DEADLY STRIKE

KRISTI BELCAMINO

Copyright © 2025 by Kristi Belcamino. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

Kristi Belcamino

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

For my editor, DJ, who always, always makes my books better!

GIA SANTELLA CRIME THRILLER SERIES

Vendetta

Vigilante

Vengeance

Black Widow

Day of the Dead

Border Line

Night Fall

Stone Cold

Cold as Death

Cold Blooded

Dark Shadows

Dark Vengeance

Dark Justice

Deadly Justice

Deadly Lies

ONE

Muay Thai was supposed to keep me grounded. It had become my anchor—the one thing that made sense no matter what kind of chaos swirled around me. Until today.

The last thing I saw was Shawn’s narrowed eyes. Then his foot came fast and hard. I flew through the air, weightless for a heartbeat, wondering if I’d ever land. When I did, everything went black.

I came to with a towel dabbing at my mouth. Bright red.

Blood.

Mine.

Kato’s face hovered in front of mine, blurry at first. I blinked until his features sharpened. He handed the towel to me. Kato was in his fifties and a firm-but-gentle task master who commanded respect by his presence alone. He kept his sleek, black hair longer in the back, and his toned and fit body put Michelangelo’s David to shame.

“Put pressure on your lip for a few seconds, Gia.” My ears felt like they were filled with cotton.

I ran my tongue along my front teeth. Still there. That was something. But my jaw throbbed. My mouth stung. Blood seeped from the corner. I could feel it trickling down my chin. I sat up groaning. My hearing snapped back. My elbows burned. I looked down at them, both scraped and bleeding.

Shawn, a five-foot, eleven-inch ball of muscle, was on the corner of the mat, pacing and shooting me guilty glances. But it was my fault—I’d spaced out. Amateur hour. I’d left myself wide open for a full-on roundhouse kick from a twenty-four-year-old Muay Thai champion. It landed clean, snapped my neck back, and launched me clear off the mat. I’d skidded across the floor on my back.

Kato wasn’t done with me yet. He put his face right in front of mine.

“Gia. Where were you?” he yelled, which was so unlike him. “You weren’t here. Your head was somewhere else. A million miles away. You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull on that wall.”

“I’ve been saying for years we need to pad that wall,” I muttered.

Wrong thing to say.

“You dare blame me?” Kato scowled. “This is all on you.”

“You’re right. I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

Kato ran a hand through his hair. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Quit being nice to me. I preferred the yelling.” I hated feeling guilty. I hated making Kato worry.

He gave a bitter laugh. “Of course. God forbid anyone love you or care.”

I glared at him. The words stung. Because they hit a nerve.

He turned away. “If the bleeding doesn’t stop, go to urgent care. You might need stitches. Shawn, we’re done for the day.”

“Gia?” Shawn called.

I waved him off. “It’s fine.”

Kato disappeared into the adjacent office, slamming the door behind him. Shawn gave me one last look and headed to the locker room. Alone, I pressed the towel to my mouth again and leaned back against the cold wall.

Kato was right.

Except I wasn’t a million miles away. It was 5,989 miles to be exact—the distance from San Francisco to the French Riviera.

Ryder had texted me out of the blue and said he might come to town. Just like that. After six months of silence. It was dirty pool.

All those months ago, I’d told him I couldn’t do the long-distance thing. It wasn’t enough to only see him every few months at the most. He didn’t argue. He didn’t say he’d try to see me more. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t fight for me. That alone pissed me off. And hurt.

Still, the moment I saw his name pop up on my phone, all I felt was excitement. I hated that.

He was in my head, and he’d distracted me. I hated that too. I’d call him back just to end it and stop thinking about him.

I swung a leg over my Ducati outside the dojo, face still burning from Shawn’s attack. It was nothing serious—just enough blood to remind me I wasn’t invincible. The helmet pressed against the cut as I slid it on, and I winced, then twisted the throttle. The engine’s growl drowned out the noise in my head.

The night air hit me hard as I pulled onto the street—cool, salted with the Pacific, tinged with exhaust. It felt clean against the sweat on my skin, sharp enough to clear out the sting of the fight. The city lights smeared into streaks of yellow and red as I leaned into the curves, the pavement humming beneath my tires.

The Bay glittered dark and restless off to my right, fog pooling low at the edges. I opened up the throttle and the visor on my helmet, letting the bike eat distance and letting the wind slap at my bruised face. It hurt. It healed. Both at once. By the time the hotel lights came into view, I was steady again.

And ready to face Ryder.

After a long, hot shower in my apartment—one of the penthouses in the hotel I co-owned with my best friend Dante—I towel-dried my hair and wrapped myself in a pink silk kimono. My mouth still hurt. The butterfly bandage I’d applied was holding, barely.

In the living room, I stared at my phone. Might as well get it over with. I hit Ryder’s name and put the call on speaker, walking toward the full-length mirror. As it rang, I let the kimono drop and studied my bruised, battered body.

“What are you doing right now?” he answered in that deep French-accented voice that made my stomach clench.

“I just showered.”

“And?”

I knew this game. We’d played it too many times.

“You know I can’t do this anymore,” I said and reached for the kimono, tugging it back over my shoulders.

“You never said that” he said.

“Well, I’m saying it now. I can’t do this anymore. Not when you live across the world.” I walked toward the balcony doors, tempted to step outside and let the ocean breeze calm my nerves. But the wind would mess with the call. I paused.

In the distance, two puffy clouds drifted above the Golden Gate Bridge toward the Marin hills. Beyond that, the horizon melted into endless blue. It would be a beautiful night.

Perfect for the gala we were hosting downstairs—complete with champagne, rooftop views, and paparazzi eager to snap shots of Giada Valentina Santella: Killer and Heiress Extraordinaire.

I could see the night in my mind’s eye in all its perfection: The windows of the skyscrapers would be lit up, small, cheery dots of light against the dark monoliths. The moon—nearly full tonight—would be massive, hanging in the velvet, midnight sky. After the festivities below, I would come up here to this balcony and step outside, a drink in my hand. Maybe a cigarette for a treat. And Anthony—a man who had fought for me, standing behind me, his mouth on my neck, his hands on me, peeling off my silky gown.

But Anthony’s image was blurry. It morphed between two men. Two men who both equally drove me wild. One was on the phone right now. The other was coming over within hours.

“I don’t like it, either,” Ryder said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I froze. What the hell did that mean? Was he dumping me?

There was a long pause, then: “What’s your schedule like this next week?”

I saw my eyes widen in the mirror as a scowl appeared, tugging at the goddamn butterfly bandage on my mouth. “What?”

“Do you have plans for Monday?”

It was Saturday.

“You mean this Monday?”

I looked in the mirror. My reflection grinned back. Damn it.

“Yes. As in two days from now. As in I’m going to be in San Francisco then and would like to see you.”

I inhaled sharply, taken off guard.

“So do you have plans, or are you not answering because you’re worried it’s going to piss off the senator if you see me?”

“He doesn’t own me.” I snapped back, startling myself by the quick response.

“Good to hear, that’s one of the things I want to talk about.”

He was being so cryptic.

“Explain?” I asked.

“We’ll talk in person.”

Anthony didn’t own me, but he sure as hell put in more effort than Ryder had. At least he had for the past six months. 

The naturally charming senator had doubled down when he found out I’d stopped talking to Ryder. For the past two months, we’d actually felt like a couple. But we weren’t. There was no commitment. 

Anthony also lived far away, but not in France—he was only across the country. And unlike Ryder, he made sure we saw each other at least once a month, usually for a long weekend.

As I walked through the penthouse into my bedroom, I glanced down. Anthony’s shirt was still puddled on the floor near my bed. He’d left it here after changing into gym clothes earlier. I leaned over and scooped it up, holding it to my face. It smelled like him.

He was in town longer this time—a week. He’d be here until Monday morning when he had to fly back to DC. Ryder had said Monday. It was unlikely Anthony would still be here… unless Ryder was taking a red eye. Having both the men in my life in town at the same time would…complicate things.

“What time were you thinking?”

“Afternoon.”

I didn’t answer. I just pictured his hands on me. His lips. His voice in my ear. Apparently, I hadn’t gotten him out of my system after all.

“Santella? Are you there?”

“See you Monday,” I said softly and hung up before he could answer.

TWO

I turned toward the bathroom, but a sudden wave of dizziness made me grip the back of the couch. I paused, eyes shut, until it passed. When I opened them, my reflection looked pale. And tired. And bruised.

The butterfly bandage on my mouth was crooked. Great. I glanced at the clock.

Now I was heading into a black-tie gala with a bandage on my face and a freshly reactivated emotional minefield underfoot.

The doorbell chimed.

Showtime.

I opened the door and was immediately swarmed by Sergio and Claudia.

“Oh dear,” Sergio said dramatically. “Flesh-colored bandages are so not in style this year, honey.”

“They’ll have to be,” I said, laughing. “If you take it off, I’ll bleed like a stuck pig.”

“We’ll work around it,” he sniffed. He pulled his long black curly hair into a banana clip.

Claudia’s fingers were already in my hair. “I’m thinking half-up, half-down,” she murmured. “Those emerald earrings need to shine.”

They followed me into my bathroom. I sat in the makeup chair, and my phone dinged.

Anthony.

“Can’t wait to see you, my love.”

I blinked at the screen. My love? That was new.

What the hell was going on?

Was it a full moon?

Why were the two men in my life suddenly all in? Anthony had always avoided talking about emotions, but his constant presence in my life told me how he really felt. His actions spoke volumes. He had made it clear that if it was up to him, he’d see me every second of every day. In fact, he’d even invited me to move and live with him in his DC apartment. And when he looked at me? I saw something—love?—shining in his eyes. But he had never said anything about our future, about commitment, about feelings.

Then there was Ryder. He showered me with compliments and told me I was the love of his life, but his actions didn’t show it. Even if I was the love of his life, as he claimed, he refused to put me at the center of that life. His work was his life. His shadowy, dangerous work.

Then there was that thing Ryder and I had in common. That unspeakable, dark connection nobody else could understand. Something Anthony knew about me on a surface level (hell, the paparazzi even knew about it on a surface level), but I knew he would never quite accept all the dark parts of me. Not if he really knew them. 

Ryder did. Ryder even loved that side of me—the vengeful, ruthless side. It was a bond between us. A horrible one.

See, me and Ryder? We’re both killers.

He was ex-special forces. His current job was a mixture of security guard and assassin. I had never asked, but I just assumed his job was getting rid of evil people. It was unimaginable to think otherwise.

But I didn’t kill for money like he did. I killed because I had to.

Not for hire. Not for revenge. Only to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

Beneath my glamorous, philanthropic, jet-setter life, I’m still a killer—something I never wanted to be. It was born from necessity, not desire. It has taken years, but my conscience is clear: The ones I’ve taken out were monsters. I live by my own code—and it’s the reason I’m still alive.

“Gia! Where are you, child? You are miles away,” Claudia said as she smoothed my hair while Sergio dusted blush on my cheeks with surgical precision.

I felt trapped. Pinned. Like prey.

I closed my eyes. Clenched my fists. I wanted to bolt barefoot through the hotel lobby, hop on my Ducati and tear down Highway 1—away from men, away from feelings, away from this absurd, glittering life.

But I didn’t.

I sat. I smiled. I let them make me beautiful.

I had a job to do tonight. I was the face of a nonprofit organization I had started that was very dear to my heart. Ethel’s Place helped homeless people who wanted to get back into society. It built multi-use buildings offering apartments upstairs and retail shops on the street level where the residents could rebuild work and life skills, all while collecting a paycheck with a safe place to stay.

We gave people without homes housing for six months to a year while they went through on-the-job training. They also received medical help and mental health therapy if they needed it. We mostly had success stories of people getting their lives together after the program. Not always. But mostly.

Tonight was our annual fundraiser with all the Bay Area movers and shakers. Thanks to my best friend and partner, Dante, who had a magic touch when it came to hospitality, the tickets to the event—and donated raffle items—were coveted.

Part of the money raised tonight was going to be used by Ethel’s Place for a new project that I was excited about. It was going a project in which our clients could participate as part of their on-the-job training if they desired. Our goal in providing on-the-job training to our clients was to help them develop skills and experience, bolster their resume, and provide spending money even though we sought to cover most of their living expenses while they were with us.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I’d come a long way from when I was an orphan girl hiding from mobsters in the Tenderloin district of the city. But I never forgot the homeless people I met during that time. I never forgot Ethel. Even though I no longer sent flowers to her gravesite every week, I made sure to honor her memory with the work I did for others. Tonight, we would be announcing a new project. Ethel’s Flowers. I was proud of it.

It was a nonprofit branch of the organization that would take flowers donated by brides and from funerals to make smaller bouquets that would be given to people in assisted living homes. 

It was such a good thing. I may be a killer, but I really tried to be a good person. I hoped my mother somehow saw me now. A wave of sadness overcame me. I was now the age she was when she was murdered.

I’d killed before I was old enough to drink. The man who raped me as a teenager died at my hands, and I never looked back. But then when my parents were murdered, it was game on. I wasn’t proud of it, but I knew it was my destiny to avenge unjust murders. I didn’t like it. But I accepted it.

I could say I’d been forced to become a killer when someone had killed my family and tried to kill me. But in the end, it still boiled down to choices I’d made.

Claudia appeared over my shoulder.

“You look fabulous,” she said. “We’re heading out now.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, blinking back tears.

I heard the door close as she and Sergio left me alone.

I stayed in front of the mirror for a long while, searching the image before me.

As I’d grown older, my face had lost that girlish roundness, and I now had defined cheekbones beneath my dark eyes that Sergio had lined in kohl, making me look somewhat exotic. I stared at those eyes. They revealed nothing. A few smile lines were hints that I had grown older. My dark hair had been styled so it was dark and sleek down my back. My full lips were painted a deep red to match my short, painted nails. 

I thought of the two men in my life. Anthony and Ryder.

But both men kept me at arm’s length. Was it because that’s what I wanted? Was I the one keeping them at a distance? Was Kato right? Did I run away when anyone got too close?

I frowned.

I was alone. Single. Childless. It had always worked for me. But a small part of me wondered: Had I made a mistake?

THREE

The knock on my door made my face grow warm, because I knew who was on the other side.

Despite my earlier conversation with Ryder, I still got butterflies when I saw Anthony.

I opened the door and was not disappointed.

Anthony wore a tuxedo like the man was born for one.

He was handsome, with gorgeous olive skin and looked like he spent his spare time getting mani-pedis. When we first met, I felt that he was just a little “too pretty” and groomed, as if his fancy suits could stand up on their own. But he was also confident, witty, and powerful—qualities I found incredibly sexy and alluring.

The slow smile on my face told him everything he needed to know. On his side, he let out a low whistle.

“You will be, as always, the most beautiful woman in the room. Heck, in the city.”

“Says the politician.”

“Ouch.”

He swooped in and kissed my cheek.

“Nice bandage,” he said. “What’s up with that?”

“Wasn’t looking and got kicked in the mouth. By Shawn.”

“Oof,” he said. He’d met Shawn. “Probably worse than getting hit by a Mack truck.”

“It’s up there.”

He looked at me carefully and squinted. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes,” I said and smiled up at him. “There’s only one thing I need.” 

I looked back over my shoulder at the bedroom. I was always ready to rip Anthony’s clothes off, but it was exacerbated by the undeniable fact that speaking to Ryder had made me squirm with lust all afternoon. 

“Tempting offer. But we’re already late G,” he said and took my hand leading me into the private hall outside my penthouse. Then he led me to my private elevator. 

“You’re no fun,” I said and pouted. “Who cares if we’re late.”

“No fun?” He gave a smirk. “I’m plenty of fun. I’m just efficient.”

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t waste time answering. Before I could speak, he had me pressed up against the wall of the elevator with his hand up my dress. 

“Jesus!” I breathed into his neck.

The sex with Anthony had only gotten hotter since I’d told him Ryder was out of the picture.

Everything had gotten better.

Guilt flooded me. I pushed it away and surrendered to his touch. I’d been on the edge for hours, so it didn’t take long. He wasn’t kidding about being efficient.

The elevator came to a stop, and I quickly smoothed my dress back down.

He leaned down and kissed me one more time before we stood side by side and prepared for the elevator doors to slide open.

He gave my hand a squeeze as the doors opened to reveal a festive party in full swing.

Right before stepping out, I caught a glimpse of my flushed face in the elevator wall mirror.

I laughed out loud.

“That accomplished what all the makeup in the world couldn’t.”

“Just doing my job,” he said.

“Senator, you have my vote.”

We swept into the room with smiles at the ready. Before long, Anthony and I were separated as people converged on him wanting his attention. The senator was never not on duty.

I busied myself greeting the largest donors. Olivia, my chief financial officer, was taking me around to the various tables by the elbow and whispering their names in my ear. Even if I was derelict in remembering all the names, my gratitude was sincere. I was appreciative of every dollar.

At one point I glanced around the room, taking in the gala. The organizing committee had done an amazing job. All signs that this space was a restaurant were gone. It had been transformed into a glittering garden.

The roof of the restaurant had been rolled back, opening the ceiling up to the night, and the full moon hung so low it felt like you could reach up and grab it. The only lighting in the space were party lights, candles, and glittering chandeliers hanging in the corners imbuing the space with soft candlelight. Small party lights like fireflies were strung across the space where the ceiling would be. The floor, which had been sprinkled with something magical and silver, glittered like moonlight on ocean waves. Huge green plants in massive silver painted pots were sprinkled throughout the space, offering the illusion of intimate nooks and crannies.

