Chapter 6 The Line Crossed
THE LINE CROSSED
LUCIAN
When you do wet work, there are rules.
The premier one is: Don’t get involved unless you’re ready to finish it.
If you take a contract, you complete it. I’ve never broken that rule in the eight years I’ve been doing this.
I’m going to break that rule now. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.
There’s something about this woman that calls to me.
I want her safe. I want her light undimmed.
I see her lean down to talk to someone in the shelter, and I wonder how she’ll look with her silky hair spread over my pillow.
The thought slips in.
I want her.
I have a healthy sex life. I like to fuck. Find me a man who doesn’t. I like it hard, I like it soft, I like it…a lot. It’s stress relief. It’s entertaining.
I don’t date and the women I pick up aren’t expecting dinner and flowers.
I want her, the thought reaffirms itself.
It’s a surprise. But not unpleasant. Not unwelcome. Just…unexpected.
I spent the day with her.
Before the shelter opens, I drop listening devices in common areas, and her office, so I can hear her.
I’m obsessed. I know it.
I love her voice. It’s soft, lilting, with a slight Italian and British accent. She says things like, “It’s good, no?”
Very Italiana, where the language wraps itself around agreement, and you don’t just state a fact, you invite the person you’re speaking with to feel it with you.
“è buono, no?”
It’s not a question. It’s a gentle tug. A shared moment.
Even her grammar carries softness.
You should start writing poetry, asshole. Her grammar does not carry anything. What the fuck is wrong with you?
I have no answer except this woman’s light has seeped into me. It’s addictive to feel that light, which I do whenever I watch her, listen to her, am close to her.
This is how stalkers must feel—this is why they can’t stop following their prey around. It’s like a cocaine hit, and I did that for a while, recreationally, so I know what I speak of.
It’s just past ten when she leaves the shelter.
I follow her. She doesn’t look over her shoulder once. Like she knows I’m there.
I just know it. She can feel me, just like I feel her.
I don’t mind it. I should. But I don’t. Logan would say I’m losing my edge. Gideon would say I was taking unnecessary risks. Adrian would tell me I need to finish the job and then evaluate my feelings.
Her back straightens, like she can feel my eyes glide over her.
She hasn’t seen me, not directly. But her instincts are sharp, street-bred. The sixth sense of prey that’s been hunted too many times and lived to tell about it.
Which is why I know she’ll see him coming.
I spot the man half a block before she does—hood up, slinking between parked cars. His gait is too controlled. He’s not a junkie. Not a panhandler. He’s purposeful. He’s like me.
A professional.
I clock the blade in his sleeve as he closes in.
Looks like Remo changed his idea of making it look like an accident. Two days since I got the contract, and he’s already got a second man on the job.
I hate people like that.
Sure, I’m not going to do her—not like that; but Remo doesn’t know that, so sending a second man is the asshole being a controlling prick who doesn’t leave things to chance. He’s not the first in the business to do this; he isn’t going to be the last.
She rounds the corner.
Now or never, Lucian.
I cut across the street, quick and silent.
As the man reaches for her, I step into the light.
“Wrong girl,” I say.
He doesn’t get the chance to argue or even look at me.
I drive my fist into his ribs—two sharp hits—and sweep his legs. He hits the ground hard, the knife skittering into the gutter. I grab him by the collar and shove him into the alley.
I don’t have the time to end him—and this isn’t the place, either. Gideon will have my ass on a platter next to the duck for Christmas dinner if I’m arrested.
Calista spins, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.
Contact.
We’re face-to-face for the first time.
She stares up at me, confused, ready to bolt.
“You okay?” I ask calmly.
She nods once. Doesn’t speak.
Good. She’s smart.
And beautiful. So, fucking beautiful.
She’s flushed, and I think about how she’ll look beneath me when I’m inside her. What she’ll look like when she comes.
I take a step back. Give her space.
“Ah…he was a mugger,” she says. She’s lying. I can see it.
“Okay.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
She doesn’t say, “Let’s call the police.”
She isn’t running. She’s talking like I picked up her groceries—like I did something mundane to help her.
“My pleasure.”
I can’t stop looking at her.
I want to kiss her. I’ve never had this desire before. This is madness.
You’re going loco, Lucian!
“Ah…lucky you were here?” She’s asking a question.
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightens. She’s scared—but not in a helpless way. She’s assessing me, weighing my dangerousness against the one I just neutralized.
She wants to ask me questions, but she won’t. I know it. I know her.
Are you following me?
Why?
Were you sent to kill me?
Then why did you stop that man?
Who are you?
“Let me walk you home.”
She lets me.
“I’m Calista Ferraro,” she says.
“Nice to meet you.”
She chuckles softly, and it catches me by surprise. She should be falling apart, but instead, she’s amused. This woman is unusual, to say the least.
“What?”
“You didn’t give me your name.”
“No.”
Now she asks what I knew she wanted to earlier, but didn’t. “Are you following me?”
“No,” I lie. “I was just here by chance.”
“You’re not law enforcement.” It’s a statement.
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
A shadow.
“Complicated.”
I walk her to her building, see her go up the stairs, and wait until the light comes on in her apartment. I see her at her window, looking down.
I’m not hiding in the shadows. She can see me.
She raises a hand, waves.
I don’t wave back.
Then she draws the curtain closed.
The wind cuts through my coat as I pull out my phone and text my brother.
Me: I let her see me.
Logan: Fuck!
Me: Yeah.
Logan: Why?
Me: Remo doubled up.
Logan: Asshole.
Me: I neutralized the threat.
Logan: ??
Me: You were right.
Logan: I usually am. Which part, specifically?
Me: I’m going through a fucking mid-life crisis.
Logan: You hesitating?
I don’t reply.
Logan: Walk away. You hesitate, you break.
I close the message thread, and slide the phone back into my pocket.
He’s right about everything. But he’s wrong about one thing. I’m already broken.