Chapter 4
Sera
Every car that pulls up to Gas N’ Go makes my spine tighten. Every shadow that passes the window sends my heart racing.
The memory of that grainy footage plays on a loop behind my eyes—a figure sliding into my back seat, waiting. It’s a distraction I don’t need. My target is locked on Vincent, and if I truly want to take him down, I have to stay focused.
The bell above the door jingles, and she steps in—the broken woman from before. Same hollow eyes, same careful way of moving, like her body is a cracked vase held together by sheer will.
But there are differences today. Fresh bandages peek from beneath her sleeves. The slightly wrong shade of makeup cakes around a fresh bruise, purple-black against her jaw.
She doesn’t look at me as she wanders the aisles, picking up candy bars and putting them back, examining chip bags.
I understand rituals of avoidance.
Finally, she approaches the counter and places a pack of gum and a lighter between us.
“Four fifty-three,” I tell her after I ring her up.
She fumbles with her wallet, and a receipt flutters out. I catch it before it hits the floor and hand it back to her.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be.” I bag her items and slide them across the counter. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Her eyes lift then and meet mine. Something passes between us—a recognition of wounds.
“Michael,” she says, the name barely audible. “His name is Michael Devlin.”
Michael Devlin. It’s short. Ordinary. The kind of name that hides monsters.
I hate it immediately.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
She nods once, a sharp little jerk of her chin. Then she’s gone, the bell jingling her retreat.
I reach beneath the counter for a Gas N’ Go matchbook and write the name across the inside flap so I don’t forget it.
Michael Devlin.
I put it in my pocket. All day, I’m aware of the name—a live coal burning against my thigh. A promise…and yet another distraction.
But maybe it doesn’t have to be.
A plan begins to form, and I want my court to know about it.
***
“Michael Devlin.” I drop the matchbook in the middle of the kitchen countertop like it’s radioactive.
James, Eddie, and I stand in a loose triangle in the kitchen. Shadow Daddy is here too, listening and watching, and for the first time ever, he’s behaving himself. He’s silent and holding still even while two men hover near me.
Maybe I won’t need a leash after all.
I’ve already explained the woman from the gas station, both her first visit when she wanted to give me a name but didn’t, and this time.
“That’s her husband’s or boyfriend’s name,” I say. “The one who beats her.”
Eddie’s blue gaze is hard, already braced for what’s coming. “And you want to…what, exactly?”
“I want to make him stop.” My voice is cool and clear as glass. “Permanently.”
“You mean kill him,” Eddie translates, the note of disapproval in his voice evident.
I meet his eyes. “Not necessarily.”
James lets out a quiet puff of air, something between a laugh and a snort.
Eddie raises an eyebrow.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, tracing a pattern on the scarred wood of the cabinets. “About how to do this without bringing Vincent down on us. Without creating more problems than we can solve.”
“I’m…listening,” Eddie says cautiously, though I can tell any talk of breaking or bending the law hurts his ears.
“The Farley investigation is still open,” I continue. “A severed hand and no leads about who did it. But what if there were leads? What if evidence started pointing to this Michael Devlin?”
“Evidence?” Eddie shakes his head.
“Yes.” I look at James. “I have the perfect item to plant.”
James’s smile spreads, utterly wolfish and delighted, though he doesn’t say a word.
“Farley’s hand,” I say. “I hate to part with it, but…”
“Good thing he has one more,” James finishes, his eyes gleaming with dark humor.
“Wait, you have Farley’s hand? You did that to him?“ Eddie demands.
“I didn’t, no,” I say, all innocence.
Eddie pins James with a loaded stare, and unhinged glee swims underneath James’s smile like a shark.
“We thread Michael Devlin’s name through the Farley investigation,” I continue. “Plant the hand somewhere that implicates this Devlin guy, remove him from the board, and get him out of this woman’s life so he can never hurt her again.”
Eddie looks at me like he’s never seen me before. “Sera. No. You’re talking about fabricating evidence. Framing a man.”
His voice is tight with disbelief.
“Aye, surgical plan, that.” James leans forward and plants his elbows on the countertop’s edge. “Or,” he says, his voice like velvet wrapped around a knife, “we just make him disappear.”
“Christ,” Eddie breathes, running a hand over his face. He looks at James, then at me. “You can’t be serious.”
“Farley’s missing a hand, is he?” James asks, his mad grin feigning virtue. “Does he nae deserve it, though? Do ye even ken what that bastard was up to at the trial? What he said about Sera?”
“I know exactly what he did,” Eddie snaps, his professional calm cracking. “He lied under oath to protect Vincent, but this—framing someone, planting evidence… This isn’t justice. It’s poison. You can’t fix rot with more rot.”
He looks right at me, his gaze pleading, desperate for me to see the line I’m about to cross.
He doesn’t know about Rick. Doesn’t know James and I have already burned that line to ash. Doesn’t know the extent of the rot that already grows inside me, spreading its tendrils through my veins.
James waves a dismissive hand. “Why faff about with planting hands when we could just make this Devlin roaster disappear? Simple, yet loud. Let every other numpty in this shite town ken what happens when they raise a hand to a lass.”
He has a point, but I don’t want to risk running around the city and murdering everyone who deserves it. I need to be strategic.
Eddie looks from James’s cheerful brutality to my cold focus. I can see the argument lose its footing in his mind. He’s surrounded. Outnumbered by monsters.
“But bodies make noise,” I say. “And noise brings Vincent.”
The name kills the argument dead. That’s the trump card, the one we all agree on that can’t get involved in anything that has to do with me.
“We do it my way,” I say. “We plant the evidence.”
I tap the matchbook once, a little spark of triumph lighting in my chest. For once, I feel like a queen making a move, not just a pawn trying to survive. Plus, not all of my plans have to involve more blood on my hands.
As if he approves, my shadow daddy wraps around me from behind. I purr in response, which instantly grabs the men’s attention and heats both their gazes as they eye me.
Eddie shakes his head as if to clear it. “And if your way fails?”
“Then I’ll light a match,” I say simply, nodding at the matchbook.
After all, every plan needs a contingency.
And sometimes, the only answer is fire.