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  One. Two. Three.

  “She smells like a Russian spy,” Jose says. “Is there a reason that you brought her onto my property, Arno?”

  “You kill her, and she can’t tell you what she knows.” There’s a rehearsed calmness to Arno’s tone. He’s been through this before.

  Jose’s grip tightens, his fingers digging in. Ironically, the thoughts floating through my brain seem oddly detached given the current circumstances. I’ll bruise if he lets me go. I’ll suffocate if he doesn’t.

  Four. Five.

  “You hear…about…Russians?”

  I catch bits and pieces of the words as Arno spits them out. Black… I blink frantically but only see shadow.

  “Who took them out?” Arno asks. “Think your fucking operation isn’t next?”

  My lungs shrivel, collapsing in on themselves. I’m vaguely aware of the moment death slowly begins to creep…

  “Fine.”

  Air! My own gasp is deafening. I’m choking, down on my hands and knees, as two tan feet pad out of my peripheral vision.

  “Let’s hear her talk,” Jose commands.

  But I don’t know if I’ll ever find my voice again. He was careless. Spiteful. Piotr always made sure never to damage my windpipe during his attempts to drag whatever words he wanted out of me. Words like—Fuck me. I love you. I’m yours.

  Jose got carried away. While I gasp, Arno’s forced to pick up the beginning of the story for me.

  “Someone set up that hit and took out nearly a third of the Russian Syndicate overnight. Shit like that doesn’t happen on a lucky whim. It was planned.”

  “Keep talking, hombre,” Jose says.

  I glance up and find him pacing the sliver of concrete before the body on the floor. From this angle, I can see the man’s face—what’s left of it. One of his eyes lies loose in its socket while the other stares dead ahead, unseeing.

  “You know who’s behind it?”

  Jose chuckles. “Hombre, if I knew that, I would have a few more guests for breakfast.”

  A shiver racks my spine at the gleeful, murderous tone. Even Piotr wouldn’t make torture seem synonymous with…simple fun.

  “Do you know?”

  Arno shakes his head. “But I think I have a lead. I just need your help to follow it.”

  “And your little friend?” Jose smirks at me. “What stories does she have to tell? I have some stories of my own. Like about our dear little Espi—”

  “You don’t fucking talk about him,” Arno says, his voice still dangerously level. Only a subtle cracking of his knuckles betrays the calm.

  “Word on the street is that he’s crawling around, desperate for cash,” Jose says. “Could your boy be planning to run away? I wonder why. Ah…maybe he’s figured out your little secret—”

  “One of the raids was carried out using a gun that belonged to the interim police chief,” I manage to croak entirely in Spanish, drawing attention to myself.

  “So she can speak.” Jose flashes a beautiful, dangerous smile. “Is what she said true? You think this little game might stretch higher than some punk-ass gang trying to make their mark on the world?”

  If he does, Arno doesn’t admit as much out loud. “You share what you know, and I’ll share what I know.”

  Jose considers the proposal while I struggle to my feet. My eyes are still streaming. It’s hard to breathe without wheezing, but I manage to stay upright.

  “Fair enough,” Jose says finally. “I’ll have one of my men come by for a little visit when I get my information. That might happen sooner rather than later if you let Julio and me return to our little breakfast…” He nudges the seemingly dead man with his foot, eliciting a pained groan.

  Let’s go. Arno doesn’t even have to say the words out loud, but I’m by his side in an instant. His hand finds my shoulder, steering me along as he barges through the door and past the men still stationed out front.

  The man in the truck fires the engine up, and Arno shoves me inside the cabin. The moment he climbs in after me, the truck takes off.

  My throat is on fire by the time we finally reach the bar. I think that will be the worst of it—a sore throat for a few days and maybe a pulsing headache.

  But I’m barely out of the truck before a familiar figure appears at the side entrance of Mulligan’s. He’s wearing another hoodie, his hair windswept, his eyes lined with the shadows of exhaustion. He’s…he’s angry, and it paints a dark, terrifying picture over his features. The angel’s grown fangs, but unlike Jose, he’s quiet in his rage. The moment he spots Arno, all he does is shrug.