Small, black silk chairs clustered around cocktail tables with candles scattered throughout the interior space. Plush velvet couches in deep navy lined three walls and offered a cozier lounging experience. The third wall of the restaurant, made up of floor-to-ceiling sliding windows that could disappear into the walls, was open to the night air and the restaurant’s enormous terrace. The terrace was scattered with more velvet seating and candlelit tables.

The servers were dressed in black pants and shirts and seemed to blend into the night until they arrived right in front of you with silver trays containing flutes of Champagne or canapés.

I strode through the magical space, greeting people briefly. When I brushed by Anthony I let my hand trail across his back. He was in the middle of a conversation with three women, but he turned and gave me a naughty look. A tall man with silver hair swept back and an immaculate tuxedo walked over and touched Anthony’s arm. 

Anthony turned and, for a split second, I saw something flicker across his face. He didn’t like the man. Then Anthony put on his megawatt politician’s smile. I leaned toward Olivia. 

“Who is that man?”

“That’s Maxwell Raines. Writes checks the size of yachts.”

Good. Maybe he’d donate enough for my new project.

I glanced over again. Both men were looking my way. Anthony smiled. But the other man, when his eyes met mine across the crowd, they lingered a beat too long. Something in the look—calculated, cool—sent a small chill through me. Then he turned away. 

After I’d circled the entire room, I noticed that a woman in a serving outfit was making her way toward me. She was short, her brown hair pulled back in a neat bun and had a warm smile.

“Hi!” I said brightly.

“Miss Santella?”

“Yes. Forgive me if we’ve already met, but can you remind me of your name?”

“Leticia,” she said. “We never actually met, but I was here when you first bought this hotel.”

“Thank you for being here.” I had rigorously gone through every existing employee when Dante and I bought the place to make sure that we weeded out some of the bad blood. “Nice to meet you officially.”

She hesitated, her large coffee-colored eyes searching mine.

“What is it?” I asked and smiled to encourage her to speak what was on her mind.

“When you bought the hotel, you told us during that first meeting that we should never be afraid to come to you with anything. Any problem was not too small, you said.”

She looked nervous and was wringing her hands and looking back over her shoulder. I was suddenly concerned.

“That’s right,” I said and frowned. Something was up.

“My friend. Valeria. She’s a server here too. She hasn’t shown up for work.”

She paused. I didn’t say anything, waiting for her to finish. She was watching my reaction and deciding whether to say more.

“I take it this is unusual for her?” I finally said.

“Yes,” she said. “She’s very responsible. She sends money back to her family in Ukraine. They depend on her.”

“How many days has she not shown up?”

“Well, I know it doesn’t seem much since it’s only been one day. It’s just that it’s so not like her. And she’s not answering her phone. She always answers her phone because she has a teenage daughter in Ukraine with health problems. So I’m worried about her.”

“Has anything been different about her lately?”

Leticia frowned.

“I know she has been arguing with her boyfriend the last few months. She kicked him out last month. She was so happy to be rid of him. Even if it meant she had to pay her rent by herself instead of splitting it.”

If this was true and she was missing, an angry ex-boyfriend was at the top of my list. But I didn’t want to say anything. Not yet. But I had to ask.

“Did he take the breakup well?”

“I don’t know. She never said.”

I nodded. “Anything else?”

Leticia looked off into the distance. “Yes. Now that she doesn’t have her boyfriend paying half the rent, she’s been worried about getting evicted. Maybe that’s what happened. But I don’t know where she would go. She doesn’t have any family or anything in the States. She could be homeless if she lost her place. Maybe we should call some shelters?” 

She trailed off.

“Don’t you think she’d still come to work though?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said and then made a face.

“What is it?”

“The more I think about it, it could be that she got evicted. She panicked when our paychecks were late last week.”

Leticia looked down.

I had heard the checks had been late. My blood began to boil. “Yes. That’s inexcusable,” I said. “It will never happen again.”

I meant it. Many of my employees were living paycheck to paycheck. I had made this clear when the payroll specialist started—checks on time or even early if payday fell on a weekend or holiday.

“I heard you fired Mr. Eric,” Leticia said, looking up at me shyly.

“That was one of many reasons.” 

I didn’t say I was looking into something even worse than issuing paychecks late.

A female employee in the management office had come to me and Dante earlier in the week and claimed Eric had been blackmailing her. That he had asked her to send nudes in order to give her days off she needed to care for a sick child.

I’d wanted to kill the man, but Dante said we should turn this one over to the police.

The woman had protested. She was terrified of retaliation. I’d told Dante that, as soon as the gala was over, I would handle it my own way. Down low. Privately. No one would ever know. But Eric would never ever pull a stunt like that again.

“Anyway, Valeria said her landlord would kick her out if the payment was late, and then the checks were late….”

“If she caught flak for it, this is our fault. I can speak to her landlord. But first let’s figure out what’s going on with her. Do you know where she lives?”

“No.”

“It will be on her application, I bet. Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Yes, if you want to come with me.”

“I do,” she said, smoothing her hands on her apron and beginning to untie it.

I flagged down the restaurant manager. “Oliver, Leticia is coming with me.”

“Very well,” he said. He was French and a bit of a dick if you didn’t know him, but he was the consummate professional and ran the restaurant like it was a Fortune 500 company. 

Then, with Leticia on my heels, I walked through the restaurant toward the elevators. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I'll make sure you get paid and tipped for tonight’s entire shift.”

As I grew closer, Anthony caught my eye. I jutted my chin at a quiet corner. He met me over there. Leticia waited nearby.

“I’ve got something I have to attend to right now,” I said. “Are you going to be okay alone?”

He groaned but it was in jest. “First Dante cancels, and now you’re bailing.”

The fundraiser was the effort of all three of us. Anthony was the celebrity guest. Dante and I were the organizers.

“Dante is sparing us from our gala from turning into a Super Spreader Covid event,” I reminded him.

“What’s your excuse, then?” he said.

“A missing female employee. Maybe in trouble.”

He gave a long sigh. “Sounds important.”

“It is.”

He stared at me for a second.

“You realize you’re leaving me alone to fend for myself with Danielle Stanford.”

I glanced over his shoulder.

The beautiful blonde heiress was sipping Champagne, but her eyes were on us, mostly on Anthony. She’d be thrilled to see me walk out.

I smiled. “What am I, your beard? Do you just keep me around so you don’t have to sleep with all the single socialites?”

“She’s married,” he said.

“Who knew?” I asked and turned to go.

“Exactly,” he said and scoffed. “The single ones are the easiest to fend off—it’s the married ones that won’t take no for an answer.”

FOUR

Fog shrouded the buildings of the Tenderloin as I slowly drove down alleys and streets searching for a parking spot. Leticia was quiet beside me.

The new hotel manager had texted me Valeria’s address before we’d stepped out of the hotel elevator into my private underground garage. The garage contained only five spaces. Right now, three were taken up by my Jeep, my Lexus LC 500 Convertible, and my Ducati motorcycle.

When I saw the address, I decided to take the Jeep.

The Lexus would have drawn too much attention where we were going.

The front of the apartment building was dark. Not even an entry light for tenants. Slumlord alert. I glanced over at Leticia in the passenger seat of my Jeep. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the handle of her handbag.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’m just worried.”

“We’ll find her,” I said.

Tired of driving around, I pulled the Jeep up onto the sidewalk in front of the building. I’d face a ticket or getting towed. I don’t know if it was Leticia’s nervous energy or my own sense of foreboding, but an image of my employee hurt or dying in her apartment had created a sense of urgency.

Leticia looked over at me, perhaps surprised that I was parking on the sidewalk? I shrugged. “We won’t be long.” Hopefully.

For a second, I eyed the glove box. There was a small pistol inside. I let it be. Nothing called for a gun right then. But I did reach into the back seat and grabbed a large tote bag I used for the beach sometimes.

As I stepped out of the Jeep and set the vehicle’s alarm, I looked up.

The apartment building was narrow and only four stories high. I eyed the windows. It probably only had half a dozen apartments. The alcove of the apartment building confirmed that. Eight doorbells. Valeria lived in #301. I rang it and waited. Leticia gave me a look. After a few seconds I rang all of the doorbells one at a time.

The door clicked open. I opened the door and gestured for Leticia to go in.

“It’s okay?”

I nodded. “Unless you’d rather wait in the Jeep?”

She shook her head.

“Let’s go.”

We stepped inside the dark lobby. I turned on my phone’s flashlight to light the way on the narrow stairs. The stairs were obnoxiously loud and creaky. As we got to the second floor, I heard a door close and footsteps on the floor above. I wondered if it was the person who had buzzed us in. When we got to the third floor, the hallway stretched off into the dark, but the first door in front of us was #301. I knocked on the door. Hard.

There was no sound from inside.

“Valeria?” I said loudly. “It’s Leticia and Gia Santella from the hotel?”

I tried the handle. It was locked. Leticia huddled close to me. Her eyes wide.

I had a lock pick kit in my glove box.

“I’m going to grab something out of my car,” I told Leticia. We both began to turn. As we did, Leticia screamed. Instinctively, I stepped back, feet spread wide, hands in fists up by my face to protect it, legs braced in preparation to strike.

A man stood in the dark behind us.

“Whoa!” he said. “Sorry to scare you. I’m the owner of the building.”

I held my phone’s flashlight up to his face. How had he crept up on us so silently on the creaky stairs?

The smiling man before me seemed harmless. He looked to be in his forties. He was average height. Average everything. He had brown eyes and brown hair. His features were somewhat nondescript. If I had to describe him to someone, it would be hard. White male. Average everything. Normal features. Nothing too big or too small. Not heavy. Not thin. Not unattractive. Not especially attractive. Even his clothes were non-remarkable. Jeans and a gray T-shirt. White sneakers. It was a little disconcerting.

A door opened on the floor above, and I heard some grumbling.

“It’s fine, Carlos,” the man before me said. “I got this.”

There was the sound of the door slamming.

A bright mag light shone in my face.

“Do you mind?”

He lowered the light, so it shone on the ground.

“Can I help you?” His tone was friendly, casual.

“We’re friends of Valeria,” I said, also lowering my phone flashlight a little but not all the way. “She didn’t show up for work.”

“You ladies are dressed pretty fancy for work.”

He looked over at Leticia. As he did, I saw something flicker across his face. Then it was gone. My heart sped up. Was it distaste? Was he racist? My back tensed. I had no tolerance for that kind of shit.

“We have fancy jobs,” I said in a monotone.

The man cleared his throat.

“I don’t know her very well,” he said. “I try not to be a nosy landlord.”

“Do you live on the property?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow and let the silence do its job.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I was here checking a water leak.”

“At ten o’clock?” I said and smiled.

“Unfortunately, that’s not something you can ignore. It will go through all the other apartments. Water damage is the worst.”

“I bet,” I said. I waited for a beat. Something seemed off about his story.

“What apartment was it?” I asked looking up at the staircase.

“The floor just above this. All taken care of now. I was just packing up when I heard you buzzing.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I said and smiled again. “Valeria isn’t answering her door. Could you let us in to look around?”

His face remained impassive. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said. “I don’t have the master key with me.”

Of course he could. I saw the large lump of keys on the keychain he was holding.

I frowned. “Well, I guess the next step would be for us to call 911 and have them do a welfare check.”

A look of unease crossed his face as I knew it would. Nobody, especially a slumlord, wanted police entering their building. I sensed he needed more pressure.

“I think we need to get in and make sure she’s not injured inside and unable to respond.” Or dead. The “or dead” was implied. We needed to get in right away. Something wasn’t right.

This lit a fire under the slumlord.

“How about I run home and get the keys and meet you back here in thirty minutes? Would that work?”

“Sure.”

He was lying. I was sure of it. The key to that apartment was on his giant keyring. I knew it. 

He gestured for us to go first down the stairs. I hesitated. I was thinking about the lockpick in my car. I had no qualms about using it once he was gone.

Leticia was already heading down the stairs. I followed. The longer I spoke to this man, the more wary I was. He was definitely a shady landlord. I wondered what was going on in this building that he was trying to hide. He was definitely trying to get us out of there as soon as possible.

As we walked down the dark stairs, lit only by my flashlight, I knew there were more problems in this building than just a lazy landlord too cheap to replace the hall or stairway lights.

“What happened to the lights?” I said in the dark.

I heard him inhale sharply from behind me. There was a beat.

“I saw that, too, when I arrived. I’m also going to grab some lightbulbs back at my place. Was on my way to do that when I heard you upstairs.”

Bullshit.

Then we were on the first floor. I clicked off my flashlight and stepped off to one side. He walked past me to the door. He pushed it open and held it for Leticia. I hesitated.

“Oh shoot. I think I left my sweater upstairs,” I said. It was lame, but it was all I could come up with. “I’ll be right back.”

Before he could answer, I raced up the stairs.

“Leticia, I’ll meet you at the car,” I yelled over my shoulder.

I hated leaving her alone on the street, but I had no choice.

“I’ll come with you,” the landlord said.

“No, it’s all good,” I said, already halfway to the second floor. “I’ll let myself out. The sooner you get back with the keys the sooner we all get to bed, right?”

He didn’t answer.

I paused on the second-floor landing and leaned over the rail. “If it will take you a while, I can always call for that welfare check,” I said for good measure. “I don’t want to waste time in case she’s hurt inside.”

My thinly veiled threat worked.

He cleared his voice. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“Great.”

He’d taken a few steps when I spoke again.

“Excuse me. What’s your name anyway?”

I watched his back. He stopped walking, and his back seemed to stiffen.

“Joe. Joe Longfellow.”

I waited to hear the click of the door closing. Then I crept quietly down the dark stairs. I half expected him to be waiting in the dark of the lobby. The guy gave me the willies. But when I reached the glass front door and peered out, all I saw was a dark sedan pulling away. I caught sight of the man’s head in the driver’s seat. Leticia was standing by my car, looking around nervously. I didn’t want to waste time picking the lock on the front door, too, so I’d made it so I was still inside when the landlord left.

I set a timer on my phone. He said fifteen minutes. I set the time for twelve to be safe.

I cracked the door and gave a low whistle. Leticia looked over and smiled. I clicked a button on my keys, unlocking my Jeep. “Can you grab that black vinyl case out of my glove box and bring it to me,” I said in a loud whisper. Then, as she opened the door, I added, “Um, just ignore the gun. For now.”

A few seconds later, she shut the Jeep’s passenger door, holding the vinyl zipped case with my lock pick kit. I held the door open wider. “Let’s go find out why the landlord was acting so sketchy.”

FIVE

It only took a few minutes for me to pick the lock on the door to the apartment and then we were in. I flicked on the light switch in the apartment. I worried that the lights would show from the street if the landlord returned early but we would have to take that chance. The window overlooking the street had a thick, blackout curtain so hopefully that would help.

As I stepped inside the apartment, I was relieved to find there wasn’t any smell.

I’d been worried that Valeria was dead inside. Although, if she had been, we’d most likely have smelled her decaying body from the hallway, but you never know.

“Valeria?” I called her name.

Then Leticia did the same.

We looked at each other, listening, but heard no sound.

“We better be fast. He’ll be back any minute,” I said and briskly strode inside, glancing around as I did.

The apartment was tidy. A worn couch, a scratched coffee table. A painting of flowers on the wall. A small café table had salt and pepper shakers on it and two placemats. Clean dishes were on a drying rack in the kitchen. The counters were clean and bare except for a toaster pressed into one corner. A kettle rested on the small stovetop.

Despite how tidy and clean the place was, the floor was lined with mouse and bug traps. A large bucket in one corner of the living room near a window was nearly overflowing with water from what appeared to be a slow leak.

Fixing a water leak, my ass.

I thought for a second about emptying the bucket, but I didn’t want the landlord to know we had been inside, so I left it to possibly overflow.

There was a small hall, and I headed that way. The first open door was a bathroom. The shower curtain was open, and the room was empty. Cosmetics and toiletries were neatly lined up on the counter. With just a glance I could see the sink basin was immaculate. Fresh towels hung neatly on a rack. The next door was a tiny bedroom. I stepped inside. The bed was unmade. Half of the covers were on the floor. A glass was overturned on the nightstand. The contents had soaked a paperback book, warping the pages.

Something happened here.

The rest of her apartment showed that Valeria was extremely neat and tidy. I didn’t know her, but I would put money down that she would not have left her bedroom like this.

I glanced at Leticia. She shook her head, then confirmed my thoughts aloud.

“I knew something was wrong,” she said. “She would not leave like this.” She gestured to the room with one hand.

I nodded. “I think you’re right. Let’s hurry and look around for anything strange and then get out of here before the landlord gets back.”

I looked in the dresser drawers for anything that seemed odd. Then I got on my hands and knees and looked under the covers on the floor and then under the bed. After my eyes adjusted, I saw something small and rectangular on the far side in the dark. I reached my arm under the bed but couldn’t get it. I got up and shoved the bed away from the wall until I could squeeze my arm down and grab it. It was a cell phone.

I extracted it carefully, holding it between two fingers. The screen was cracked in a snowflake pattern, and the phone did not light up. 

I held it up high. Leticia pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head. I dropped the phone into my bag.

Leticia poked her head in the closet. “Anything in there?” I asked.

She nodded and reached in. When her hand came out it was holding a small red leather purse. “This. Valeria uses this every day. I’ve never seen her without it. It was her mother’s. It has sentimental value to her.”

I opened up my oversized tote bag. “Here, drop it in here. Let’s hurry.”

We went quickly through the rest of the apartment. I glanced at my phone. Only three minutes left. I heard a car outside. I quickly switched off the light near the door and carefully pulled back the blackout curtain, peeking out. Damn it. It was the landlord in his sedan.

