Chapter 2
Indigo
Consciousness returned like a drowning woman breaking the surface—gasping, disoriented.
The first thing I registered was my own heartbeat. Too fast. Thrumming in my temples, my throat, my wrists.
The second thing was the silence. I wasn’t on the gravel of the parking lot.
The third thing was the fabric against my skin. Soft and frilly.
I wasn't wearing my clothes.
My stomach turned to ice water.
Okay. Okay okay okay. Don't panic.
There was a terrifying blank space between the parking lot and waking up.
I cracked my eyes open. Just a slit.
I was on a plush velvet sofa in a room that screamed "old money and bad taste." Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Manhattan skyline from a height that made my stomach drop. I looked down. I had been stuffed into a frilly, white lace doll outfit—the kind with puff sleeves and a petticoat.
I did a quick mental survey, bracing for the worst. No restraints on my wrists or ankles. No gag. My legs were sore, and my head was thumping, but my pussy felt untouched. But why in the fuck was I wrapped up like a goddamn gift? My skin crawled like tiny ants running underneath.
"What kind of weird-ass shit is this?" I spoke my thoughts out loud, my voice cracking.
"You're awake.” The voice was low, amused. I followed it to a wingback chair where a heavy-set white man sat watching me.
White, heavy-set, with a few strands of gray hair slicked back over a balding scalp. You could tell that thirty years and fifty pounds ago, he might have been handsome. Now, he just looked like a predator who had eaten too many of his prizes.
Right before everything went black in that parking lot, I’d had one terrifying thought… Malachai had found me.
I looked at the man in the chair again. Whoever this creep was, he wasn’t the Hand of God. And that meant I still had a chance.
I sat up, ignoring the throb in my skull. I didn't pull the lace down. I didn't hide. I stared him down like he was just another trick at the club.
"You don't seem scared of me," he said, his eyes narrowing.
I let out a short, dry laugh. "Fear is a luxury I can’t afford, old man. And honestly? You look like you’d have a heart attack if I actually screamed."
He chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"I don't care," I snapped. "Why did you bring me here?”
He leaned forward, his expression darkening. "I just wanted a dance, Midnight. But you turned me down. Now I want you in my permanent collection, like the others."
I frowned. Then it clicked. VIP 4. Dutch’s office. The twenty-thousand-dollar offer.
“You’re the guy,” I said slowly. “The one Dutch warned me about.”
His smile returned. “Yes.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning swept over me. “‘Like the others,’ you said. What does that mean?” I asked.
He stood up slowly and walked toward a wall I hadn’t noticed before. Glass cabinets lined it in dozens of rows. Inside were dresses, shoes, and jewelry. My stomach dropped.
“You see,” he casually said, “I collect beautiful things. The others were very beautiful, but none of them were quite as… captivating or as feisty as you.”
My heartbeat slowed. And not because I was calm. “The others?” I repeated.
He smiled wider. “You’ll meet them later, downstairs.”
Suddenly, every missing poster from the last few years flashed through my mind. Every six months for the last few years, a girl from the club would just... vanish. No body, no trace. Just a locker full of clothes.
"You're the one," I whispered. “You’re the reason those girls never came back."
"I am the reason they are immortal," he said, reaching for a glass of scotch. “They will never age. They will never be forgotten. They will—”
He never finished the sentence or took a sip of his drink. My mother taught me one rule growing up in Miami… never walk into a room unarmed. My fingers slid into my hair, gripping the square razor blade I had bobby-pinned there. I lunged.
The blade sang as it crossed his throat. His eyes went wide, his hands flying to the fountain of red spraying onto his white silk shirt. He gurgled, falling back into the chair. I stood over him, watching the light leave his eyes, feeling nothing but satisfaction. He went still.
I didn't panic, but I moved quickly. I had to get the fuck out of there.
I tore off that disgusting doll dress, standing in my underwear as I searched through his drawers.
I found a pair of his silk pajama bottoms and tied them tight around my waist, then slid on one of his huge dress shirts.
I went looking for weapons. In his desk, I found a heavy gold ring with a double-headed eagle—Russian Mob. Bratva.
"Great," I muttered to myself. "I didn't just kill a creep; I killed a Thief within the Code." It was some bullshit the Russians called themselves.
I looked up and saw the red blinking lights. Cameras. Everywhere.
I’d noticed a hallway monitor showing camera feeds. I checked it. Two giants in suits were standing guard at the front door.
"Oh, shit," I whispered to my reflection. "Midnight, you should kick your own ass for not watching your back, and you wouldn’t be in this situation."
I started searching the house, and my luck finally turned in the dining room.
There was a gun cabinet with no lock. I immediately grabbed the black H I adjusted my aim two feet to the left and emptied three more rounds through the paneling. The shouting stopped.
I waited a heartbeat, then I pushed the door open. I stepped over the dead bodies, and I sprinted toward the service stairs, the heavy gold Bratva ring digging into my palm. I didn’t even know why I brought it.
I made it ten feet down the hall and around the corner before I heard the apartment door crash open behind me. There were shouts in Russian. Then the boom of boots hitting marble.
I ran faster.
The service door slammed behind me as gunfire rang out. I hit the stairwell and started down, my bare feet slapping concrete, the H I would have been shit out of luck in Florida.
I slid the window up, climbed out onto the iron grating, and started down. My hands were shaking.
I kept climbing down. Twelfth floor. Tenth. Eighth. The fire escape ended on the second floor. There was a ladder that required a pull cord to lower. I pulled. It stuck. Fuck it.
I dropped the last few feet and hit the pavement running. I heard voices, and I ducked behind a row of industrial dumpsters, gasping, the H&K still tucked into my waistband. My feet were cut up. My lungs were fire. But I was out.
I counted to sixty, listening for pursuit. Heard nothing but city noise. Sirens in the distance.
I pulled myself together, making sure nobody was heading my way before I took off running toward the mouth of the alley. It had to be one or two in the afternoon because the streets were crowded. I blended in and got the fuck out of dodge.
I was six blocks away before I let myself breathe.