9. Crumbling Walls #3
I make careful notes in my field journal, my pen scratching against paper as I record measurements and observations.
The multiple stab wounds show different angles of entry, suggesting either multiple attackers or a very determined single assailant.
The gunshot wounds are clustered—three to the chest, one to the abdomen.
Professional. Methodical. Something tells me we won’t find bullets.
“His wallet and phone are missing.” I note aloud, patting down the soaked pockets of his pants. “Could be robbery—”
“But this wasn’t random.” Rissa finishes, her eyes sharp as she surveys the scene. “This has organized crime written all over it.”
She’s right, of course. Every aspect of this scene screams mafia hit, from the execution-style gunshots to the brutal message sent.
As I photograph the defensive wounds on his hands—wounds I know were added after death—I wonder how many of Zeke’s men were involved in staging this elaborate cover-up.
I’m crouched by Gio’s body, documenting another wound, when the atmosphere shifts. The busy chatter of the crime scene falls silent, replaced by a heavy tension that makes the hair on my neck stand up. Even before I look up, I know something’s wrong.
Alessandro Costa stands at the top of the riverbank, mere feet from the yellow crime tape marking off the area.
His expensive Italian suit looks out of place against the muddy riverbank, but his presence commands attention.
Every eye shifts toward him, his face a mask of careful composure that doesn’t quite hide the rage simmering beneath.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I straighten up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are the same dark brown as Gio’s, but where his son’s had often sparked with reckless anger, Alessandro’s holds something far more dangerous—calculated fury.
“Detective Landry,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the crime scene despite its quiet tone as I make my way toward him. The way he says my name ices my veins. “What a fortunate coincidence to find you here.”
I stop mere inches from him, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne mixing with the river’s decay. Though he’s speaking to me, his eyes drift to his son’s body, taking in the violence written across Gio’s flesh.
“Mr. Costa.” I manage, my voice steady despite my accelerated pulse. Glancing around, I spot Eli’s car in the distance, carefully watching the scene unfold. His presence should make me feel better, but uneasiness settles over me like an old foe. “This is an active crime scene. You shouldn’t—”
“Tell King,” he cuts me off, leaning in so close his breath brushes across my ear, “that he will pay for this.” His words are soft, almost gentle, but laden with such menace that my breath catches. “A son for a son. That is our way.”
“Zeke doesn’t have a son,” I whisper.
The look in Costa’s eyes shifts from angry grief to pure evil. There’s a hidden meaning behind that stare and I don’t know what it is.
My fingers twitch toward my weapon, but I force them still. Around us, officers shift uneasily, picking up on the undercurrent of threat in Alessandro’s carefully measured body language. Rissa has gone rigid beside me, her hand already resting on her holster.
Alessandro steps back, straightening his jacket with meticulous care. His eyes meet mine one last time, and in them I see a promise of violence that makes my blood run cold.
My shoulders sag with exhaustion as Eli unlocks the front door of Zeke’s mansion. After the confrontation with Alessandro at the crime scene, my nerves are frayed, and my mind keeps replaying his chilling threat. All I want is to hold Leo close, to reassure myself that he’s safe.
The sound of childish laughter echoes from the living room as I step inside, and my heart leaps into my throat. I know that giggle. Relief floods through me—Leo. I’ve missed him and could really use some quality time with him after the day I had.
I round the corner and freeze, the sight catching me off guard.
Zeke—dressed down in a simple black t-shirt and jeans—sits cross-legged on the living room floor. His broad shoulders are relaxed, a genuine smile lighting up his usually stern face as he helps Leo construct an elaborate castle out of Legos.
“And then,” Leo is saying, waving his hands excitedly, “we can put the dragon right here to guard the treasure.”
“Smart thinking,” Zeke replies, his deep voice gentled in a way I’ve never heard before. “Every castle needs a good defense system.”
Something in my chest constricts painfully as I watch them together.
This is a side of Zeke I never expected to see—this patient, playful man who’s completely engaged in my nephew’s imagination.
The same hands that killed Gio are now carefully connecting tiny plastic bricks, creating something magical with a child’s wonder.
I’ve never denied Zeke’s physical appeal. His salt-and-pepper beard highlighting our age difference, towering height, and muscular build have always drawn my eye. But watching him in this moment stirs something deeper. I yearn to keep this version of him in my life forever.
Leo spots me first, his face lighting up. “Aunt Evie! Look what Zeke and I built.”
Zeke looks up, winks, and gives me a smile that makes my heart melt.
I try to speak, but my throat is too tight. The scene before me is overwhelming—this dangerous man I’m being forced to marry, sitting on the floor building Legos with my nephew as if he belongs here. As if this is normal.
Leaning against the doorframe, I watch as Zeke leans in close to Leo, whispering something that makes my nephew’s eyes go wide with wonder. Leo bounces on his knees, barely containing his excitement as Zeke reaches behind his back with deliberate slowness.
“What is it?” Leo says, vibrating with anticipation.
A small smile plays at the corners of Zeke’s mouth—not his usual smirk, but something softer, more genuine. He produces a tiny Lego dragon, its wings spread wide, and Leo squeals in delight.
“This,” Zeke says in a conspiratorial tone, “is a special dragon. See how its wings shimmer?”
Leo scrambles closer to Zeke, their heads bent together as they examine the dragon. Zeke’s massive frame dwarfs Leo’s small one, yet there’s no fear in Leo’s posture. No hesitation. He treats Zeke like an old friend, completely at ease with the man I view as my captor.
My heart races, a confusing mix of emotions washing over me. There’s curiosity about this softer side of Zeke I never knew existed. A strange jealousy that Leo has discovered it so easily. Underneath it all, a dangerous warmth spreads through my chest at the domestic scene before me.
I cross my arms tightly, trying to hold these feelings at bay. This man is still forcing me into marriage. Still operating outside the law. Still dangerous.
So why does watching him with Leo make me want to sink down beside them and join their little world of dragons and castles?
The scene is almost too much to bear. I need a drink. Badly.
My boots pound against the hardwood floors as I make my way to Zeke’s impressive kitchen. The granite countertops gleam under the recessed lighting, and I head straight for the liquor cabinet I discovered during my earlier explorations of the house.
My hands tremble as I pull out a bottle of gin and search for tonic water. Leo’s delighted laughter echoes from the living room, followed by Zeke’s deeper chuckle, and my stomach does that weird flip again.
“Get it together,” I mutter, measuring gin into a glass with more force than necessary. Ice cubes clink against the sides as I add them, the sharp sound matching my jangled nerves.
I take a long sip, welcoming the familiar burn. The gin is top-shelf, of course—everything in Zeke’s house is the best money can buy. Even his damn Lego sets probably cost a small fortune.
Another peal of laughter and I grip the counter. A week ago, I was just a detective trying to do my job. Now I’m standing in a killer’s kitchen, drinking his expensive gin, while he plays with my nephew like some kind of … what? Surrogate father figure?
The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I take another drink, longer this time.
I should be terrified. I should be planning our escape. Instead, I’m standing here fighting the urge to join them, to see more of this gentler version of Zeke that Leo has somehow unlocked.
“This is just Stockholm syndrome,” I whisper to myself, but even as I say it, I know it’s not true.
The warmth spreading through my chest isn’t just from the gin.
It’s from watching Zeke—the man who terrifies hardened criminals, who killed Giovanni Costa without blinking an eye to save me—get down on his knees to play with a child.
I pour more gin into my glass, needing the burn to drown out these dangerous thoughts. The tonic water fizzes as I add it, bubbles rising like the confusion in my chest.