“We’re not going to make it back outside,” I said to Leticia. “Let me do the talking.”

We had just quietly closed the door to the apartment and were standing in the hallway when the building door below opened.

I peeked my head over the stair rail.

“We’re up here. A neighbor let us in. We were getting cold.”

It was nonsense since we could have sat in my car with the heater on, but it was the best I could do.

He seemed to run up the stairs because he was suddenly there in front of us.

“I couldn’t find the keys,” he said. “I looked everywhere.”

I was about to speak, but he continued. “However, I have good news. My wife said Valeria called her yesterday to let her know the lights in the hall were out. While they were talking, Valeria said she was going out of town for a few days but hoped the lights would be fixed by the time she got back.”

Lying bastard.

Leticia opened her mouth to say something, but I gently nudged her.

I smiled at him and let out a big, exaggerated sigh of relief.

“Oh good. She must have just forgotten to call in to work. She won’t lose her job over it, but I’ll give her a good talking to. Thanks.”

I turned to Leticia who was frowning. Behind the landlord’s back I gave her a slow wink. “I guess we can go now and get some sleep.”

Her entire body was tense. I held my breath, watching the emotions cross her face. Finally, she met my gaze and saw something there that made her nod. “Okay. Good,” she said.

We hurried down the stairs.

“I’ll be sure to have the lightbulbs fixed by the time she gets back,” the landlord yelled after us.

“Sounds good,” I said back.

It wasn’t until we were in the Jeep with my hands death-gripping the ten and two that I spoke. “That bastard. He knows something.”

“And it’s not good,” Leticia said, her voice breaking.

I thought about the mess in the bedroom. Signs of a struggle. Her cell phone left behind.

“I know,” I said. I wasn’t going to lie to her.

SIX

It was late by the time I dropped Leticia off at her home in the Mission. When I pulled in front of her apartment building, she hesitated to get out.

“Miss Gia, I didn’t tell you something. Maybe something important.”

I waited in silence.

“Valeria. She went through the Ethel’s Place program. She got in a bad spot. Her boyfriend got her hooked on drugs. She was homeless. But then she got clean and was hired at the hotel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Leticia looked me right in the eyes as she spoke. “Nobody cares if a junkie goes missing.”

I nodded. She was right.

“Junkie or not, I care. We’ll find her.”

I waited until Leticia let herself into her building before I pulled out.

It was true I cared, but it was also true that the urgency I had in finding Valeria had slightly lessened. There was a chance she had begun using again and was nodding out in some drug dealer’s crash pad somewhere. But that still didn’t explain the mess in the bedroom or the left-behind cell phone.

All of this was racing through my mind as I realized I’d steered myself back to the Tenderloin on autopilot. I was about two blocks away when I saw that scumbag landlord on the sidewalk. His car was parked, and he pulled something out of it before closing the door. Then he began walking down the sidewalk. There was nothing on the street except apartment buildings. Most of the windows were dark at this time of night. Where was this guy heading?

I pulled the Jeep into an empty spot half a block away and quietly closed the Jeep’s door, following the man on foot. Where was he going, and what was he doing in the middle of the night.

The fog had begun to roll in, and the streets were quiet. I tailed him as he turned a corner. Then I saw he was heading back to the apartment building. I began to run. If he went inside, I wouldn’t be able to follow. I intended to confront him.

I had almost caught up when he reached the door.

“Hey!” I yelled, slightly out of breath.

He turned.

Instantly I was in his face. He backed up toward the street, putting his palms in front of him.

“Back off,” he yelled, recoiling.

He was a coward. I could see the fear on his face.

“What? You don’t like when a woman fights back? So, you pick on people smaller than you, who don’t have support systems, who are trying to make it in this world, and you do things to them, don’t you?”

My voice came out as a hiss, and I backed him into a car on the sidewalk, my finger pointing at him. I prodded him in the chest a few times. 

“You better not have hurt Valeria. If I find out you did, you’re a dead man. Do you hear me?”

“You’re crazy,” he said.

I heard a window above me open.

“You okay down there?”

“It’s all good, Carlos,” the man said. “You can go back to bed.”

I backed up. My hands were clenched into fists. I wanted to kick this guy in the neck, but I also wasn’t itching for an assault charge.

He turned and headed back down the sidewalk where we had come from.

Without a word, I followed him. I wasn’t sure why. Except that it was where my car was parked.

I stayed a few steps behind him.

“You’re crazy,” he muttered after glancing behind him to see I was still there. 

“Maybe I am,” I said.

“Listen,” he said, pausing on the sidewalk. “She did drugs. She probably went on a bender somewhere. I’m sure when she gets straightened out, she’ll come back to work.”

My heart sank. I remembered what Leticia had said. Being a slumlord didn’t make you a kidnapper.

“Did you ever see any drug dealers or anyone else around her?”

I wanted to tell him that there were signs of a struggle in her apartment.

“Just her drug dealer boyfriend.”

Crap.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No,” the landlord said and scoffed. “I’ve got enough to worry about without keeping track of my tenant’s love lives.” 

As we grew closer to his car he turned down an alley. I peered down it. It led to a busy street with a gas station and a few bars pumping out competing dance music. I took a few steps into the alley. 

“Remember what I said: If you hurt Valeria, you will pay.”

His back tensed, but he kept walking.

I headed toward my Jeep.

My anger had cooled. Now I just felt sad. Aside from beating the truth out of him, I didn’t know how to make this man tell me where Valeria was. And I was less convinced that he knew. Maybe he was right, and she’d gone back to drug use. Maybe she was holed up in a flop house somewhere like he said.

I got into my Jeep, drove to Ocean Beach, and parked in the lot. There was something about staring out into the night where the horizon seemed to meld into utter nothingness that calmed me. The void before me felt like it went on for eternity and made me feel small in the face of the vastness beyond. Dante had once said it made him anxious and creeped him out to think like this. Not me. 

For me, knowing I was just a pinprick in the universe was somehow comforting.

I sat there for what felt like forever, watching the fog roll across the sand and wondering why I even bothered. There were evil scumbag men like the landlord everywhere. For some reason I always seemed to attract people like that into my life. Into my world.

It was too much. 

After what felt like forever, I turned the ignition and headed home. 

When I let myself into my penthouse suite, the first thing I saw was a pair of black men’s dress shoes neatly facing the wall.

Anthony. It was nearly three in the morning. I felt awful. With everything going on, I’d forgotten he would be here.

As I softly closed the door behind me so I wouldn’t wake Anthony if he was sleeping, I heard a small sound. I smiled.

He had waited up for me.

There were candles lit and the soft strains of blues music filtering throughout my surround sound system in my living room. I saw him on the large sectional couch. He was holding a crystal-cut glass filled with amber liquid.

Without a word, I slipped off my high heels and headed that way, stopping briefly to pour my own drink at the bar on the way. I took a sip and then was standing before him, looking down. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. They were full of desire. Seeing them sent a shiver of longing through me. He was so sexy. He had shed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie. His white shirt was unbuttoned nearly to his waist. I nudged his knees open with my legs and stood before him.

“You waited up for me,” I said softly.

“If you let me, I'd be waiting this way for you every night,” he murmured. 

A ripple of excitement ran through me. What was he saying?

“This could be our life, Gia,” he said, his voice suddenly huskier and catching on the words. 

My throat grew dry. I couldn’t speak. So instead, I slipped one strap of my gown off my shoulder, letting my gown drop to my waist. He groaned. I dipped my finger into my bourbon and then leaned down, running my finger lightly over his lips. His lips parted and he tasted the alcohol, but before I could draw away, he grabbed my wrist. Hard.

In an instant, I was straddling him. I dipped my head, my mouth searching for his. Our frenzied desire took over.

SEVEN

The next morning when I woke, he was gone. He had breakfast meetings and a visit to a donor’s ranch in Napa for most of the day. He said he’d be back late. And then he’d fly back to DC early the next morning.

I knew all this. But I still felt a pang of loss. At the same time, I knew this was what kept our relationship so electric. The unpredictability of when we would see each other. If we lived together, or maybe even in the same city, would we grow bored with one another? Maybe.

I hated to admit it, but it was true.

It was another reason Ryder was so irresistible to me. He was unattainable in so many ways. Human nature was such that we always wanted what we couldn’t have. And I was no different.

After a quick workout in the private staff gym, I showered and dressed and headed down to talk to the hotel manager about Valeria before I headed to Ethel’s Place. I wanted to see if anyone had heard from Valeria there. If she had begun using again, that might be a place she could go for help. We had addiction counselors on staff.

I peeked my head into the open office door of the hotel manager. I loved that she had an open-door policy.

Olivia Sandoval was only in her thirties but ran the hotel like a precision military operation. 

She was a petite woman who always dressed in her uniform of a silky white blouse, black pencil skirt, and sky-high black stilettos with her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a chic bun.

As soon as I walked in, she sat up behind her desk. “Any word on Valeria’s whereabouts?”

She didn’t waste time on formalities. I appreciated it.

I sighed. “Shoot. I was hoping you had heard something.”

“I wish.”

“Call me if you hear anything, and I’ll do the same.”

My next stop was Dante’s penthouse suite.

Unlike my airy suite with its white couches and white faux fur pillows and blankets, Dante’s place was the opposite. Yin to my yang. He rarely opened up the dark blackout blinds that came down with the press of a button during the day. He waited until nightfall to expose views of the city skyscrapers surrounding us.

His walls were painted black, and his décor was black with gold accents. He had a sleek black leather couch, black marble coffee table, a wall that was a bar with gold-rimmed, black crystal glasses. Gold lamps and fixtures. The only bit of color was a living wall of greenery that had trickling water dripping into a small pool below it filled with black Coy fish. It was the excessively stylish lair of a wealthy gay man.

I rang the doorbell. He flung open the door. He had on a mask. It was black silk. He pulled it down and grinned at me and then quickly pulled it back up over his brilliant white smile.

It wasn’t fair. The older he got, the better-looking he became. He was small and fit and lithe, and his silky black hair swept back from his olive skin.

“I thought you weren’t contagious as of this morning,” I said, frowning.

“I don’t trust the CDC’s guidelines,” he said airily. “That’s why I’m not inviting you in.”

I made a face. “Really?”

He nodded. “Sorry Gia.”

“I just swung by to tell you that we made $150,000 last night for Ethel’s Flowers.”

His eyes widened. “That’s fantastic.”

“You did a good job, my friend,” I said and smiled. “I wish you could’ve seen it.”

He had done most of the work for the gala.

He shrugged. “Better than giving all donors the ’Vid.”

I laughed.

“I’m meeting Darling for lunch and then heading to Ethel’s Place,” I said. 

“Wait? Isn’t it Sunday?”

“Joyce said she was doing some overtime to catch up after missing so many days last week with her grandkid. One of our hotel employees is missing. She’s a former addict. She went through Ethel’s program.”

“Oh no. I hope she’s okay.” Although I couldn’t see the frown behind his mask, I could tell it was there because his eyebrows furrowed.

“Also, I had hoped to announce Ethel’s Flowers last night at the gala, but I left early to go look for Valeria—that’s the missing woman’s name.”

“No problem,” Dante said, “I’ll schedule a small press conference for Tuesday. By then, I won’t be contagious anymore. We’ll just make it a separate event. Meanwhile, I’ll notify all the gala attendees and tell them their generous donations made it possible for us to begin this new project.”

The nonprofit was wildly successful, but as it had grown and new locations had opened up across the country, fundraisers like the one we’d held the previous night had become necessary to see the growth continue. 

“When is Wayne coming home?”

Dante’s husband was in Hong Kong on business.

“Tomorrow.”

Dante was my best and longest friend. We were family. We had bonded on the Monterey peninsula when we both attended a high school full of blonde girls calling me a wop and dago and jock boys calling him a faggot.

This was before my father made me take martial arts.

This was before I was raped.

This was before my parents were murdered.

I’d been in love with Dante then. I didn’t realize he was gay. Not at first. We had been there for each other through everything. My rape. My first kill (the rapist). My parents’ murders. The murder of his husband Matt in Positano moments after their wedding. The killing of my boyfriend Bobby that same day.

Dante had always been there for me. Sometimes I thought he knew me better than I knew myself. Which was terrifying because it meant I couldn’t get away with shit when he was around.

“Wayne wants you to come up to Calistoga for a few days with us. We want to go midweek to avoid the summer crowds.”

His words took me out of my memories.

“Can Ryder come?” Dante was the one who had introduced me to Ryder. If you call hiring the hitman to be my bodyguard in France years before an introduction. They had met at a film festival once and became fast friends.

At Ryder’s name, Dante arched one eyebrow.

“He’s flying in tomorrow.” I said.

“I thought that was over,” Dante asked.

“It’s not over until it’s over,” I said with a sigh. 

“That sounds like one messed-up love triangle, Gia. What does Anthony think of all this?”

Dante had also grown close to Anthony over the years. He was torn because he was friends with both men.

“Anthony leaves in the morning.”

“How convenient.”

I glared at him.

“Gia, my love,” Dante said through his mask. “Do you think perhaps the only reason you find Ryder so attractive is because he keeps you from going all-in on Anthony? And that the only reason you find Anthony so attractive is because he keeps you from falling for Ryder?”

I pouted. Sometimes I hated how well he knew me. I clamped my lips tightly together. 

“It’s okay to have a boyfriend, you know?” Dante said in a gentle voice. “It’s okay to love again. I know you’ve lost men you loved. We both have. But just look at how happy Wayne and I are. You need to take a chance. I promise it’s worth it.”

I frowned and looked away.

“I have to go look for Valeria,” I said.

I took a step backward out of the suite without meeting his eyes. And with that I was gone.

EIGHT

Darling was another of my oldest—and closest—friends. We had met when I was in my early twenties and a wild child.

When I walked in and saw her seated in a corner booth at the Parisian-style cafe, my heart filled. That woman never aged. She was talking to the server, and her lioness mane of dark curls bobbed as she nodded to the man.

As if sensing me, she looked up, taking me in with her massive, golden cat eyes, lined thickly with kohl like the Egyptian goddess she had probably been re-incarnated from. 

She grinned as I got closer and started to scoot toward the aisle.

I quickly leaned over and hugged her. She was all soft curves and exotic scent.

“You look like you got something last night,” she said and winked.

“Oh, you hush,” I said and laughed.

“I knew it,” she said smugly, pressing her red lips together and nodding. “Mmmhhhmm.”

My cheeks grew warm. Since when did I blush? It was stupid.

I slid into the leather bench across from her and poured myself a glass of water from the carafe on the table. I took a quick sip before I met her eyes. I put the glass down and sighed loudly.

“What is it? You in love?” she asked slyly.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m hardly in love. I simply have two great men in my life, and unfortunately they both decided to be in San Francisco at once. Anthony is in town and Ryder is flying in tomorrow.”

“Mmmhhhmm. You got yourself a love triangle.”

That’s what Dante had called it. Was it true?

Her laughter rang out like a bell. 

“It’s not funny,” I said with despair. “I am not cut out to juggle two men.”

“The hell you aren’t,” she said and burst into laughter again. “Most of the years I’ve known you, you were juggling a whole lot more than two.”

I opened my mouth to argue but realized I couldn’t and quickly closed it. Damn.

“The difference is that now I feel guilty. Before I didn’t care.”

“So you’re saying you love two fellows?”

I winced. Love? That seemed a stretch.

“I care about them both. And they both want me to choose.”

As soon as I said the words, I realized it was true. That’s what Ryder had been hinting at during his call. He wanted to talk in-person about “us” being apart so much.

And Anthony had said if I “let” him, he’d be waiting for me at home every night. That it would be what our life could look like if we were “together.”

That was it. They were both angling for me to be exclusive. That word terrified me.

“That’s a problem?”

“Anthony is perfect on paper. He wants to marry me. Swoop me up and stick me in a giant house in Washington, DC. He sees us as this power couple. I’ll run my businesses while he takes over Washington.”

“You could do that,” Darling said, nodding. “You could do like he does and fly back here one or two times a month.”

I agreed.

“What about Ryder?”

I frowned. “We have a crazy strong connection—physically, yes—but also on a deeper level. He is the only person in the world besides my aunt Eva who understands the life I’ve led and accepts it fully.”

“Anthony knows all your secrets, too, sugar.” 

Darling knew both men well. That’s one reason I could talk to her about them and my dilemma. 

“It’s different with Anthony,” I said. “He knows all my secrets—on paper. He doesn’t know how it feels to kill. He doesn’t know the dark terrors that paralyze me in bed at night. He tries to understand when I wake up screaming, but he can never truly know.”

“Is that so bad?” Darling asked. “If he’s able to comfort you isn’t that enough?”

I thought about that. While sleeping beside both men, I’d had post-traumatic stress nightmares where I’d woken up shouting and thrashing the covers. And yes, both had comforted me.

As I remembered how it felt to lie in their arms and have them calm me down, I realized there was something—a very important something—that differentiated the two men.

“What is it?” Darling said, reading me like a book.

“I just realized who I should be with.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m not ready to say it out loud yet.”

She pursed her lips together and nodded. “Fair enough. Can you tell me what helped you decide?”

Certainty coursed through me. “Yes. It’s easy now that I realize it. I have to pick the one who makes me feel safe.”

“That makes so much sense,” Darling said. “You have been looking for, craving that feeling, your entire life, sugar.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes. I couldn’t speak. I just nodded.

“So which one is it going to be?” she said right before taking a large bite of the pastry, which sent powdered sugar floating onto the table. She delicately dabbed her lips with the red cloth napkin.