  “Fuck. Don’t give me that look,” Arno snarls, but his plea is ignored.

  “You took her to Jose.”

  There’s a cold familiarity in the way Espisido utters that name. I take it his experience with The Shredder of the Cartel is similar to mine. My mind returns to his scars, paired with Arno’s defensiveness when Jose uttered his name.

  “Have you gone fucking crazy, Arno?” Espi asks.

  Arno stiffens, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe I have? You got a fucking problem with that? I’ve been hearing shit on the grapevine, Espi. You want to cut and run out on me too?”

  Anger smolders between them, hot and wild, but surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to be directed at each other. At least not outright. Something else is fraying their bond. Jose is just the catalyst to a bigger strain.

  Espisido shakes his head. His eyes drift over to meet mine, and I’m frozen in place. My hand keeps straying to my throat no matter how hard I try to pin it by my side. He sees the marks my trembling fingers try to hide, and I don’t know what reaction to expect. Pity? Anger?

  He just stares, his gaze unreadable, and I’m ill-equipped to decipher the elusive emotions.

  “I got a lead. That’s all that fucking matters,” Arno says behind me. “If Dante’s got anything to do with this shit, we’ll know soon enough.” He barges his way past, leaving me and the driver beside the truck. His steps slow before Espisido, who hasn’t budged from the doorway.

  For a moment, it seems like he won’t. I’m not sure how much time passes before he finally steps aside. Arno pushes by him without a word, but it’s not over between them. It’s a strange dynamic they share. Brothers one minute. Friends the next. Enemies at tense moments sprinkled throughout. But never once do I sense the loyalty between them fade. If anything, their bond only seems stronger.

  It’s evident in the way Espisido merely sighs when his gaze sweeps over me again. He makes no move to rush over and fawn all over my new injuries. He doesn’t even glance at my arm to ensure that the stitches have held. His eyes meet mine directly instead.

  “You okay?”

  I just nod. He sighs again, taking the assurance at face value. Then he turns and heads back into the bar. Within minutes, I know he’ll be out on the other side, gone for the day.

  I just watch him go, and he never does look back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Espi

  Some people can stay sane without art. Good for them—but I need the release that comes from spilling my emotions in color and ink. My soul bleeds onto the pages of my sketchbook, and I’m disgusted by the picture I paint.

  But at least I can still feel something.

  I don’t run from it like Arno or ignore my baggage like Dante.

  I spread it out in strokes and lines, and I feel every fucking thing.

  In the end, I guess it’s only fitting that I’m left with a drawing of her. This time, she glares at me. Judges me. Charcoal shading has stripped her yellow away, but she’s just as conflicting. Just as volatile. Smearing the details around her eyes with the pad of my thumb doesn’t disrupt their intensity. If anything, they burn brighter, demanding answers I’m too chicken to give.

  Such as why hearing that she’d gone off with Arno bothered me more than it should have. Or that I felt relieved to find out they’d met with Jose. Only to feel more pissed in the end.

  And guil
ty.

  If Arno was desperate enough to go to the Cartel for information, then things are worse off than he’s letting on. Suddenly, Dante’s warning makes a whole lot of sense.

  But it’s too late. I can’t just run out like he did. I have to face my problems.

  Or not.

  I ball the drawing up in my fist and toss it into the trash. Then I pour a shot glass of whiskey only to dump it down the sink without taking a sip. For the first time in over a day, my thoughts turn back to escape. Catching the first plane out of here and never looking back.

  Not out of spite, either. Maybe fear.

  I’m fucking afraid of who I’ll turn into if I stick around here. I barely recognize the punk staring back at me from the basin of the sink already. He’s not smiling like happy Espi should. If anything, he’s scowling.

  I try washing him down the drain with water, but he doesn’t budge. I’m too much of a coward to see if I’ll still find him if I look in the mirror.

