Beautiful Things Obey

Chapter 1

LEONORE

The dead never bothered me. It was the living who made a mess.

It’s one of the reasons I chose this work.

Above all things, I enjoy it. To the normal person, that sounds weird, but not to me.

The music blasts through the speakers that I had installed when I took over this place more than four years ago.

My assistant walks in with her noise-canceling headphones and her chocolate hair tied up in a bun on her head because she said she’s sensitive to sound, when in reality, Tori just hates my music.

Her hands fold over one another as she stands on the opposite side of the stainless steel table.

She looks at the body, chest split open, as I begin to stitch it up, humming to the music, in my happy place.

My music suddenly goes quiet as she presses a button and removes her headphones.

“Time of death?” she asks, her face slightly pale.

She hates coming in here, but I pay her well.

And despite how much she detests it here, or even working the night shift, she does it without fail.

I went through two employees before finally landing on Tori.

She has a smart mouth, which I appreciate and need, considering who I work for.

Not only is she efficient but most importantly, she’s discreet.

“Two hours ago,” I tell her, looking over my handiwork so far. “Give or take.” I shrug.

She swallows hard, her gaze sweeping over the body again of a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties.

“Give or take,” she repeats with a grim expression.

I get it. For most people, looking down at a dead body is unsettling, but I’m the opposite.

Each body that arrives in my morgue is like a new puzzle.

“They’re waiting for you,” Tori says, visibly uncomfortable.

I sigh, annoyed that they’re already encroaching on my fun.

Tying off the final suture and wiping my hands, I peel off the gloves. Officially, the man lying on my table choked on his own blood during a robbery gone wrong. Unofficially, he was executed in the back seat of his car by someone who knew exactly where to aim.

After disposing of the gloves, I catch my reflection in the stainless steel bins as I walk out to where I know they’re waiting.

My long, deep-plum hair is pulled back in a braid so it stays out of my way, and my scrubs are black, which is fitting, really.

Glancing away, I push open the door to find four men in the receiving room, all dressed in black, guns hidden beneath their tailored jackets—the Hayes crew, the third strongest family in the city.

I watch as Cian slides an envelope across the counter in greeting.

“You did good work,” he says with a smirk. Cian knows he’s attractive, and every time he comes in, he looks at me a little too long with rich brown eyes that are anything but kind.

Most women probably melt under attention like that.

Maybe that’s why he does it, because he is used to people folding for him.

But not me. His attention doesn’t make me nervous.

It irritates me more than anything. The arrogance of it.

The way he acts like every look is calculated, every word designed to chip away at me until I finally crack open for him.

“I know.” I don’t need him to tell me I do good work. When I don’t make a move to touch the money, he makes a point to lean his elbows on the counter so he is a little closer to me. I don’t back up. I stay exactly where I am. He always tries to unravel me, but it hasn’t worked yet.

His eyes flutter to the money, and he looks back at me.

“You don’t want it?” he asks.

Without a second thought, I open the drawer in front of me and slide the envelope inside without counting it.

He smirks. “You trust I gave you the right amount?” he asks as he pushes off the counter.

I don’t like Cian. He’s the kind of man who stares at himself in the window reflection a little too long. With his dark hair and custom suits, he looks like he should own the room when he walks in. But he doesn’t.

I don’t hide the contempt on my face.

Cian tips his head at me when I don’t answer. One thing I know for certain about men like Cian is that they like the chase and the game, so I simply don’t play. They’ll get bored trying soon enough.

A smile twitches at his lips, but he has the better sense to leave with his men. I watch them as they walk through the door and wait to see the headlights on the car disappear before I walk into the back room where Tori’s office is.

“They gone?” she asks, sitting on a metal stool, looking tired.

“Yes, and you should be too. Take off early. I can lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice, so she reaches for her purse and leaves.

Walking back into the autopsy room, I start to cover the body.

The sheet is halfway raised when something shifts, barely perceptible at first. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just the faintest change in the room, like the air has thickened without warning.

My hand stills, but I don’t look up immediately.

I wait, my head tilted, listening. The hum of the refrigeration unit.

The distant drip of a tap that never quite shuts off properly.