“You’ll be the first to know when I’m ready to share,” I said and winked.

The main office for Ethel’s Place was on the second floor of the original building that was constructed for the business. The ground-level shops where the residents worked and studied had changed over the years. Right now, there was a coffee shop, a florist, a classroom, a bookstore, and a fine-dining restaurant that served South American food.

We’d expanded, so other businesses would take on our residents and train them in various fields. Some of our most successful internships involved people who wanted to go into the trades: plumbers and electricians. We had instructors who trained them and master plumbers and electricians who took them on as apprentices.

One man who had gone through Ethel’s program years ago had started his own plumbing company and exclusively hired homeless men and women who came from the program. I was proud of him. Theo Miller was a gem. He gave back to the community ten times what it had given him.

He was in the hall, walking out of the business office when I turned the corner.

“Gia!” he shouted when he saw me. I beelined for his open arms. His hug was warm and comforting. “What are you doing here?”

“I have great news,” I said. “The fundraiser last night netted a cool $150,000!”

He high-fived me. “Excellent!”

“Thank you for your donation,” I said. “I think your services sold for $1,000 at auction.”

He let out a low whistle. “I love that. Happy to help. You know I got you.”

“Thanks. You’re the best. How’s the fam?”

“Great,” he said. He beamed, his eyes lighting up. He’d married a widow a few years back and took on the role of stepdad and grandpa like he’d been born for it.

We said our goodbyes and then I popped my head in the office door.

“Busy?”

Joyce stood and smiled. “Never too busy for you,” she said but then winced. “I think I drank too much last night, though.”

A few years back, I’d let go of the reins of the organization and delegated nearly everything to Joyce, a young woman I’d met through Darling.

“Ha!” I said and laughed. “You looked stunning in that green dress.”

“I did feel like the belle of the ball,” she said. “Where did you run off to? I looked for you, but you were gone.”

“That’s why I’m here.” I told her why I had left the gala early.

“She hasn’t checked in here,” Joyce said and frowned.

“Have you heard anything on the grapevine about her?”

“No, but I’ll ask around.”

We sat there in silence for a few seconds.

“You worried, Gia?”

I nodded. “There are a few things that make me think it’s less likely she started using again and more likely something bad has happened.”

“Let me put out some feelers, and I’ll get back to you.”

From Ethel’s place, I swung by my friend Danny’s house in the Aves. He had come a long way since I met him where he lived in a crowded apartment in the Tenderloin. Now, he owned a beautiful Victorian. He had come into his own as a world-class hacker. Today I needed his skills. I texted him when I parked out front.

“I’m in LA for the weekend,” he wrote back. 

“I’m sticking a cell phone through your mail slot,” I wrote. “It’s busted. Belongs to a missing employee.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’m home tonight.”

Danny was in his thirties, but something about his floppy red hair, freckles and boyish face, made him look much younger.

Danny was family. He’d become emancipated at seventeen—with my help—because of a fucked-up home life.

Danny wasn’t really overweight as much as he was just oversized. I think this made him self-conscious. Everything about him was huge. Gigantic face. Massive hands. Too tall for most doorways. 

He’d been living with—and successfully fighting—a disease that some called gigantism. It made him grow too much too fast. I hated to think about it, because most people with it died young. He was a little socially awkward unless he was talking about tech stuff but was a rock-solid, good guy with a heart of gold. I’d take a bullet for him without blinking.

From Danny’s place, I headed to a coffee shop where I pulled out my laptop and handled some of the financials and administrative tasks for the hotel. I was good at delegating, so it was mostly just approving business items that Olivia had sent my way. Once I finished that, I headed to the dojo to get in a workout before I headed home.

I had just finished an hour of kickboxing and was putting on my socks and sneakers when my phone rang. I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat off my face as I hit the answer button.

It was Joyce.

“You hear something about Valeria?” I said, as I started unwinding the wraps from my left hand while balancing my phone between my shoulder and my ear. Across the room, Kato gave me a wave goodbye and slipped into the kitchen area of the gym. I finished rolling my wraps into small balls and stuffed them into the open end of my boxing gloves.

“No, I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you we asked around and nobody has heard from her.”

“Okay, thanks for the update.”

I hung up and slung my duffel bag over my shoulder as I loped down the stairs of the gym to the street.

When I got home, I took a long shower and then slipped into a silky red robe. I curled up on my couch and ordered room service. While I waited, I sipped on a glass of bourbon and stood on my balcony looking down on the city.

The sight always filled me with a strange sense of peace. When I looked at the other skyscrapers and the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges in the distance, I felt as if I were at the epicenter of the universe. That there was no other place I should be.

And yet I cared about two men, both of whom would require me to leave this place to find love. Was this city enough? A surge of loneliness came over me.

Was running this hotel—which, let’s face it, didn’t take up all of my day—enough? I was simply a figurehead for Ethel’s Place now. I’d done such a damn good job of delegating, I truly wasn’t needed. The organization was a well-oiled machine with superb people in place, such as Joyce, keeping it thriving.

Dante was the one who did most of the work to keep the hotel a raging success and a destination spot for travelers around the world.

Me? What did I do?

Worked out at the gym. Drank a little too much. Slept a lot.

It wasn’t a life. It was an existence.

But that was my fault.

I knew with all of my heart that bringing a man into my life full-time wouldn’t solve that.

If I couldn’t find happiness and get rid of the feeling of loneliness when I was alone, then that meant I needed more time alone to figure that shit out.

Darling was right, there had been very few times in my life when I didn’t have at least one man on speed dial to come warm up my bed—and body. It was time for me to be utterly alone and figure out who the fuck Gia Santella really was.

As if on cue, my phone dinged.

Anthony.

He was back from Napa.

I glanced down.

Hey beautiful, I’m downstairs in the hotel. I’m wolfing down a steak from La’Tavoli. I was too busy to eat earlier. Hobnobbing with too many people. Eating so I’m not hangry and then I’ll be right up.

Damn it. I would have to tell him tonight. 

I then texted the night manager at the hotel. Can you make sure the East Bay penthouse is clean? I might have a late arrival.

I waited for the manager to thumbs up my message and then turned to go inside. I headed straight to the bar. I was going to need a stiff drink for this talk.

NINE

Anthony didn’t show up until an hour later. By that time, I’d refilled my crystal tumbler a few times. I was a little unsteady as I answered his knock.

“I’m sorry, the service at the restaurant was slow, I should’ve texted you.”

I stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, not making room for him to come in. I was suddenly tired and wanted to go to bed. By myself.

“Shoot. It’s too late, isn’t it? You look like you’re ready for bed. I know you were out late last night” he said and ran his hand through his thick black hair. 

“Anthony,” I said. “I need to tell you something.”

He frowned.

“Ryder is coming tomorrow.” I spit the words out before I could change my mind.

His politician's face did not reveal a single emotion, but his jaw tensed, and his eyes stayed trained on me. 

“I see,” he finally said.

That definitely wasn’t what I had planned to say, but as soon as I did, I knew it was the right thing.

I looked up at him. 

“Have you been drinking?” he asked. “I mean a lot?”

I nodded. “That was a long hour.”

“It was.”

“And you’re right, I was out late last night and up early this morning.”

“What does this mean? Him coming to town?” he asked carefully.

Inhaling sharply, I mustered up the courage to say what I had intended. “I think I need to take a break.”

“I see.”

Was that all he could say?

“I’m going to tell Ryder the same thing. He deserves to hear it in person.”

“He does?”

I ignored the question.

“I’m just very confused by all of this,” I said. “By everything.”

“So, you’re confused by us?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m confused. What do you want from me?”

He stared at me for a long moment. I realized I had said the wrong thing.

“Gia, I don’t want anything from you. I only want you to be happy.”

His voice was sad. I closed my eyes. I refused to cry.

“Anthony, I care about you so much. But Ryder is also in the picture.”

“And you care about him, as well?”

I nodded. I could see the pain in his eyes. 

“I thought that it had changed. I thought—my mistake—that you were done with him.”

“I thought so too,” I admitted. “But I’m not. And until I am, I don’t think it’s fair to keep seeing you.”

“But you’ll see him?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I have to see him tomorrow. He’s going to be here.”

Anthony scowled. “How long have you known this?”

“I swear, just since last night.”

Anthony took a step back and turned to leave.

“I reserved the Emerald penthouse for you.”

He shook his head. He was pissed. “I’m not staying here tonight.”

And then he was gone down the hall toward the elevator. If I stepped out, I could watch him as he waited for the elevator. If I walked down the hall, I could hug him before he stepped into the elevator. Or kiss him.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I closed my door and locked it.

I leaned back against it and closed my eyes.

I had royally fucked that up.

What I had wanted to do was tell him I needed a break because I was falling for him and was confused by my remaining feelings for Ryder. But I had complicated things—and worse, hurt him. I hated the way we had left it.

I put my head in my hands. Damn it. Was I ever going to get it right?

TEN

The next morning, I woke to a series of texts on my phone. Blurry eyed, I pulled up Danny’s first: Cracked it. No pun intended. Found a series of texts that seem to be from her landlord. He’s blackmailing her. Forcing her to have sex with him or he’ll evict her. In one text, he says if she doesn’t cooperate, she’ll end up missing like Lydia.

I sat up straight. Jesus. This was bad.

I texted Danny my thanks and said, I need a home address for this landlord.

I waited, holding my breath. Danny was a night owl. It was 9:00 a.m. His nocturnal habits meant he might already be vampired up in his dark bedroom for the remainder of daylight.

Luckily, I saw the little bubble that meant he was typing. Easy. He’s at 2300 McAllister Street in the Hayes Valley neighborhood. Be careful.

Will do. Thanks, buddy.

Within thirty minutes, I was dressed and out the door. I wore black cargo pants and a tight, black, long-sleeved T-shirt with a black baseball hat and combat boots. I didn’t know what I was going to encounter at the landlord’s house, so I’d also stuck my Glock 43 in my bag and strapped my Ruger LC9 into my ankle holster. 

On the way over, when I stopped at a red light, I checked my other texts. Joyce said no news. Ryder said his flight was scheduled to land at 2:00 p.m. 

It only took another fifteen minutes before I’d parked on McAllister Street in Hayes Valley. I noted that the landlord’s home was only a few blocks away from his apartment building in the Tenderloin. His house, perched on the corner and with a large backyard hidden by a ten-foot-high fence was not what I expected. Nor was the neighborhood. Having a freestanding house in San Francisco with a fenced backyard put him in millionaire status in my book. With the sardine-packed houses of the city leaving no privacy, this house had a street on two sides, an alley on the third and a windowless brick wall of a commercial building on the other. 

I jogged up the half dozen steps to his front door and rapped on it with the polished brass knocker, looking around at the neighboring buildings as I did so. All was quiet.

The door swung open immediately, startling me.

“Are you a cop?”

The woman before me was petite, pale, and beautiful with nearly white silky blond hair. She had a slight accent. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she wore baggy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.

“No,” I said carefully. “I’m looking for Joe Longfellow.”

Her face sank. “I thought you were the police. They are looking for him too. He didn’t come home the other night. I’m worried sick.”

The other night? The hair on my arms prickled. 

“Does he ever disappear like this?”

I knew that if he had made Valeria disappear, he might not be home at his usual times.

“Maybe.” She evaded my glance. 

“You said the police? Did you file a missing person report?”

“I tried. They said they would send someone over to talk to me if he didn’t come home by Wednesday.”

“When did you see him last?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of one of his tenants.”

She stepped back and began to close the door. Interesting reaction to my comment.

I stuck my boot between the door and the doorjamb.

“What do you know about his tenants?” I said. “You seem like you might know something.”

“They all like him. They want to take him away from me.”

“Really?”

“The women,” she said, spitting out the word. “He has to fight them off. Maybe that’s where he is now. With one of them.”

She might have been right, but those women weren’t there willingly.

“Why do you think that?” I asked in a gentle voice. “I might be able to help you find him. I am looking for a missing tenant who works for me. Maybe we can help each other find both of them.”

She thought about that for a minute, staring over my shoulder before speaking.

“He left home late the other night. He said it was about a tenant. Said she was giving him problems.”

“Was it Saturday night?”

She wrinkled her nose and then nodded.

“Was that the last time you saw him?”

“No, he came back but only for an hour. He was back in the garage. Then he left again.”

“Does he park in the garage?”

She shook her head. “No. He parks out front. That’s how I knew when I woke up that he hadn’t come home. His car wasn’t out front.”

“Did you check the garage?” 

“The door that cars can come in doesn’t work. It broke a few years ago. He just uses it for storage now,” she said and then paused. “I guess.”

I guess.

I hadn’t seen an attached garage in front of the house when I had parked. “Is the garage out back? Can I take a look?”

His middle of the night visit to the garage that was used for storage didn’t sit well with me.

“I told you, the door for cars doesn’t work.”

“How does he store things?”

“There’s a door that leads to the yard.”

The way she spoke, and her glassy eyes, made me wonder if she was all there. If she was drugged or something else. It was as if she was repeating things to me without realizing how they sounded. Reciting what her husband had told her to say. It felt like I was trying to convince a child.

“Can you show me?” I asked. She hesitated again. “I promise I want to find him and her as much as you do. I saw him the other night. He was alone and said he left to come back here, but he was only gone a few minutes before he came back. Maybe we can figure out what’s going on.”

“You can’t see the shed,” she said. “He told me to never go in there. He has a lock on it. A big one.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you think that is?” I asked gently.

She looked sad. “I don’t know. He parks his car by the back door of the shed and then puts stuff in the shed and then locks it.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Big stuff. Carpets and bags. He says they are very valuable.”

I was starting to panic. I had to see what was inside that shed. What if Valeria was being held there? 

“Did he unload something from his car on Thursday night?”

She nodded and then her face scrunched up. Again, the impression that I was dealing with a small child instead of an adult woman confused me. 

“I don’t want to go down there,” the woman said in a dead voice. “It smells like garbage. It’s too close to the garbage can.”

My heart was thudding in my ears now, and her words sent a shiver of dread down my spine.

“You need to take me to the shed now.”

“No!” she said and glared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching into my bag. “I don’t want to scare you, but you need to take me to that shed right now.”

“I said no.”

I pulled out my gun. I didn’t point it at her, but I held it so she could see it.

“I’m very sorry to do this, but please take me to the shed.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re going to shoot me if I don’t?”

I sighed and put away the gun. “No, I’m not going to shoot you. But please, you and I know that whatever is in that shed is something very bad.”

And just like that, she deflated. Her shoulders sunk, her eyes welled with tears. She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked away into the house, leaving the door open behind her. I glanced around for a second and then stepped inside, closing the door softly behind me. She was partway down a hall. She hesitated, as if she was waiting. I caught up to her, and she led me to a door off the kitchen. It led to steep wooden stairs that led to a backyard. There were a few raised gardening boxes with vegetables and then a large shed the size of a two-car garage in a corner of the yard up against the fence leading to the alley. As we grew closer, I saw it was a two-car garage. There was a door leading to the yard. It looked like the garage door opening was in the alley. The door to the garage in the yard had a thick chain with a large lock padlock on it. 

“See?” the woman said and gestured. “We can’t get in.”

When we were about ten feet away from the garage, I could smell it.

Death. Decay. Decomposing flesh.

Once you have smelled it, you will never forget it. It has a unique stench that cannot be mistaken for anything else.

I didn’t need to get any closer.

I took out my cell phone and called 911.

ELEVEN

The street was closed off with yellow crime scene tape, and a convoy of unmarked black detective sedans, squad cars, and a giant crime scene van were parked out front within an hour.

And that’s after it had taken the first patrol officer twenty minutes to arrive, even though I’d told the 911 dispatchers I was calling to report a murder.

I didn’t need to walk into that garage to know this for certain.

Mrs. Longfellow had freaked out when she heard me on the phone with dispatchers.

“What are you doing? You’re ruining everything. He told me not to go into that garage!” 

She began pulling at her hair. Her eyes were wild. She paced. She flung her arms out as if she wanted to strike me. This was clearly a woman who was terrified and probably abused.

I kept trying to calm her down, but she wouldn’t listen to me. At one point she charged me and threw herself at me, arms windmilling.

I grabbed her by the shoulders to stop her. She looked at me with feral eyes. Her hands were clenched in fists. I think she wanted to scratch my eyeballs out.

“It’s okay,” I said in a calm voice, meeting her eyes. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Her panting turned into heavy breathing. Her eyes focused. She exhaled loudly.

“Breathe,” I said. “You’re safe. You’re okay. You never have to worry about him hurting you again.”

I’d spoken from instinct, from what I thought she needed to hear, but her reaction told me I’d been wrong. She jerked away from me and backed up, pointing her finger at me. She seemed terrified of me now.

“It’s your fault. All of this is your fault. You’ve ruined my life. Now they are going to send me back to Slovenia. You’ve ruined everything. He was the only one standing between me and deportation. I hate you!”

I sighed. She was having a mental break. There was nothing I could say. I just hoped the police would get there quickly.

As soon as the officer stepped out onto the deck above us, I waved at him and shouted, “Can you call social services? I think the homeowner here needs someone to be with her.”

Then I noticed he had his gun drawn.

“Hey!” I shouted. “It’s just the two of us here. I think the suspect is gone.”

I realized I wasn’t positive though. He could have been hiding in the house the entire time. Unlikely, but maybe. Or what if he was in the garage? But then I remembered the way Mrs. Longfellow had opened the door, eager for news about her husband.

