it away.
The first man is struggling to his feet. Guess he didn’t die. I kick him hard in the temple, and he goes still. Maybe dead, maybe not. I don’t particularly care either way.
I turn to Raven, expecting to find her frozen in fear or shock. Instead, I find empty space. The spot where she stood against the wall is vacant, with just the faintest impression in the dust to show she was ever there.
“Raven!” I shout, my voice low but urgent. Nothing.
She’s gone. Slipped away while I was dealing with her attackers. The thought of her alone in the night with potentially more attackers around doesn’t sit right with me. I scan the courtyard, the street beyond. No sign of her. Just the bodies at my feet.
My first instinct is to hunt her down. To chase. To catch. But practicality wins out. I have bodies to deal with, questions I want answered, and the sun will be up soon. Besides, I know her name. I know where she works.
Finding Raven Carter again will be easy.
The harder part will be figuring out what the fuck she’s gotten herself mixed up in that has people grabbing her outside my building. Or maybe… fuck. This probably has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
Conceit is thinking you’re special. I’m just realistic about blast radius, and it would make sense. Whoever they were probably stalked my building and saw us arrive, lying in wait and grabbed her.
I look down at the men at my feet. Blood pools beneath them, dark against the concrete. I’ll need to call for cleanup and even use some of the many favors owed to me.
When I lower myself to wipe my knife on the dog’s shirt, I notice a tattoo on his wrist. A black circle. I quickly check the other guy, and wouldn’t you know it, he has a matching tattoo.
Another circle enters my life, and I refuse to believe it’s a coincidence.
While raking a hand down my face, I gather my thoughts. I really wish she hadn’t run. And not just because I always want to fuck after a fight, but because I want to make sure she’s okay.
The sky is beginning to lighten at the edges. I need to move fast. I take one last look around the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of blonde hair, a flash of one of my shirts. Nothing. But I’ll find her.
I stride into the lobby, blood still drying on my face. The night guard’s eyes widen when he sees me—bloodstained, and radiating the kind of quiet fury that makes smarter men run. But he can’t run.
He’s stationed here under my authority, paid to ensure nothing happens in my building. And he’s failed spectacularly.
“Secure the perimeter,” I order, voice deadly calm. “No one in or out until I say otherwise.”
The guard—Steve, if I remember correctly—swallows hard. “Mr. Russo, what happened? Should I call the police?”
I laugh, the sound empty of humor. “The police? Are you new here, or just that fucking stupid?”
His face pales beneath his five o’clock shadow. Good. Fear makes people efficient.
“Two men attacked a woman outside,” I continue, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “Right under your fucking nose.”
“I didn’t see—”
“Exactly.” I cut him off. “You have two fucking eyes, and you still didn’t see. That’s the fucking problem.”
I glance at the security monitors behind the desk. Six different angles show the courtyard, the front entrance, and the parking garage. All the places a competent guard would be watching.
“Pull the recordings,” I demand.
While I explain I want everything from an hour before I arrived with Raven through ten minutes ago, Steve scrambles to obey. The screens flicker, then display the recorded footage.
For now, I focus on Raven exiting the elevator, crossing the lobby in my stolen shirt, checking her phone, and then slipping out the side entrance to the courtyard. Minutes later, the two fuckers follow, moving with purpose.
“They came through the front door,” I say, quiet menace lilting my words. “And walked right past you.”
Steve’s breathing quickens. “I stepped away to use the bathroom. It was only for a minute.”
“A minute is all it takes to die.” I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or to kill.”
I watch the rest of the footage in silence. The men are converging on Raven. Me erupting from the stairwell. The brief, violent confrontation ends with Raven slipping away during the fight.
Once it’s over, I straighten and fix my gaze on the trembling man while slowly sliding my prosthetic eye out. “Look at me, Steve,” I tell him, and hold his face with one finger under his chin so he can’t drop his gaze.
The wet pop when it leaves the socket makes him flinch before he even realizes why. For a breath, he stares into the hollow where my other eye used to be—the raw pocket of it—and something in his shoulders folds.
“You fucked up,” I state. “Now you’re dead.”
“Sir, I’m sorry—” His apology dies as I bury my knife in his throat, slicing the flesh open until blood sprays from the wound.
“Apology accepted,” I tell him, twisting just enough to make him gurgle. “See? Communication solves everything.” I leave the knife in him.
He goes down clutching at himself, painting the carpet I paid too much for.
I glance at the spreading stain and sigh. “This is exactly why I replaced the white one last year. People have no respect for interior design.”
I nudge his shoulder with my boot, testing if he’s got one last apology in him. Nothing.
“In our line of work,” I continue, stepping over him like he’s a misplaced file, “mistakes get people killed. Tonight it could’ve been that woman. Tomorrow it could’ve been me.”
His eyes bulge.