  So I kill time with violence and paint something dark. I miss the canvas and wind up splattering the walls with blank acrylic. I leave it there and let even more drops drip onto the floor.

  My phone is buzzing in my pocket, but I don’t answer it. Instead, I pace. Clench the air between my fingers. Kick the fridge on my way past it.

  The sound of my ringtone continues to build, drowning out my frantic breathing until I have no choice but to pick up.

  “We need to talk about this,” Arno says before I can even voice a hello. “Come to the bar.”

  He hangs up, and I collapse onto a seat near the table.

  The bar. She’ll be there tonight, probably working. Or maybe not, depending on how badly she tangled with Jose. I grit my teeth against my own memories. I know from experience that he’s a hard son of a bitch to forget.

  She saw the scars on my back the first night, but she hasn’t asked me about them yet. Maybe she’s too polite, or maybe she just doesn’t care. I can’t figure out why the thought bothers me so damn much. Knowing she has ample ammunition to use against me that, for whatever reason, she hasn’t yet.

  I could always beat her to the punch. Tell Arno that she could be a cop. Or ask her directly where she learned to dance like that.

  Instead, I return to the whiskey bottle and take a sip right from the rim. Then I head out for the pub, if only to avoid being by myself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chloe

  Grey can suffer another day. I’m not a cop tonight. I’m not even human. I’m an animal with a bruise for a shackle. It’s a familiar feeling. It’s a maddening one.

  I’m addicted to the stage. The lure of abandon. The silence that floods my own thoughts when I’m riding so high that no one can fucking touch me. I’m ruthless. I’m selfish. Each set lasts longer than the one before it. I’m cutting into the other dancers’ times without a single fuck given.

  The crowd loves it. The other girls don’t.

  Not that I care. Ksei’s regained some of that old fire. I owned the stage at Piotr’s little playground. I danced for his associates to keep him happy. I danced to save myself.

  My old outlook on life paints everything in front of me like I’m wearing blood-colored glasses. The world is an inferno, but as long as I move, blinded by the pulsing strobe lights, I’m safe. I can breathe in this sliver of heaven. I can contort my body in any fucking way I want and never feel any pain.

  That all changes the moment I come down, though, and am forced to traipse backstage. The pounding headache behind my temples returns. My left arm sears at full force. My throat is on fire. Agony, after agony, after agony…

  If I were a good girl, Piotr would give me something to chase the discomfort away before sending me back on stage. To dance again. To make him more money. To plunge further down the rabbit hole of viciousness and vice he’d dropped me into.

  But here… One step into the dressing room, one whiff of a familiar scent, and it all comes to a screeching halt without the need for a powder to sniff. A hooded figure is waiting for me at the back corner of the room, and my chest tightens at the sight of him. It was easier to breathe while being strangled by Jose. He showed mercy. My new tormentor seems well aware of the effect he has on me, yet the look in his eyes won’t let me go.

  It’s open. It’s raw. He’s had a bad day—we both have. I don’t speak when I approach him though. I eye the mirror, and he silently creeps in behind me, his hand finding my shoulder.

  “You’re bleeding.” He grits the words out against the back of my neck.

  I am. I glance down and find blood seeping through the gaps in the stitches. Some of it is dried. Some isn’t.

  “Sorry.”

  Sighing, Espisido runs his hand along the wound once, but he doesn’t pull away to get fresh gauze or a rag to wipe the area clean. He just stands there, inhaling me, feeling me. It’s a brutal game of tit-for-tat we play. With every breath he takes, I suck in two. When his hand starts to trail down my arm again, I reach for the other, blindly lacing my fingers with his.

  Consequences are easier to face when he’s not around. I guide his hand higher and inch backward until he’s closer—until the heat from his body disrupts every nerve in mine, and I have to lean against the table for balance. His captive hand cups my breast. The one he still has control over drifts down to my waist. I flex my fingers, forcing his to curl.