After determining we weren’t a threat, three officers took the steps down to the yard. I explained that my employee was missing and that I’d smelled decomp in the garage but had not forced entry. For whatever reason they believed me and called in the cavalry. Thank God.

I watched as a parade of uniforms marched by. SFPD. County sheriffs. Crime scene techs. Morgue personnel…

Mrs. Longfellow was swooped away pretty quickly, but as she left, she glared at me and acted frightened, walking a large swath around my perch on the small stone wall as if she thought I might leap out and grab her.

Now cops swarmed the backyard.

Mrs. Longfellow was taken inside the house for questioning. I was sitting on a low wall near a raised garden bed waiting for the lead detective to come out of the garage and question me. For some reason, they thought we needed to be sequestered even though I had explained to a sergeant that I’d just met the other woman.

I was on my phone reaching out to every law enforcement contact I knew. My former boyfriend James, one of the great loves of my life, had been a longtime San Francisco police officer who had been shot and paralyzed by corrupt officers on the force. We’d tried to make it work and ended up friends. But he would always own a small piece of my heart. He was now with the FBI.

Fifteen minutes after I’d texted him, he’d replied.

“Gia,” he said in a low voice on the other end of the phone. “I could get fired for talking to you, so keep it to yourself, but there’s a lot more than one body in that garage.”

I thought about the threatening text from the landlord that Danny had unearthed: disappear like Lydia.

“Keep talking,” I said, glancing at the detective who was talking to a cluster of cops and side-eying me as he spoke to others.

“There’s an underground makeshift type bunker.”

“Oh yeah?” I narrowed my eyes at the detective until he looked away.

“One woman had ID on her. I’m sorry. It was Valeria.”

It felt like a punch to my gut. I’d never met the woman but that didn’t matter. She was a young woman who was now dead.

He continued, “And three other bodies. Word is they are all young women..”

“Jesus!” The detective’s head swiveled sharply, his eyes raking over me again. Oops.

“Tunnels?” I asked.

“Yeah. Just like the rest of the city, Hayes Valley is on top of a bunch of layers of underground infrastructure,” he said. “From what I can see, there aren’t a bunch of connecting tunnels, but there are some basements and utility tunnels. The creek runs under there as well, so maybe the tunnel accessed the creek at one time.”

I’d heard of the vast maze of tunnels running underground in San Francisco, and I’d even been in parts of it before, but this was something else entirely.

“I have to go,” he said hurriedly, and the line went dead.

Three other bodies. At least. What the hell? I needed to tell Leticia. I dialed Olivia. 

Although I’d have preferred to tell Leticia in person, I realized she might hear about Valeria’s murder on the news before I saw her, so I asked Olivia to take her aside and break the news. I also told her to give Leticia the rest of the week off. My heart broke for her loss. I then told Olivia that I needed her to call a staff meeting to give them the news. 

“Let’s bring in mental health personnel for the next three days as well.”

“I’m on it,” Olivia said.

I kept checking my phone as the minutes rolled by. I felt trapped sitting in that backyard in the sun, but I knew I needed to give my statement, and I wasn’t going to be able to rush the detectives on a case this big. 

I’d hoped to be home, showered and in a cute dress before Ryder arrived, but I wasn’t sure that was going to happen now. 

At one point, I glanced up at one of the windows and saw Mrs. Longfellow pointing down at me. Her face was red and puffy, and it looked like she was scowling.

“Hey, lady, don’t kill the messenger,” I muttered, looking down at my phone to avoid eye contact. “Sorry to inform you that your husband is a serial killer.”

“What?”

I looked up, feeling my face turn red. It was the detective I’d been waiting for.

“You ready for me?” I said with a smile.

He had wire-framed glasses and a slim frame and looked like he had probably been the undisputed Spelling Bee champ throughout his school years. His face remained expressionless. “You seem awfully chipper for a person who called in a murder. Especially when one of the victims was apparently your employee.”

He’d obviously done his homework already. I’d mentioned to the 911 dispatcher that I believed my employee was dead in this man’s garage.

“I’m not happy about the murder of my employee. I’d never met her, but obviously I wouldn’t want any woman murdered—employee of mine or not. What I am happy about is that this creep will never do this to another woman again.”

“If he’s responsible,” the detective replied.

I made a face. “Of course he’s guilty. This is his house. Valeria lived in his apartment building.”

I almost said that he had sent her threatening texts but wasn’t sure now was the right time. After all, Danny had hacked the phone, which was illegal.

“With all due respect, ma’am, that’s not how our justice system works. Innocent until proven guilty.”

I squinted at this fresh-faced little shit detective. He was defending the landlord after four bodies were found on his property.

“Not in my book. An eye for an eye and all that.” 

He raised an eyebrow, and for some reason, it sent an alarm zigging through me. Then his words solidified that nagging feeling of danger. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said.

I frowned. “I thought you wanted my witness statement?”

Just then, I heard a blood-curdling scream. I looked up and saw Mrs. Longfellow collapse onto the deck, wailing and sobbing. Then she stood and leaned over the rail, pointing at me. “It was her! She did it!”

I froze. Did what now? I knew from the woman’s reaction that the landlord was dead. My phone dinged. Ryder. He was texting me from the airplane. Excited to see me soon.

The detective had been very still, watching me.

“Mr. Longfellow was found in a dumpster in an alley a few blocks from the apartment building he owned.”

“Dumpster?”

My face felt icy.

“Near the apartment building where your employee lived,” he added, as if I had somehow not understood that part.

“Okay?”

“Know anything about that?”

I shook my head. “Can I give my witness statement so I can get out of here?” I wanted to go meet Ryder.

“Sure. Let’s do that, but then I want to talk to you about your, let’s call it, vigilante criminal record.”

My face scrunched up in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems like you’re a bit familiar with murder.”

“If you mean my parents, brother, and cousins being murdered, then yes you are unfortunately correct.”

I held my breath, but he wasn’t buying it.

“Your record, Miss Santella.”

Oh my God. He’d pulled up information on me. He knew I had killed before. Was it even worth arguing that it had always been in self-defense and I’d been cleared in every case? No, he would know that as well, and he clearly didn’t care. 

“What are you trying to say, detective?”

“What I’m trying to say is that I think our conversation is going to take place down at the station.”

“I don’t understand.” I stared at him, stunned. I knew what was coming next even though I could hardly believe it.

“Miss Santella, you are under arrest. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law….”

His words were interrupted by Mrs. Longfellow’s shout. She had broken free of whomever had been restraining her and was leaning over the deck railing, eyes wild, arm and finger pointing at me. “She has a gun! She pointed it at me.”

The next thing I knew, I was flat on the ground with a boot on my back and dirt in my mouth.

TWELVE

I clammed up as soon as the detective read me my Miranda rights at the landlord’s murder den. The booking officer who took my fingerprints and mug shot was a dick. It took all my willpower not to throat-punch him.

By the time they threw me in an empty room for questioning, I was humiliated and demoralized. 

Detectives kept streaming in and trying to get me to talk but I just glared at them.

Now, it was just a matter of waiting for my attorney to drive up from Monterey.

Stefano was a million years old, but he was still the best attorney in the business. Or rather, the best attorney still alive. Sal Maffucci, his brother and former partner, had been the best in the business. 

But Sal was gone. Dead at the hands of a crooked cop. I still cried over it sometimes, if something reminded me of the feisty old Italian.

I’d inherited Sal from my parents. He died defending me. I made the fucker who murdered him pay. The crooked cop died with a fork through his eye that penetrated his brain.

Don’t mess with my chosen family.

And yes, that was self-defense, as well.

Stefano, like his brother Sal, was old-school Italian, born in Italy. 

He knew the old ways. He knew what loyalty meant.

We’d only worked together on non-criminal matters. Until now.

It took him two hours to drive up from Monterey because he had to hire a car service to drive him. (He no longer had a license.)

I knew he’d finally arrived when my door swung open. 

I stomped into the hallway. I was furious.

I opened my mouth to rant as soon as I saw Stefano in the lobby, but he held up a finger to shush me. I rolled my eyes and followed him out to the livery car. 

He was not only ancient, he was also a mini man, less than five-feet-tall. But he carried himself with so much dignity and confidence you forgot he was so tiny. He, like Sal, was always dressed to the nines, exuding the Italian La Bella Figura philosophy to always present your best foot forward. Even now, when he had rushed to get here, he was dressed in a gray three-piece suit, a white button-down shirt, and a silk silver tie that matched his slicked back hair. You could probably see your reflection in his black shoes if you leaned down. 

As soon as we hit the sidewalk, his driver hopped out to open the doors for us.

As we walked, Stefano remained silent and simply handed me my bag, which had been taken away when I’d been booked. Both my guns were inside. Obviously, they found out I had a concealed carry permit.

I dug in my bag and fished my phone out. Two missed messages from Ryder. Shit. He’d apparently landed a few minutes ago.

I began to type him a message: On my way to hotel. Meet at Rouge?

Once we were inside the big black car, Stefano pressed a button and a thick pane of glass rose between us and the driver.

“What the hell?” I said to begin. “If they can’t hold me, why did they arrest me?”

“You’ve been released with condition that you appear in court tomorrow at 8 a.m. to be arraigned.”

“English please.”

“They are going go charge you with murder in 48 hours. That’s how long the D.A. has to build a case or release you permanently,” he said with a sigh. “I pulled some strings so you didn’t have to spend the night in jail.”

“Maybe they agreed to release me because they won’t have a case in 48 hours?” I said with a loud sigh and leaned back against the soft leather seats of the livery car.

“I don’t think that’s the case,” he said. “I had to call in some ancient favors to get you sprung. They seem to have a pretty solid case already.”

“That’s insane. I didn’t kill anybody ” I said “They seriously, for sure, are going to charge me with murder? For a murder I didn’t commit? What do they think they have on me? I know they wouldn’t say they were going to charge me without some type of evidence. I mean, I watch Law & Order for Christ’s sakes.”

““They don’t have much, but they have something,” Stefano said. “They had probable cause to dig further when they saw your record.”

That damn criminal record. However, every instance had been ruled self-defense.

“Am I screwed?” I asked Stefano.

“They are busy building a case against you. I’m sure all the detectives are going to work nonstop over the next 48 hours to gather as much evidence against you as they can find.”

“What can I do? How can I stop them?”

“I don’t think you can,” he said. “We need to start thinking about crafting your defense. Think hard. What do you think they might have on you? We won’t find out for sure until the discovery phase. What do you think they are building their case on?”

I made a face. “Well, I might have told the guy he was a dead man or something. And I think someone heard,” I said. “And I might have poked him. In anger.”

Stefano shook his head disapprovingly and I felt like a toddler being scolded.

“What else?” he asked.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously. “What do you know? I can tell you know something.”

“The wife,” Stefano said. “You pulled a gun on her and told her she didn’t have to worry about her husband ever again?”

“Oh crap. I forgot about that? How did you know about it?”

He didn’t answer, only said, “That was the one thing that made the cop arrest you.”

“That woman misunderstood,” I said with a huff.

He sounded exasperated and shook his head. “Gia…”

“I meant because her husband was going to prison forever, Stefano.” I said in an ultra-slow voice so I didn’t lose my shit right then and there. It wasn’t Stefano’s fault. I was furious at the circumstances.

“And your employee, Leticia?” he continued. “They interviewed her. She confirmed you guys were at the landlord’s property. Someone else at the gala mentioned the two of you had left early, so she copped to it. Then she clammed up.”

“Jesus.” I felt bad for Leticia. She was an honest woman and probably felt terrible about admitting we were there. I wanted to reach out and tell her it was okay that she had talked to the cops. I would never ask her to lie. But the reality was, it was just another brick in the wall making me look guilty of murder.

“Is there more?” I asked. I waved my hand at Stefano. “Keep it coming. What else they got?” I knew there was more. He had been holding onto some details, I could tell.

Stefano was ready.

“CCTV footage from a bank across the street shows you pushing the landlord up against a car in a threatening manner.” 

“Like I said, I poked him.” I frowned. “They already looked at CCTV footage?”

“First thing they did,” Stefano said, “When they realized one of the bodies was his tenant at that building.”

“Oh.”

“The last video footage anyone has of him shows him walking down the street with you following him. Then you both turn a corner and aren’t seen again.”

I frowned.

“Next time you appear is at the hotel an hour later.”

Jesus. I explained to Stefano that the landlord had turned down an alley, and I’d gotten in my Jeep and drove to the beach.

“Did anyone see you?”

I shook my head.

“There’s one more thing,” Stefano said.

“You’re joking!” I said.

“I wish I was. You told the detective at Longfellow’s house that you believed in ‘an eye for an eye?’”

I closed my eyes. “Damn. I’ve really screwed the pooch on this one, haven’t I?”

“Gia,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “This is not good.”

“It is all circumstantial, right?” I asked and winced.

“It might be, but the fact is the DA has a hard-on for you. Word is, he’s been after you for years. This is his chance.”

“You can fight him. You’re smarter than he is,” I said.

Stefano sighed loudly as the car drove up to the hotel.

“Right?” I asked.

He shook his head. 

Only then did I start to worry.

THIRTEEN

I had 48 hours to clear my name. But Stefano had said there wasn’t a damn thing I could do but build my defense case for the trial.

My head was spinning. I wasn’t ready to give up that easy. I was going to fight back with everything I had. First thing in the morning.

I was exhausted. I knew I needed a good night’s sleep to clear my head.

But first I wanted to see Ryder.

I looked like shit in my black cargo pants and boots and probably had the jail stench clinging to me, but I couldn’t wait to see Ryder, so I headed straight to Rouge, the hotel’s fanciest bar. The room looked like an ornate speakeasy with its black leather booths, black marble floors, sparkling chandeliers and red velvet curtains. 

I paused in the doorway. The bar was empty except for Ryder, who was sitting on a stool at the large ebony bar. I could see his profile with his well-defined jaw, his neatly trimmed goatee; his uniform of tight, black jeans and black shirt; his sexy-as-fuck tanned, muscled, and tattooed body…. He was just my type: Masculine. Dangerous. Emotionally unavailable. I sighed.

When we met, he was grieving the loss of his wife, and I had thought that was what stood between us. But over time, I realized it was something more than that. I took whatever he gave me, but honestly, deep inside, I always wanted more from him.

For a second, I just stared before he noticed me.

His back was ramrod straight. On the chair beside him was the lightweight leather coat that was part of his uniform—to conceal the weapon he always carried. In my hotel bar, he didn’t worry about things like that, and his shoulder holster was out in the open, the black leather crisscrossing his back. I don’t know how he managed to bring his piece onboard airplanes, but somehow he did. Some special clearance or something. You’d think an assassin would not only flag the TSA but would also be the last person on earth able to bring a gun onboard a flight. Go figure.

That’s when I noticed he was watching me in the bar mirror.

Of course. He’d clocked me the second I stepped foot in the bar. 

The man had Spidey senses, which is probably how he’d survived so many dangerous situations.

I watched his reflection. His black eyes with the thick brows bore into me, pinning me. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. Then a wry smile spread across his face, and I was released from the spell. He didn’t turn to greet me as I grew closer, but our eyes remained locked in the mirror. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, dipping my head to bury my face in his neck. For a second, I just breathed him in.

Then he reached up and, taking my hands off his waist, spun until I was face to face with him and trapped between his rock-hard thighs.

“Sorry I’m late. I was arrested for murder,” I murmured into his hair.

“I heard. You kill that guy?”

I pulled back and frowned. “No,” I sputtered. Was he for real?

He laughed. “I know you didn’t. Sounds like he deserved to die from what I’ve heard.”

“What have you heard? And how did you hear anything?” I asked and narrowed my eyes.

“That he had a bunker of bodies. Women.”

I nodded.

“How do you know any of this?” I asked, wondering how every man in my life was eerily connected to some secret information conduit that I didn’t have access to.

He waved his hand, dismissing my question. “It’s my job to know things.”

“Clearly,” I said. Suddenly I felt sad.

“What is it?” he asked and drew me closer, his palm on my hip.

I’d been thinking of Valeria. My emotions must’ve shown on my face. “One of them worked here. For me. At the hotel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Ryder searched my eyes. I stared back, daring him to say whatever was on his mind.

“Why did they go after you?”

Oh, that was all? Inwardly, I was relieved. I thought it might have had something to do with Anthony or why he had flown out here to see me. Part of me worried he’d started seeing someone else and wanted to break things off with me in person.

“I’m guessing it’s because they know I confronted him last night when I suspected he had something to do with my missing employee. And I maybe did say that I was going to kill him,” I glanced at Ryder and added, “With witnesses around. So there’s that.”

“Ouch.”

He leaned forward and placed his hand on the back of my head pulling me forward until his mouth met mine. 

When he pulled back, he smiled. “I’ve missed you.”

“Really?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

He drew back with narrowed eyes, but he was smiling.

“You doubt?”

I shrugged.

“Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll show you.”

He hopped off the bar stool, took my hand, and led the way.

The next morning, I woke up, startled by the sound of my phone ringing in the other room. But I was trapped in bed, wrapped in Ryder’s arms. He was holding tight to me as if he’d been worried I’d escape in the night. I tried to loosen his arms, but he held me tighter.

“Ryder, I have to get my phone,” I whispered.

“No.” He grumbled the word. 

“Yes,” I insisted. This time when I tried to loosen his grip on me, he relented.

If it was ringing, it meant someone important was calling. I had my phone on permanent “Do Not Disturb” for most callers. A few people were set on bypass: my aunt Eva, my adopted daughter, Rose, and then there were the 3Ds, as they called themselves: Dante, Darling, and Danny. 