My own breathing, steady and controlled.

I lower the sheet a fraction and let my eyes lift.

The room feels colder now, though I can’t tell if it’s real or imagined.

The hairs on my arms begin to rise, one by one, as if responding to some unseen force. Goosebumps spread across my skin.

Only then do I turn around.

A man is standing across the room from me, partially hidden by the shadows, his gaze trained on the body I am covering with the sheet.

It takes me a moment to recognize him.

Silas Vescari.

He’s tall with broad shoulders and a solid build, the kind of frame that takes up space even when he isn’t moving.

His hair is dark, short, and slightly uneven, not styled but not careless either.

When he steps into the light, I get a better look at his face. At the defined jaw, high cheekbones, and straight nose.

Everyone knows who he is and what he does. He’s the head of the Vescari. The biggest crime syndicate in the state.

Not to mention the most ruthless man in the city.

What they don’t tell you is how he seems to suck in the darkness of the room. How even with dim lighting, it’s as if it avoids his space, and my instinct is to do the same.

His dark gaze sweeps around the room before it finally lands on me, as if I’m an afterthought that just stepped in. Instinct is great; it tells you when you should know better and when to run. Dealing with these types of men, however, you learn to ignore it and then some.

Annoyed at the intrusion, I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t let anyone but Tori into my morgue. That’s rule number one. I don’t care who you are or who you work for; when I’m with a body, I work alone. But it’s not just that I like to work alone. I also don’t like anyone standing behind me.

I like to keep everything out of my blind spot.

His invasion of my space sparks the fire in my blood. Men like this think they own everyone and everything.

“You falsified a report,” he says to me.

His voice is deep and smooth, and he holds himself with the confidence of a man who isn’t afraid of anything or anyone.

I know men like him because I’ve been surrounded by them my entire life.

“I prefer to call it correcting a narrative,” I say, refusing to be intimidated.

He takes a step forward, and in the fluorescent lights, I see his eyes are a deep blue, almost black, and they’re … beautiful.

Unlike Cian Hayes, this man doesn’t perform power. He is power. And he knows it.

“You knew who he was,” he says, his gaze drifting to the body on the table. “Knew he was one of my men.” His tone comes out more clipped, as if I was the one who put the bullet in him.

“Yes.” There is no point in lying. The Vescari crew all have a brand on them. A tattoo announcing their allegiance to the family. This guy had it on his back. A raven mid-flight. There is no way I couldn’t know he was a Vescari.

“Yet you did it anyway.” He drags those deep sapphire eyes back to me.

I can see why people are afraid of this man, why they cower in fear in his presence. But I refuse to be afraid. And I sure as fuck don’t cower.

Not anymore.

“It’s my job,” I say. I don’t look away. I’m not going to show him any fear. “There was no conflict of interest. I don’t work for you.”

“No, you don’t. You work for my enemies.”

“No, I work for the dead.”

He continues watching me in a very methodical way. The type of man I hate the most, because what’s more dangerous than a man with pure muscle and bloodlust? One who actually has a brain.

Silas steps closer. He’s wearing a suit jacket and a button-up shirt open at the collar. His chest and neck are covered in ink. Tattoos crawl out from his shirt cuff and travel along his hands to his fingertips.

I briefly glance at my scalpels, which are in reaching distance at the edge of the counter. He notices, but continues walking forward as he says, “By falsifying records?”

“By ensuring they don’t end up in a shallow grave in the woods. It’s because I do this that the dead get buried.”

“You do this for money.” He comes to a stop in front of me, pocketing his hands casually as if he’s every bit a gentleman. He leaves enough distance for me to reach for the scalpel first if I need it.

“I do this so families get closure,” I bite back.

He tilts his head, that cool intellect dancing in his gaze. “What about you? Do you get closure?”

Without thinking, I take a step back. What does he mean by that?

“I don’t need closure.”

His eyes flick to my name tag. A brief pause. Like he’s registering the irony, but his expression doesn’t change. One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifts. “You don’t? Everybody is seeking some kind of closure, Miss Graves.”

I don’t like how closely this man looks, as if into my soul, and that has been off-limits for a very long time—even to me.