  It’s lightning. He’s a million watts bursting through my skin, frying everything he touches. I bite my lower lip in vain, but he breaks through my defenses, drawing a moan from my throat. I don’t have to guide him anymore—he digs his fingers in, clutching. Groping.

  One hit just isn’t enough. I need more. He already knows just how and where. One brush of his fingertips makes my nipple harden into a sharp point, but he’s forsaken that needy bit of flesh in favor of a new domain. My stomach. My hips. Maybe I’m the one steering him there all along, but when his palm ghosts down to the apex of my thighs, the fingers spread, eagerly searching. Studying. He’s an artist, after all.

  With steady determination, he breaks me open, painting the air with the gasp I can’t smother. He doesn’t seem to realize just where his fingers are aiming—and that’s the worst part. He’s merely feeling. I’m exploding. Colors ripple beneath my skin. My head is bouncing off the ceiling. I’m higher than I’ve ever been.

  I’m needier. Hungrier. More selfish. Feeling him through the cotton of my black shorts isn’t enough. I can’t stop myself from steering him lower, slipping beneath the waistband and directly against the skin underneath.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, rocking back on my heels. Back and forth. Side to side. I don’t even let him touch me where every nerve is screaming for stimulation. Just at the ridge of my stomach and it’s still too much.

  I’m too much of a coward to look up at the mirror and see his reaction. I hunch over the table instead, eyeing a tube of lipstick in a bloody shade while my traitorous body yearns for more. He doesn’t resist my grip, even when my fingers tighten over his, my palm slick against the softness of his skin. He never makes a move on his own, but one firm nudge and…

  It’s like having an entire row of cocaine all to myself. The first hit is the hardest. You placate yourself with memories of how you used to be such a good little girl. Once the burning sting goes away and the high sets in, you lose yourself, however. The good girl makes short work of the remaining lines. Then she licks the surface underneath for any traces of powder.

  And he is more potent than any hit. I shove his hand between my legs and shiver at the coursing brush of every callused fingertip. My nerves are a million tripwires he’s carelessly triggering. Over and over again.

  It’s like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing to me or how. I feel him breathing against the back of my neck. His free hand comes to flick a lock of hair aside, baring my throat to him. It’s bruised, and he exhales sharply against the sore flesh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I’m coming. It happens so quickly
that I don’t have time to catch my breath before everything tightens and clenches. My head goes back. My teeth skewer my bottom lip to keep any sound inside. It’s a slowly broiling, torturous climax I doubt he even senses.

  When I finally come back down to earth, it’s a rough landing. I have to shove his hand away and catch myself against the table, gasping for air. He steps back, taking a cue from the way my shoulders hunch away from him as I struggle to readjust my shorts.

  “I…I have to get back on stage,” I croak. It’s a lie, not that he counters it.

  I feel his gaze on the back of my neck as I stagger past him and down the hall. A blonde is gyrating on the pole now. Maybe Darcy or someone else. I can’t tell. She falters when I climb on stage and approach her. The crowd roars, but my only goal is to smother every shred of confusion as I step against her, grabbing her waist with one hand while swaying my hips.

  She moves awkwardly at first until the increase in bills flying our way spurs her to move faster and grind her body against mine. We give the crowd what they holler for. Her fingers tangle in my hair, drawing my mouth to hers. She tastes like mint-flavored gum, but it’s a pale imitation of the scent in my head. The shouts and jeers of the men watching us don’t drown out his voice. No matter how fast I move, the slickness of sweat can’t erase his touch.

  It’s a pathetic, pitiful attempt, but I keep fucking trying until I’m breathless and panting and it’s time for another girl to take the stage. The act did nothing to counter the high. I’ll ride him out all night, and I suspect that it will be one hell of a withdrawal when I finally purge him from my system.

  I wake up and find Domi gone. Her bed’s been made, the other side of the room carefully tidied. I don’t find her in the hall when I finally haul myself upright and pull a pair of sweats on. Another figure’s taken her place though. They’re standing at the mouth of the narrow kitchen, their back turned to me, their shoulders hunched as they rummage through the fridge.