Anthony and Ryder were not included on the bypass list. It was safer that way. God forbid one of them call when I was with the other.

I found my phone on the floor. I vaguely remembered it flying off the coffee table when Ryder and I cleared the space for our nocturnal activities. We’d moved from the kitchen counter (me propped up on it) to the couch, to the large white marble coffee table, to the rug by the fireplace before heading to the bedroom.

Scooping up my phone, I saw that I’d missed three calls from Darling.

I called her with my heart pounding. Something was wrong.

“Gia, one of the girls they found used to work for me.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about—the landlord’s victims.

My heart sank. Darling owned several businesses: hair salons and underground forgery services for people who needed fake identities to escape danger, be it persecution by the government or an abuser. She never helped criminals though.

“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

“Her name was Macy. She was a good stylist. Went to Aveda schools. She just didn’t show up for work one day a few weeks ago. It wasn’t like her, but what can you do? They just had her mama down at the morgue to do the I.D.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“If this asshole wasn’t already dead, I would make sure to do it myself.” Darling’s voice was low and dangerous.

“Hmm,” I said.

“What is it?” Darling’s voice was sharp, concerned.

“If the DA finds out we’re friends, it will give him more ammunition.”

“What are you talking about?”

I grimaced. I hadn’t told her yet. “They arrested me for the guy’s murder.”

“Good God!”

“Yeah.”

She was silent for a few seconds. 

“Did you do it?”

Same question as Ryder. I tried not to be offended that the people closest to me even had to ask.

“No, but I would’ve if I had the chance.”

It was the truth. Maybe an ugly truth, but true. Had the landlord made me defend myself—or someone else—I would have done so without regret.

“Don’t you ever say that again, Giada Valentina Santella,” Darling said, scolding me. “You are going to land yourself in prison for life saying things like that. How do you know your phone isn’t tapped?”

“If that’s the case, why would you ask me if I did it on the phone?” I teased.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Darling exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

I laughed. But then I remembered why she had called and stifled the sound.

“Are you home?” she asked.

“Yeah. Apparently the D.A. has 48 hours to build a murder case against me. I’m in court in the morning again. Supposedly to be charged with the murder.”

Ryder had sat up in bed with his back against my headboard. He ran a hand over his five o’clock shadow, his dark eyes on me as I spoke. He frowned as he watched me.

“I’m going to go now, Darling. I’m so terribly sorry about Macy.”

“Me too. Me too.”

I hung up.

“Now they have another reason to think I killed him,” I said to Ryder and explained that one of the victims was Darling’s former employee.

“Man, that’s awful.”

Ryder and Darling had become friends over our years together.

“I know,” I said. “I feel terrible.”

“More reason that it’s a good thing the creep is dead.”

“I know,” I said. “But who killed him?”

Ryder searched my face for a moment. “If you find out, they can’t charge you with it.”

“True. My court appearance is tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. Stefano said to expect a first-degree murder charge.”

“Well then, you have twenty-four hours to find the killer.”

His words hit me like a shock. I sat bolt upright. “Better get started then!”

Grabbing my phone, I opened a text to Danny as I swung my legs out of bed and stood.

As I walked toward my shower, I tugged one spaghetti strap off my right shoulder and then the other shoulder until my silky nightgown dropped to the floor.

Before I could step into my spa-like bathroom with a wet room tiled in black stone, Ryder was behind me, wrapping his arms around me and kissing the back of my neck. 

I leaned back against him for a second but continued texting Danny. I asked him to find anything he could about the murder. I knew he could hack into the SFPD’s computers. He’d done it for me before. 

Then I set my phone on the counter and let Ryder guide me into the shower.

When you only had twenty-four hours before being charged with murder, you might as well spend the first hour getting the most out of your precarious freedom with a man who drove you crazy.

FOURTEEN

After Ryder and I showered, he talked me into getting back in bed, arguing that I needed to release pent-up tension. It was definitely time well spent, but thirty minutes later, I sprung out of bed, anxious energy coiling in my gut, urging me to move. I pulled on black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt and my boots with the thick tread and steel toes. I glanced sadly at the cute dress I’d been planning to wear for my first day alone with Ryder.

Nope. I needed to dress for battle. I didn’t know what the day might hold, and the last thing I wanted was to end up fighting someone or getting arrested again wearing a goddamn frilly sundress and heels.

Ryder was fighting jet lag, so I told him to go back to sleep, and I’d wake him if anything interesting happened. Meanwhile, I would brainstorm how to get myself out of homicide charges for murders I didn’t commit.

Perched at my kitchen bar, I opened my laptop and sipped my double espresso.

I also had a Moleskine notebook open beside my computer and wrote down the evidence that was stacked against me:

Telling Longfellow’s wife she’d never have to worry about her husband again.

Leticia confirming to police that we had been at Longfellow’s apartment building.

Neighbor (Carlos) saw me “shove” Longfellow.

Offhanded remark to detective about “eye for an eye” justice.

CCTV footage showing me pushing Longfellow against his car in a threatening manner.

CCTV footage of me following Longfellow into the dark alley.

Seeing it on paper made my anxiety spike. 

Was it better to try to work on my defense or to find the killer myself?

Both seemed insurmountable. I had zero leads on a killer.

And I had no way to prove that I was parked at the beach when the landlord was killed. 

Or did I?

I hopped off the barstool and went into the bedroom. Ryder was sleeping off his jet lag. He looked so peaceful, his dark lashes closed on his cheek. I crept quietly over to him. I was going to kiss him on the forehead and whisper that I’d be back, but I didn’t want to wake him. I hesitated. Maybe I’d just leave a note on the bar.

But as soon as I was within range, his eyes snapped open, and his fingers curled into a viselike grip on my wrist.

“Morning.”

“Nobody sneaks up on you?”

“Nobody.”

“I have to check something out.”

He sat up and ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to smooth it. “I’ll come too.”

“Why don’t you sleep a little more,” I said. “I want you up to full speed in case the shit hits the fan.”

“I’m up to speed.” He started to get up.

I placed a palm on his sexy bare, muscled chest and gently pressed down.

“I’m just going to drive out to the beach where I was parked that night to see if there are any CCTV cameras nearby that could prove I was parked there during the murder. I have to hurry because some CCTV footage is erased within forty-eight hours,” I said. “I don’t think there are any cameras, but I want to rule it out. It’s super safe and easy. I’ll be back in an hour.”

His eyebrows drew together, and he searched my eyes. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Call me if there is even the slightest whiff of danger. Promise?”

“I promise.”

I was lying, but he didn’t need to know that. It was just a little white lie. I’d never lie to him about anything big. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

Half an hour later, I was parked in the same spot near Ocean Beach. 

The beach stretched from Sutro Park to the San Francisco Zoo. At points, both north and south of any parking lots, it bordered the Outer Richmond, Outer Sunset, and Sunset districts.

The main parking lot, unfortunately, was right across from Golden Gate Park. But there were a few bus stops along the Great Highway that bordered the beach, and there was one business. A brewery.

I got out of the Jeep and turned to face the road.

The Ocean Chalet sat across the lanes of the Great Highway, sunlight striking the long line of windows that wrapped the entire second floor in glass. The building had the bones of another era—stucco walls, red-tile roof, Spanish Colonial pride. Eight pairs of white columns lined the first floor, holding the weight of history. It wasn’t just another oceanside restaurant; it was a landmark, a survivor. It had stood there for a hundred years, watching the Pacific pound the shore while the city reinvented itself again and again.

What were the odds the historic building held some type of security camera that would include the beach parking lot?

The distance from the front door to the beach sand was no more than two city buses laid nose to tail. Close enough that you could smell the salt before you stepped off the curb. If there was a camera, it may have filmed me parked in my Jeep.

I hopped back in my vehicle and hit the gas.

My heart sank as I walked up to the front entrance. I couldn’t see any cameras.

Two minutes later, I was at the hostess stand asking for the manager.

A woman in a cream suit and matching Louboutin’s came down a flight of stairs. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a tight chignon.

Her pink lipstick smile was as tight as her cream skirt.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said as her gaze took in my T-shirt and boots. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m wondering if you have any cameras on premises that might show the Ocean Beach parking lot.”

As soon as the word “cameras” left my lips, she was already shaking her head.

“We only have internal security cameras.”

I’d clocked those when I walked in. One by the front door, one by the staircase, and one by a door that said “Office” on the front.

But I was still going to double check.

“Any chance any of those would pick up on the beach parking lot?”

“Zero chance.” She arched an eyebrow.

“Thank you.” I turned to walk out.

Damn it. If only the restaurant had been open….

I turned back around. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. I know you close at ten. What time does your staff usually leave?”

Maybe someone such as a chef, dishwasher, manager, or server, had been at the restaurant—preferably on the second floor—that had the stunning views of the ocean….

“We are usually cleared out by ten-thirty.”

“Thanks.” I nodded and walked out.

I had been parked there later than that. 

Shoot.

Back at the hotel, I was sitting at the bar on my laptop trying to figure out what else I could do to prove I was at the beach.

I’d texted Danny asking if he could find any CCTV footage that might have caught me on my drive to the beach and back.

“I’ll check again, Gia, but I couldn’t find anything along your route.” 

I dug around on my own, unable to find anything until Ryder woke in the early afternoon. We made love and ordered steak and eggs and sourdough toast from room service and then made love again.

“I’m not keeping you from clearing your name, am I?” he asked, lying naked in bed beside me.

“If I had a damn thing to do to find a suspect or an alibi I’d be doing it,” I said, propping myself up on one elbow. “You are helping me relieve stress. If you weren’t here, I’d be pacing and pulling my hair out.”

My phone rang again. I had forgotten to put it back on Do Not Disturb. I already knew who it was. Anthony had already called me four times. He must have heard what happened when he got to DC. 

“Might as well call him back,” Ryder said and gave a lazy yawn as he flung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m sure he’s worried sick.”

My face grew hot.

I watched him stride naked into my bathroom and heard the shower turn on.

He was being respectful. I wondered if Anthony would do the same for him.

I took the phone out on my balcony and stood there naked except for a big, white faux fur throw I had wrapped around me.

“Sorry,” I said when Anthony picked up. “I’ve spent the day trying to firm up an alibi, trying to find some way to prove I was parked at Ocean Beach. I’ve got nothing.”

My voice hitched a little.

“We’ll figure this out, Gia,” he said. “You didn’t kill him. The truth has to come out. They may charge you tomorrow, but we’ll figure out how to find the real killer.”

His confidence should have been comforting, but all I could think was how naive he was.

“Thanks,” I said softly.

“I have reached out to every law enforcement contact I have and told them they need to prioritize this murder, and they need to be looking at avenues that don’t all lead to you.”

I sighed. He had such faith in the San Francisco Police Department.

I did not.

Not after they had turned on James and permanently paralyzed him. I’d never trust the entire organization again. Maybe one or two of them individually, but not the entire force. SFPD was corrupt AF.

“Thanks,” I said again. “I better go. You reminded me that I need to call James and update him on what’s going on.”

James was not much help.

“Let me think on this, Gia. Right now, I’m heading to Washington for some training at Quantico, but I’ll keep thinking of angles for this. We’ll figure this out.”

Another man telling me it would be okay.

But they were all wrong.

It was not going to be okay.

By evening, I felt hopeless.

After ordering room service and watching Ryder eat a rib-eye steak while mine sat untouched, I poured us the rest of the red wine that I’d ordered with dinner.

“You should eat,” Ryder said, bringing the last bite of steak to his mouth.

“I know,” I said. “My stomach is in knots.”

“At least have a few bites of steak and mashed potatoes.”

He sliced a small piece of my steak, plunged it in the mashed potatoes and moved the fork toward my mouth. I opened my mouth and accepted the bite. It was damn good.

For some reason, the gesture brought tears to my eyes. I had spent a lifetime taking care of other people. And here was a man who was taking care of me. It wasn’t a big deal. Maybe I was feeling emotional, but for some reason I had to fight back a few stray tears.

I leaned over and managed a few more bites before giving up. I just didn’t have an appetite. Instead, I went to the bar and poured us some bourbon.

“I take it your search today did not bring the answers you hoped for, ma chère?”

He had let me choose when and what to share today, and I think he sensed I was finally ready to talk about it. And my despair.

I shook my head and let out a big sigh.

“Nothing. There is nothing to prove someone else did it. What should I do?”

Ryder put his arm around me and drew me close.

“We’ll figure this out. I promise you,” he whispered the words into my hair. “Try not to worry.”

But I was worried. It was very unlike me.

“Stefano said the DA has a hard-on for me. He’s worried. If Stefano is worried, then I should be worried. He’s never worried.”

I knew I was rambling.

I closed my eyes for a second, leaning into Ryder’s embrace. Then I crawled onto his lap. I knew one way to get rid of this anxiety and nervous tension. Part of it was that I hadn’t seen him for six months and wanted to be as close to him as possible for as many times as possible. I didn’t know when he was going to leave my life again for months on end.

His fingers were in my hair and his beard scratched my chin as we kissed. I was about to guide him into me when we were both startled by a knock on my door.

“You expecting someone?”

I shook my head. Only a few key people in my life had the elevator code to bring them to my private floor and hallway.

“Gia?” Shit. I knew that voice. Anthony. He was supposed to be in DC.

I shot a panicked look at Ryder. 

“The senator?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was in town.”

He wasn’t supposed to be.

I stood in front of the couch staring at the door.

“It’s okay. Go answer it. Can’t leave the poor fella in the hall.”

Ryder had a confident, maybe somewhat smug look on his face. Did he want Anthony to see he was here and that I was wearing nothing more than a silky robe? Jesus.

I took a deep breath as I opened the door. 

“Anthony, I have company,” I said quickly. “I thought you were in DC?”

“You are more important right now,” he said, striding quickly into my apartment. “I’m not leaving you alone to fight this on your own.”

He walked straight into the living room where Ryder was lounging on the couch. I chased after him.

And then, as if things couldn’t get more chaotic, my phone rang.

I grabbed it off the end table. It was Danny.

I put him on speaker phone. The two men in my living room were staring at each other and ignoring me. Shit.

“Gia, I found something,” he said.

“You’re on speaker phone. Ryder and Anthony are here,” I said to warn him.

Both men finally turned to look at me.

“I trust them both,” he said. “Here’s what I know. This Longfellow guy’s body was found in an alley in the Tenderloin not far from where you told me you last saw him. He took a machete to the side of the neck. He bled out in seconds.”

“A machete?”

“Yep. The weapon was found nearby. Wiped clean or the killer wore gloves.”

“I supposed it might draw attention if you walked out of an alley carrying a bloody machete.”

“Right-o,” Danny said. “There is a detail that I found that was hidden deep. It’s one of those things that homicide detectives keep from the public. One of the ‘only the killer would know’ things.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I compared the information in the report to a press release the department put out about the murder. They did release more details at a press conference about an hour ago, saying the man was stabbed with a machete, but they didn’t report that he also died with his, erm, member, stuffed into his mouth.”

I wanted to laugh, but it was also horrifying.

“The killer cut off the landlord’s dick and stuffed it in his mouth?”

“That’s what I was trying to say.” I could practically see Danny, with his bright red hair and easily flushed cheeks, blushing.

“Gia,” Anthony said. “That’s problematic for you. That’s a known Mafia move isn’t it?” 

Anthony and I were both Italian-American and knew what that type of mutilation could signify.

And he was right. It also shouted Mafia.

My family of origin had Mafia connections. It wasn’t a big secret anymore. However, everyone but me and my Aunt Eva were basically dead, and we surely weren’t in the Mafia.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure somebody could dig up my family’s history pretty easily. It happened a lot in the old days, but recently a Mafioso from the East Coast serving a life sentence just admitted he’d done that to one of his victims. But that type of mutilation also tracks with sending a message that he had been sexually abusing his tenants.”

“Shit,” Ryder said.

“Anything else, Danny?”  I asked.

He cleared his throat. “I saved the worst for last.”

“I can handle it,” I said.

“I took the liberty to find out more about the judge assigned to your case, Gia, and it’s not good. His name is Allen Halverson. The man is, well, he’s worse than the dead landlord. He has been abusing his power for decades. There have been numerous complaints filed against him by women saying he has approached plaintiffs and offered them deals if they perform certain sexual favors for him. Then he convicts them anyway. Throws the book at them, so to speak.”

“How did you find this out?” Anthony asked. “I mean what database could you possibly hack into that had this info?”

“Senator, it wasn’t easy,” Danny said. “A prisoner rights group is operating on the Dark Web and trying to gather information about the judge to take to authorities.”

“Why the Dark Web?” I asked.

“They had enough evidence to bring to authorities, but then the head of the organization was murdered, and it took the wind out of their sails. Their key witness was shanked in prison. When one member vowed to avenge those two deaths and threatened to go public with the information, she disappeared. She’s never been found. The remaining members are scared. They say they don’t know who to trust.”

“Halverson is connected in a powerful way,” Anthony said. 

I glanced at him and then Ryder, who had been silent for most of the conversation. But his jaw was clenched. He was angry. And maybe a little worried, which worried me.

“Thanks, Danny,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough.” 

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “You saved my life, Gia. I would do anything to help. I’ll do anything to protect you.”

I was touched and felt tears welling in my eyes. “Danny, you’ve saved my life too. More than a few times.”

I didn’t want to start bawling so I hung up. I didn’t understand why I was suddenly so emotional. It was, frankly, a little annoying. I didn’t have time for feelings. I needed action.

