7. Lars
I lock the door of my condo behind me and pause against the door, letting the quiet settle.
My body remembers her in flashes. A bite at my neck. Nails down my back. The pressure of her legs locking me in place like she needed to keep me there. I roll my shoulders once, grounding myself, then head for the kitchen.
I need coffee. I need to fall back on the routine that makes sense. Start the coffee, check messages, open my laptop. Tasks that provide normalcy.
Our placement captain who handles relocations and trips always makes sure anywhere I stay has two things: the pillows I like and a proper coffee machine.
I hunt through the pantry for beans and filters.
I load the maker, hit the button. While it brews, I catch my reflection in the microwave door.
I look like I didn’t get much sleep, which is accurate—but it’s the mark on my neck that pulls my focus.
Faint but unmistakable. Red and purple bruises are just below my collar.
Fuck, she marked me.
I drag my fingers over it and feel my pulse jump. I mutter a curse and turn away as my phone lights up on the counter. A FaceTime from Violette. No chance. I decline and call her back on audio, because I’m not letting her see my current state.
She answers on the first ring. “Hey, Aunt Vi.”
“Oh, good,” she says. “You’re alive. I was starting to assume you were ignoring me.”
“I’ve only been gone for twenty-four hours.”
“And you’re already screening my calls. That didn’t take long.”
“I called you right back,” I argue.
“Audio, no video,” she points out. “Suspicious.”
“Violette—”
“Let me see your face.”
“No.”
“Lars,” she scolds.
I give in with a tired sigh and switch to video. Her face fills the screen—perfectly styled silver hair, muted magenta lipstick, dressed in a silk robe like she’s hosting a brunch instead of interrogating me. Her eyes narrow on me.
“Tilt your head.”
“No.”
She arches her brow. “You’re making this worse than it has to be.”
I tilt my head slightly, hoping to hide the evidence while satisfying her request.
Her gasp is sharp. “Is that a bruise?”
“It’s nothing.”
“That is not nothing,” she says, delighted. “You have a sex bruise!”
I cringe. “Don’t call it—”
She cuts me off. “First night in Austin and you’re already wearing souvenirs. I left you alone for five minutes.”
“It was one night,” I say flatly.
“Mm,” she hums. “And will there be another one of these so-called one nights?”
“That’s none of your business,” I answer, because I’m not sure it will be one night if I have my way.
Her smile sharpens. “Interesting.”
“Don’t start.”
“I won’t,” she promises. “For now, at least.” Her gaze softens just a touch. “Be careful, Lars. Have you properly vetted her? Where did you meet her?”
“Vi, one night doesn’t call for a full shake down. We had fun, that’s all it will be.”
“Good,” she says, then smiles again. “Call me later. Preferably when you’re showered and unmarked. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Vi.”
I end the call before she can say anything else.
The coffee maker beeps. I pour a cup, dark and black, and lean against the counter. I need a shower and I only have an hour before my first meeting.
I completely dismiss the thought that I will see her again in a few days.
Thankfully, the shower cleared my head. Now focused, I walk to the desk in the makeshift office set up in the spare room, set the mug beside my laptop and flip it open.
New files wait in the encrypted folder Cash sent last night. I open it and press play on a video file.
The screen goes dark, then fills with grainy night-vision footage. It’s set in an alleyway filled with dumpsters and the back door of a Maravilla stash house. A single outdoor light illuminates the scene.
Nothing happens for a few seconds then a man stumbles into frame, clutching his throat. Blood sprays between his fingers.
Sera Corrigan appears right behind him.
She kicks his knee, forcing him down, then ruthlessly slides her blade across his throat again.
He falls and she follows him to the ground, crouching beside him as if listening for his last breath.
Then she reaches into her jacket and pulls out her calling card.
A black rose. Stem clipped short. One thorn left intact.
She places it near his throat with what would look like reverence if I didn’t know better. If I didn’t remember what Veleno has turned her into.
She glances around the alley—eyes quickly sweeping, checking corners and shadows. She turns to leave, but before she leaves the view of the camera, she pauses.
Slowly, her gaze lifts, right to the lens. Her smirk is mocking and dangerous.
Then she digs into her back pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. She unfolds it and holds it up. Five words, scrawled in bold black ink:
Can you see me, Marchetti?
My pulse spikes.
She raises her free hand—and flips off the camera.
Then she bolts out of frame, fast enough that the camera barely catches the tail of her jacket. The footage ends.
I sit back, jaw tight, coffee forgotten.
She’s getting bolder. Sloppy, suicidal, maybe. Or maybe she wants me to know exactly where she is and exactly what she’s willing to do.
Between Falco, Maravilla, and Sera hunting her own war…This city is becoming a fuse. And I’m the one sent to keep it from being lit.