I turned to face the two men in my living room

Anthony stood and faced Ryder and gestured between the two of them. “Listen,” he said to Ryder. “I don’t like that you’re here, and I’m sure you don’t like that I’m here either. But we have to set this aside. The only thing that matters is proving Gia didn’t do this.”

Ryder stared at him for a long moment before answering. “I’ve got this, Senator.”

“The hell you do,” Anthony said. “The best thing you can do is get back on a plane to France. We don’t need your help. I’m already working on getting her the best criminal attorney in the country.”

“With all due respect,” Ryder said. “I’m not sure that’s going to be enough. You don’t have the connections to find the real killer. I do. That’s her only hope. That’s the only chance we have.”

They both turned to look at me. I wondered if they had forgotten I was there. They were bickering like schoolboys fighting over who could burp the loudest. It was annoying, but worse, it was patronizing. I didn’t need two Big Strong Men to rescue me. “For God’s sake! I already have the best attorney around.”

Anthony frowned. I continued, “I appreciate both of you, but I’ve managed to keep myself alive and out of prison so far in my life. I can handle this on my own. You both can leave.”

I crossed my arms and dared them to argue.

“What?” Anthony looked shocked.

Ryder stood and reached for his jeans, which were in a puddle on the floor. 

“The East Bay Penthouse is open. The key is on the console table by the door. You can both stay there. It’s a two bedroom.”

“The hell we will,” Ryder said as he scooped up his duffle bag, which was on the floor. “I’ll be in touch. In case you’re wondering, Senator, I’m staying in town to see this through.”

“Gia?” Anthony said.

“Please leave,” I said. “I need some time to think. I need to be alone.”

He turned toward the door.

“When is your court appearance?”

I watched Ryder’s back stiffen, his hand on the doorknob.

“Eight tomorrow morning.”

Then Ryder was gone, the door slamming behind him.

A few seconds later, Anthony followed.

I collapsed into a chair at my kitchen table. 

Despite my bravado, I was terrified.

FIFTEEN

Stefano had been very firm on how he wanted me to dress for court. He basically wanted me to look as demure as possible.

“No leather. No red lipstick. Pull your hair back. Don’t wear black. Wear light gray.”

Light gray? Like his signature Armani suit. Well, too bad. I didn’t own anything that color. I wore black, red, navy, pink. Nothing fucking demure.

Staring in my bathroom mirror I wondered if it even mattered what I looked like in court this morning. Supposedly, both the judge and district attorney were out to get me no matter how demure I tried to look.

Yet, I still mostly followed Stefano’s advice: Dress conservatively. Wear light makeup and find some pink lipstick. It will make you look feminine and weak.

Fantastic. Just how I wanted to be perceived: weak. Feminine was good, but helpless and weak? Hell to the fuck no.

But I knew what he meant. I had to avoid anything that would allow people to view me as a killer or predator.

Despite carefully applying concealer, I couldn’t hide the dark circles under my eyes. The dark smudges didn’t make me look like a predator. They made me look like prey. Or maybe the victim of a zombie or vampire attack?

I dabbed on blush and slicked on some bright pink lipstick. It made me look a little less goth. Finding conservative clothing might be tougher. Light gray was not happening. Finally, I unearthed the plainest-looking black blazer and pencil skirt I could find in my closet and paired them with a white silk blouse I usually wore unbuttoned nearly to my waist. But today, I buttoned it up tight to my neck, which just increased the feeling of suffocation this whole mess had created. I eyed myself. Yep. I looked about as unsexy as I ever had. However, conservative shoes eluded me. I’d have to make do with my four-inch, red-soled Louboutin’s even though the spiked heel could most definitely be used as a deadly weapon. 

When Stefano’s car pulled up in the hotel’s circular driveway, I was waiting with two espressos from the hotel restaurant. I opened the door to the back seat and handed him his before I slid in beside him.

“Oh shoot,” I said to the driver. “I’m sorry; I didn’t grab one for you.”

“It’s all good, ma’am,” the driver said. “I don’t drink caffeine.”

“Wow.”

I raised an eyebrow at Stefano who shrugged.

“Do I look demure?” I asked Stefano as I tugged on my seatbelt.

He looked so small in his three-piece Armani suit in the seat beside me. I swear the man had shrunk since the last time I saw him.

“It will do.”

Then he eyed my shoes. He gave an exaggerated sigh and reached into a small bag at his feet. 

“I brought some clothes in case you had trouble,” he said as explanation and then tugged a shoe box out of the large bag, plopping it in my lap.

I gave him a look but opened it. A pair of flat black ballet shoes lay inside. They weren’t exactly my size but close enough.

I wanted to complain but I simply plucked off my Louboutin’s and squeezed into the flats.

Stefano nodded his approval.

We sat in silence for a few blocks. Finally, I couldn't keep it in any longer.

“Am I fucked?” I asked. I’d been up all night thinking this. Convinced that any luck I’d had over the years with avoiding prison was used up.

He seemed to take forever to answer, and when he did, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

“It’s going to be the fight of my life.”

“Oh no.”

Might as well get it over with, I thought.

“I have bad news,” I said, then filled him in on what Danny had told me.

“That checks with what my sources have told me,” Stefano said when I finished. “The judge has favors on both sides of the law. He has connections inside the prisons and also in law enforcement who make sure nothing bad about him ever surfaces. I think there’s at least one cop in SFPD who does his wet work, killing people or making them disappear.”

“There’s always one,” I said.

“Gia,” Stefano said in a lightly scolding voice.

But he knew why I had said that. He knew about James. 

“That reminds me, should I reach out to James?” I asked Stefano. “He knows what’s going on but is in training at Quantico. He might be able to dig up something to help us.”

He frowned. “Let’s see what happens in court today first.”

“Okay.”

It was my turn to frown as we turned onto Bryant Street. The courthouse was only two blocks away. “What exactly is going to happen?”

“They are going to arraign you on murder charges, I imagine.” 

“Fuck,” I said.

“And you’re going to enter a plea. Not guilty, of course.”

“Motherfucker.”

“I heard something this morning,” he said.

The way he said it made my anxiety instantly spike. “What?” I hated that I snapped the word.

“The district attorney, Lawrence Carlton, is most likely prosecuting this case himself.”

“Okay?” I was confused. Wasn’t that what DA’s did?

Stefano leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Gia, you need to understand something. Normally, the district attorney doesn’t step foot in cases like this. He’s the top elected prosecutor and the face of the office, but they rarely handle the everyday cases personally. It’s usually the assistant DAs who handle murders—even the ugly ones. The head DA only shows up when a case is so high-profile it could make or break their career.”

He gave me a pointed look. “That means two things. One, they want to nail you to the wall.. And two, if the DA is here, it’s political. This isn’t just about evidence anymore. It’s about power.”

My heart sank at the news.

“Sir?” It was the driver.

We both turned toward the front and looked out the front window.

The steps of the courthouse were filled with people. And reporters.

“Oh my God,” I said. I reached for my phone and pulled up the newspaper’s site.

The top story was me.

“Vigilante assassin arrested for slaying serial killer,” I said.

“They are making you a hero,” Stefano said, reading over my shoulder. “Good.” The way he said it made me think he knew exactly what the article would say.

“Unbelievable.”

The driver pulled up in front at the bottom of the steps and reporters scrambled, racing down the stairs to flank our car. My hand shook as I tucked my phone back into my bag. I was afraid to look out the window. Luckily the windows were tinted so dark nobody could see inside, but they knew it was me.

“What do I do?” My voice was panicked.

“Switch places. Now.”

I slid across and he took my spot just as the driver appeared at the door.

“Just follow me,” Stefano said in a low voice. “Keep your head down, and don’t answer any questions, got it?”

“Okay.”

The door opened and Stefano slid out then stood waiting as the driver held the door for me.

Reporters shouted questions. “My client will not be making a statement at this time,” he said.

Then I was out of the car. The crowd erupted into cheers and shouts and surrounded me. I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Stefano and his driver took to my sides, gripping my elbows, and hustled me through the crowd and up the courtyard steps. 

I’m not sure if I was disassociating, but the shouts and cheers seemed as if they were coming from far away. Distantly, I heard Stefano repeating that I would not be making a statement. 

Then we were inside the courthouse doors, stepping into blessed silence. Security guards stood at the doors, and even though it was a public space, nobody was trying to force their way inside the sleek marble-floored lobby.

We were swept through security. As I was being hurried along, I was glad Stefano had thought to bring me shoes. Trying to quickly shove my feet into four-inch stilettos right then would have sucked. I padded barefoot through the metal detector only to be wanded like a criminal, with the woman running the wand up and down each of my thighs. I rolled my eyes at Stefanon who shot me a warning look. 

Stefano wasn’t waiting so I only had only one shoe on as we made our way to the elevator. It was ridiculously difficult for me to shove my foot into a four-inch high stiletto while hopping along.

Then the elevator doors whooshed closed, and I managed to breathe normally for the first time in several minutes.

“I’m utterly fucked, aren’t I, Stefano?”

“Language, Gia.”

“Nobody can hear us,” I said, pouting.

“You swear indiscriminately, and it’s going to come out in front of the judge who will hold you in contempt. This prick wants to make sure you never see the light of day again.”

“You just swore,” I pointed out. Like a toddler.

“I don’t swear indiscriminately.” Like you was the unsaid part of his sentence.

“Who in history decided certain words were unacceptable in polite society,” I argued, watching the elevator climb the floors. 6, 7, 8, 9. 

The courtroom was on 12.

I glanced over at Stefano who was side-eyeing me.

“Who?” I repeated. “It wasn’t God. It doesn’t say in the Bible you can’t cuss.”

Stefano gave a slight shake of his head and shrugged. “Gia, you don’t like to play by the rules. We all know that. And that’s why we’re here.”

“I didn’t kill that man. I would’ve given the chance, but I didn’t.”

Stefano closed his eyes as if it were the worst day of his life. And maybe it was.

I waited.

Then the elevator stopped, the bell dinged, and the doors opened.

“Please don’t ever say that out loud again,” he finally said.

The hushed corridor was deceptive because as soon as we turned the corner, the hall was lined with people: standing against the wall, seated on benches, set up at one small table in a corner.

I felt the moisture wick from my throat.

We walked past them all. Whatever quiet conversations that had been going on before we arrived squelched to a stop. All eyes were on me. 

I tried to stare straight ahead, my eyes focused on Stefano’s diminutive back in his expensive black blazer until we stepped through the courtroom door. The door closed behind us. The courtroom was empty except for the court clerk who was sitting up at one of the seats on the dais. 

Stefano led me through a small swinging door that separated the spectators from the players and over to a small table on the far right. He pulled out my chair and I sat. I wanted to put my head in my hands, but I focused on sitting ramrod straight. It was going to be a long day.

SIXTEEN

The courtroom began to fill. I was afraid to glance behind me. Every once in a while, Stefano did. He told me to keep facing straight ahead.

“Do you see Anthony? Ryder?” I said, keeping my eyes ahead and staring at the judge’s bench.

He shook his head, then said in a low voice. “Mostly reporters. A few law clerks. A few cops.”

“Cops?”

He sighed. “Yes. I don’t like it.”

The murmurings behind me grew louder. 

My heart sank as I realized why. The DA must have arrived.

A few seconds later, two men dressed in navy suits came through the swinging doors and headed to the table on the other side of the aisle. The district attorneys.

“The tall, thin, balding one is Carlton,” Stefano said. “The one with the curly hair and beer belly is an assistant DA.”

A court reporter—an older, gray-haired woman in black pants and a bright flowered shirt—and two clerks settled in on the dais. 

The two clerks were young women dressed in slacks and button-down tops with ill-fitting blazers. I felt bad for them. I’m sure they were paid shit.

One had long brown hair pulled back in a bun and wore orthopedic shoes even though she couldn’t be more than thirty. The other was slim and wore trendy sneakers with her work clothes, which I thought elevated her Forever 21 outfit.

Stefano was right to make me shed my stilettos. They definitively would’ve stuck out in this setting.

Both of the clerks were frowning. One shuffled through a stack of papers and kept glancing at the clock. I did, as well. 

“This judge is never late,” Stefano muttered.

“It’s only one minute past,” I said.

The bailiff’s voice cracked like a gunshot. “All rise.”

The gallery rustled to its feet—heels scraping, chairs groaning. I rose with them, smooth, deliberate.

Seconds later, the chamber door swung open, and in waddled a man with a bulging midriff, belly first under his black judicial robes. Wisps of blond hair plastered across his bald scalp, a red, swollen nose shining under the fluorescents. A drinker. Perfect. Judge Halverson probably kept a flask in his chambers. My future was in the hands of a half-pickled old man.

He heaved himself into the high-backed chair. “Be seated,” he said, voice gravelly. “Calling the matter of the People of the State of California versus Giada Valentina Santella, case number 4829.”

My name set off a wave of whispers. Reporters leaned forward, pens already scratching across yellow pads. A couple of them didn’t even bother pretending—they stared at me like I was their headline and payday rolled into one.

“Ms. Santella,” the judge said, peering at me over smudged glasses, “you are charged with murder in the first degree, a felony. Have you received a copy of the complaint, and do you understand the charges?”

I glanced at Stefano, and he gave me a slight nod.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said and inwardly cringed as my voice cracked slightly. I hadn’t seen the complaint but I knew that Stefano had and that was good enough.

The judge’s jowls shook as he asked, “How does the defendant wish to plead?”

Stefano rose, his expression unreadable. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

The words dropped like a match in gasoline. The gallery erupted in murmurs, pens scratching faster. I was annoyed that this was news. Of course I was going to plead not guilty. Duh.

“Order,” the judge snapped, nose flaring. Maybe he had a hangover and wasn’t enjoying the noise.

“Very well. Plea of not guilty is entered. Bail will be addressed. Mr. Carlton?”

Lawrence Carlton stood, buttoning his jacket with the smugness of a man who believed in his own press clippings. “Your Honor, the People request remand without bail. The charge is murder—cold-blooded, calculated. Ms. Santella has the means to disappear anywhere in the world. She is a flight risk of the highest order.”

The gallery hummed with approval. I ignored Stefano’s advice, my head swiveling to look behind me. It was instinct. A reporter in the front row mouthed the words flight risk as he wrote them down. Someone hissed, “Lock her up.”

I turned back around, feeling as if the entire world wanted my head. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to run away or jump into the gallery throwing punches. 

Stefano cut in, smooth and steady. “With respect, Your Honor, my client has no criminal record, strong ties to San Francisco—family, property, business. She is not a flight risk. We request reasonable bail.”

The judge leaned back, belly pressing against the bench, fingers steepled. The silence stretched, broken only by the furious scribble of pens. I wondered how the headlines would read by morning—Heiress Killer Denies Murder? Santella Too Rich for Jail?

Finally, the judge spoke. “The defendant will be held without bail. The next hearing is scheduled for September 25th.”

The gallery erupted—outraged shouts, relieved whispers, reporters scribbling like mad. Cameras clicked even though they weren’t supposed to.

The judge slammed his gavel, cheeks blotchy. “Order!”

The room fell into tense silence, though I could still hear the rustle of the people in the gallery and faint whispers. 

The DA shot a smug look over at Stefano.

“Your honor, we ask that a bail amount be set.”

“Mr. Maffucci, I agree with the district attorney’s assessment that your client is a flight risk.”

Of course the old sod agreed with the DA. I hated him right then. The thought of going back to jail made me sick. I had not allowed myself to even consider that it was a possibility.

My face felt like ice. I looked around uncertainly. I turned to search the courtroom behind me, this time willfully ignoring Stefano’s orders. Neither Ryder nor Anthony was there. I blinked, confused, and hurt.

Halverson was still talking. 

“The Court is not blind to the circus this case has created. The courthouse grounds are swarming with cameras, protesters, and opportunists—drawn here because of your client’s notoriety. I have already ordered additional security, at taxpayer expense, simply to ensure order is maintained. The fact remains, Ms. Santella presents not only a disruption but a potential danger to herself and to others. In my judgment, she is far safer—and this Court far more secure—if she remains in custody.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Safer in custody? Please. Half the women in county lockup would kill me just for the bragging rights. And as for the “circus”—I didn’t send out the invitations.

Stefano was unflappable, his voice even. “With respect, Your Honor, what you describe as a circus is not of my client’s making. Ms. Santella did not summon the cameras, nor can she control the mob outside. She has cooperated fully with authorities and has appeared at this proceeding as required. To hold her responsible for the actions of others is neither just nor consistent with the law. We submit that the proper remedy is not incarceration, but reasonable bail with conditions that ensure both her safety and the integrity of these proceedings.”

I watched him, stone-faced, but inside I was grinning. Stefano could take a pile of manure, polish it, and sell it as gold. Half the time I wasn’t sure whether he believed the things he said on my behalf—but God, he said them well.

Halverson shifted in his chair, eyes narrowing, and I could almost hear the gears grinding in his foggy, booze-addled brain. He leaned back, belly pressing against the bench, fingers steepled like he was about to deliver a sermon. His ruddy nose twitched.

“Counsel,” he said, voice low, “your argument is noted. But the Court cannot ignore the reality before it. Your client’s presence is a lightning rod. The risks extend beyond this chamber—to the staff, to the public, and to Ms. Santella herself. Bail, under these circumstances, would be irresponsible. Accordingly, the defendant will be remanded without bail.”

The gavel came down like a coffin lid slamming shut.

The gallery filled with a cacophony of gasps, murmurs, even some shouting. A woman’s voice hissed, “Killer,” while someone else whispered, “She’s done for.”

I kept my face blank, but inside I was boiling. Safer in custody? That’s rich. What he means is safer for him. Less paperwork if I vanish behind bars.

Stefano didn’t flinch. He adjusted his cufflinks, calm as ever, and said, “Your Honor, for the record, we object to the denial of bail and reserve the right to appeal.”

The judge gave a tight nod, already reaching for the next file on his desk. Just another day, just another body to process.

The bailiff barked, “All rise.”

The room shuffled to its feet again. I didn’t move right away. Let them stare. Let them drink it in—the so-called dangerous woman, the heiress-turned-monster. If they thought locking me up would break me, they hadn’t been paying attention.

The deputies began to head my way.

Stefano reached over and prodded me to stand, holding my elbow.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to figure out how to get you out of here,” Stefano said in a low voice.

“Court is adjourned,” the bailiff said.

Everyone rose. Except me. And the judge. I stayed seated a moment longer, spine straight, eyes forward, letting them get their last eyeful. If they wanted a story, I’d damn well give them one.

Then the deputies had me by the arm and were leading me away.

The judge watched me leave. and I swore I could see the contempt in his eyes. I’d never met the man, and yet, he hated me. He hated everything I was and stood for. I met his eyes, refusing to look away. I didn’t give a fuck anymore. Fuck being demure. I looked at him with as much hatred and disdain as I could muster. But then it all fell away, and I was sad and scared. More frightened than I’d ever been in my life. As I was led out of the room, I kept my head high and my shoulders back and gave myself the only pep talk I could at the time:

Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you cry.

SEVENTEEN

Apparently, someone (surely not the DA or judge, despite his claims) really was worried about my safety, because I was housed in the protective custody unit of the jail. Even so, I was suspicious. I was isolated from the general population. I wasn’t worried about genpop as much as the authorities. To me, protective custody meant some crooked guard could come fuck with me and nobody would be there to witness it.

After leading me out of the courtroom, I sat for several hours in a holding cell. Apparently, I had to wait until the entire court day was over to catch a ride to city jail with the other criminals in court that day.

At one point I was so bored, I curled up in a ball on the small bench and took a nap. Finally, someone called my name and led me in cuffs to a small van where I piled in with a bunch of other upstanding citizens.

Once we got to the jail, I got to experience once again, the whole humiliating intake routine of stripping naked in front of two mean-looking female guards who could easily be linebackers for the San Francisco 49ers. First up was Betty, a freckled redhead with a pug nose. Her pal Nancy had a crew cut, thick eyebrows, and liked to chomp her gum loudly. 

I was worried they were going to make the whole experience even worse than it was—if that was even possible—but it turned out they weren’t as mean as they looked. In fact, Betty helped me out of my jacket, and as she did, she said something so low in my ear I almost thought I’d imagined it.

“Guy got what he deserved.”

I whipped my head around to look at her, but she looked away.

“Bend over,” Nancy said. 

I did. They weren’t trying to be dicks about it. It was their job.

Then they handed me a stack of clothing. Granny underpants and a bra that looked like it came from the 1950s would go under the extra-large orange jumpsuit.

Fine.

Whatever.

It wasn’t the worst thing ever. 

Unless…I spent the rest of my life living like this. I could handle anything if I knew it was temporary.

Just thinking that sent a wave of despair over me. Maybe this time I was cooked. This might be the end of my bad luck that never turned into the worst luck.

The two women led me to my cell. After locking it, Nancy said, “Chow is at five a.m. You missed dinner, so it’s going to be a long wait until you eat again. It’s slop, but you should eat it to keep your strength up. I’ve seen too many prideful people refuse to eat and end up even worse off.”

I wanted to ask what she meant by “even worse off,” but she had already walked away. I mean, sure, if you didn’t eat for a few days that might suck, but what did she mean? I was still thinking about this when I heard some clattering in a nearby cell. Someone was banging on the bars. Then I heard moaning.

“Pipe down,” a voice said. “I want to ask her something.” The banging and moaning stopped.

“Did you really kill him?” the voice said. It was a woman. She had a raspy voice.

I sighed. “I didn’t,” I said. “But I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Of course you didn’t do it,” the woman said and let out a cackle. “Nobody here did it. Right, Connie? You’re innocent as can be.”

I kept quiet.

The other woman kept talking. “If you have a chance, take out Connie too. She killed her own baby. She’s pure evil.”

I winced.

Then the wailing and moaning kicked up so loud I had to put my hands over my ears. Even so, I could hear Connie weeping and wailing, “I didn’t want to do it. The devil made me do it. He said if I didn’t kill her, he was going to take over my body!”

“Connie,” the first voice said, “He already did take over your body. Wake the fuck up.”

I fell asleep sometime near morning. By then, the rest of the cell block was quiet except someone, probably Connie, who was moaning in her sleep.

Not long after I fell asleep, I was awoken by a guard shouting at me.

“Get up, Santella. Time to eat.”

The tray they slid into my cell had a bowl of some type of gruel. Oatmeal? Malt-o-Meal? Something warm and mushy. There was also an English muffin, a hard-boiled egg, coffee and orange juice. I skipped the mush and ate the egg and muffin and slurped the coffee down, wishing I could have more caffeine.

Then I sat. And sat. My mind was racing. Nobody came through to pick up the breakfast trays. Apparently, the protective custody unit was small and unimportant. Me and apparently two other women, one of whom was nameless and then Connie the baby killer who wept nonstop only pausing to occasionally scream for hair-raising stretches that felt like they went on for eternity but really only ended when she ran out of breath.

At one point the other woman said, “Bitch, get your nasty hair out of here. You should be pulling out your hair, but leave it in your own damn cell, it blew over here to mine, and it’s nasty.”

“Shut up!” Connie said at what might have been the top of her lungs. “Shut up or I’ll kill you too!”

I heard bars rattle and a massive thud. “You are dead!” the other woman said. “You better not close your eyes at night because I’m coming for you.” 

After a while, I managed to tune them out. I sat cross-legged on my bed and closed my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing. I needed calm and clarity if I was going to figure out how to get out of this situation. Again and again, I went over everything that had happened, from the moment Leticia approached me in the ballroom until I was arrested. There had to be something there. I spent a lot of time trying to remember the last time I saw the landlord, right when he ducked into the alley and I followed him for a few steps. I searched my memory. Had there been any cars driving by? Anyone sitting in parked cars? People walking? Anything. Anything that would help me find the real killer.

I had been sitting for hours when I heard the sound of keys outside my cell.

“Come on, Santella, you’re right. You didn’t kill him.” It was Betty. Or Nancy. I couldn’t remember which was which. She threw a stack of my clothes on the bed. “Get changed. We need your stylish outfit back for the next murderer coming through this joint.”

“What?”

“There’s some crazy shit going on.”

“What happened?”

“The judge was murdered. They think it’s the same person who killed your landlord.”

“So now they know it’s not me, right?”

“I don’t know any of that. Get your shit, you’ve been sprung.”

EIGHTEEN

Stefano was waiting for me in the lobby. Behind him were Anthony and Ryder. Now that must have been awkward.

“My welcoming party?”

Ryder gave a lay smile. Anthony frowned. Stefano scowled.

“There’s a circus outside,” Stefano said. “Head straight to the limo. Don’t say a word to the vermin.”

“Vermin?”

“Media.”

“They’re not all bad,” I said. I was irritated when people vilified the media. Just like within any group of people, such as cops, there were good journalists and bad journalists. 

“We’ll surround you,” Anthony said.

“I got this, Senator,” Ryder said. “You run along ahead. You can be the decoy.”

“The hell I will,” Anthony said and reached for my hand.

I stared at him and then Ryder. I shook my hand free.

They were acting like toddlers. Instead of answering, I turned and headed for the front doors. Through the glass, I could see the steps were full of people. Some had signs. “Vigilante justice!” and “He deserved it!” 

Good God. They still thought I’d done it.

I pushed open the door and, keeping my eyes in front of me, walked down the steps. My head was held high. My shoulders back. My eyes trained on the goal: the limo at the bottom of the steps. The voices of reporters and people shouting became an unintelligible cacophony of sound. I felt a few hands on me but realized that Anthony and Ryder were on each side of me, guiding me gently with their hands. I could hear Stefano behind me. “No comment. My client will not be making a statement.”

He repeated the statement several times as we went.

As I walked down the steps with the three men flanking me, even with people pushing microphones in my face and screaming at me, I felt safe.

It was a weird feeling. I’d relied on myself for so long. But now there were three people who had my back. Literally.

The driver had leaped out and opened the door so I could slide inside quickly. As soon as my legs were clear, the door slammed shut. 

I watched as reporters swarmed Anthony. Ryder and Stefano stood nearby. I cracked the window. I could hear Anthony giving a statement to the press. I suppose as a senator he had to do so. 

Anthony faced the cluster of microphones, cameras flashing. My eyes widened as I heard his brief statement. 

“Miss Santella is innocent. She is not a criminal—she is the victim of a calculated setup designed to destroy her reputation and distract from the real culprits. I want to be absolutely clear: I will do whatever it takes, and I mean whatever it takes, to prove her innocence. Anything. No matter what.”

I froze, my heart in my throat. He was the second man in my world to say this. Danny had said something similar—that he would do anything to protect me. I may be an orphan, but these two men were as loyal as family. And for an Italian-American, this was saying a lot. Those two men, along with Darling, Kato, and Dante, were the family I created.

I tuned back into Anthony’s words.

“The fact that she has been released today should speak for itself. The prosecution knows it has no credible evidence to hold her, because there is none.

“This case is not about justice—it’s about spectacle. It’s about targeting a woman of means and courage and hoping the public circus will replace the burden of proof. We will not let that stand.

“I call on the media, and on the people of this city, to look at the facts, not the frenzy. Justice demands more than rumor and innuendo. Justice demands truth—and that is exactly what we will deliver.”

A reporter’s voice cut through the din. “Senator, are you saying the district attorney’s office is acting in bad faith?”

Anthony’s jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. “I’m saying the DA’s office is more interested in headlines than evidence. And if they continue down that path, I promise you—the truth will expose them, not Miss Santella.”

The crowd erupted in shouted questions as Anthony turned away, leaving the soundbite hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown.

It was a bold press statement. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Part of me felt comforted by Anthony trying to protect me. But he was wrong. Someone had posted bail for me. It didn’t sound like I’d been released because I was no longer being charged. 

Then it was over. Anthony, Ryder, and Stefano climbed into the limousine from the street side. People crowded the windows, shouting. I stared straight ahead, heart pounding. Then we drove away.

As soon as we turned the corner, Stefano handed me a bag. I poked inside. It contained a soft pair of sweatpants and hoodie. I slipped the pants under my skirt and then did a complicated wriggle out of the skirt. Then I shed my blazer for the hoodie.

Finally, when I got settled, I spoke. “I thought I was being held without bail? What gives. Are the charges against me dropped?”

All three men exchanged a look.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“The judge was murdered,” Anthony said in response. 

“I heard.”

“They found his penis in his mouth,” Anthony said. “They also found another bloody machete. No prints.”

“Was it the same killer?” I asked, my voice incredulous.

“No one’s sure, but the MO and signature is the same as in the landlord’s case. Not all of that info was released to the press, remember.”

“Does this mean they’ll have to drop the charges against me?”

All three men were dead silent.

“Stefano?”

“The judge who stepped in as an emergency is not a friend, but somebody I know. He agreed to set a bail amount for you. Only because it was the right thing to do. Not because he has any favoritism toward you. Your bail was one million.”

I thought about that for a second.

“Who put that kind of money up? Turn around. I can handle a few nights in jail while they find the real killer.”

Stefano huffed a laugh.

“Was it my Aunt Eva?” I asked. I hadn’t heard from her in about a year. She dropped in occasionally, appearing in San Francisco out of the blue. I only needed to make one call, and she’d appear. And apparently, I didn’t even need to make a call for her to literally bail my ass out.

“Are you going to call her?” Stefano asked. “Or Rose?”

Rose was raised by me and one of my three great loves, Nico Morales, God rest his soul. She was living off-grid in a remote area of Costa Rica. I was supposed to visit her in December. I didn’t even know how to reach her if I could.

I frowned. “No. I don’t want them to worry. Do you think Eva put up the bail?”

By the look on his face, I knew I was right. Of course she already knew about my troubles. Eva seemed to know everything, even as it was happening.

“Pay her back immediately from my private account,” I demanded.

His jaw tensed. “Just show up for your court dates, and it will all be fine.”

“I don’t understand. One million? They really think I’m that much of a flight risk?”

“Stefano, would you please wire my aunt the money back. She’s got to stop doing this! I have money. I just don’t have access to it as quickly as she does.”

“It bought you some time,” Stefano said. “But the DA is going to want to save face on this.”

“But I was in custody when the judge was killed, so if they prove the same person killed both men….” I trailed off.

Again, nobody would answer me.

NINETEEN

When the limo pulled up in front of my hotel, my head valet manager waved us in. Other valets were stationed at each end of the driveway stopping any other arrivals. Bellboys were positioned at the glass doors keeping people away.

We used this protocol when celebrities or the president came to stay. It was strange to see it in effect for me.

I was about to step out of the limo when Stefano put his hand on my arm. “Put your hood up. They’ve got paparazzi stationed across the street.” I glanced over and saw half a dozen photographers standing under the awning of the hotel across from us.

I slipped the oversized hood up and was grateful that it concealed my entire face.

The valet manager opened my door. I paused and looked at the three men in the limo. 

“Thank you. All three of you,” I said in a soft voice and then stepped out.

Per our conversation on the way to the hotel, Stefano was going to take Anthony and Ryder to his office to discuss strategy. I was going upstairs for a shower and bed. I didn’t sleep much in jail. We would meet in my suite that afternoon.

My staff quickly ushered me to my private elevator.

As soon as I stepped into my hotel suite, my phone rang.

I didn’t recognize the number but immediately recognized the voice: James.

“I’m on a burner phone,” he said. “Don’t say my name out loud. I did some digging and there are some things you need to know.”

He spoke quickly, and icy fear raced down my spine as I heard his words.

“They are calling the murder of the judge a copycat killing.”

My heart sank. I had hoped they would link the two murders, and the charges against me would be dropped.

“If someone hadn’t posted bail when they did, there is no way they would’ve let you out, given the murder of the judge,” he said.

“This is awful,” I said. 

“It gets worse,” he said. 

I sat on the edge of my couch and braced myself for what he was going to say next. “Lay it on me. I’m sitting down.”

“They think someone close to you killed the judge to clear your name,” he said.

“Oh my God.” It was worse than awful.

“They are looking at everyone you love.”

“Like?” I asked, my heart racing.

“Darling. Dante. Danny. Wayne. Anthony. Ryder. Kato. Probably me.”

“That’s insane.” I could feel my face growing warm as anxiety clawed its way up my insides.

“They’ve eliminated Dante, Wayne, and Kato as suspects already. All were verifiably out of town, so they have solid alibis. The others don’t.”

That meant they were looking at Darling, Danny, Anthony, and Ryder.

Anxiety welled in my throat, threatening to overwhelm me. They were going after my friends. I started to hyperventilate. 

“I have to go,” James said, suddenly in a low voice. “More later.”

He hung up before I could thank him. I knew he could get in trouble for what he had shared, and I was grateful he had risked it for me. 

I thought about what he’d told me and was filled with both dread and relief. At least some of my friends had been cleared. The thought of Kato or Dante or Wayne being suspects because of me was unbearable.

But that left four, and maybe five, people I loved.

Danny wouldn’t kill a fly. Anthony had no reason to kill the judge. But Darling might. Ryder? Certainly.

The one person who had direct motive to kill the landlord was Darling. But there wouldn’t be a reason for her to kill the judge. However, she had been acting strangely. She’d been avoiding my calls, which wasn’t like her. And the one time I did reach her, she made some excuse about having to get off the phone. 

However, she had no idea that the landlord had kidnapped and killed her former employee until he was already dead.

Then there were the two men in my life. Both had been acting strange.

Neither Anthony nor Ryder showed up at my arraignment. Their chairs were empty, and their silence was louder than the whispers rippling through the courtroom.

For something this critical—for me—they were both mysteriously absent.

During the limo ride home, they both gave suspicious excuses for their absences.

Anthony’s lame-o excuse for missing the arraignment was that he’d been called into a confidential security briefing connected to organized crime and couldn’t disclose the details—not even to me. No staffers, no aides, no paper trail. Just his word. Conveniently, it was the kind of meeting where phones weren’t allowed, and attendance wasn’t recorded. Which meant nobody could vouch for his whereabouts at the exact time of my arraignment.

Ryder claimed he was blindsided by a tail on his way to court—two men in a black SUV boxed him in, forcing him off his route. Ryder said had to choose: show up late and risk leading whoever was after him straight to me or disappear and shake them off. He chose the latter, protecting me in the only way he knew how.

Their alibis, if we were going to call them that, were both flimsy. Nobody saw them. Nobody could verify that they were where they said they were. It was shady. 

I’m sure detectives would prioritize Ryder. He was not an American citizen, had a murky past they couldn’t dig into, and had flown across the globe to see me. If he was lucky, maybe they wouldn’t be able to dig up that he was an assassin. It wouldn’t have taken anything except a split-second decision for him to take out the judge. It was awful to think it, but I could see him committing a copycat murder to protect me.

Then I remembered. Danny had given me the details of the landlord’s slaying, including a detail only the killer would know—the cut off penis stuffed in his mouth. Both Ryder and Anthony had been sitting in my living room with me. It had to be Ryder.

That detail also eliminated Darling in my eyes—she wasn’t privy to that little tidbit about the penis. That meant only the original killer, the homicide detectives and cops working the case, Danny, Ryder, Anthony, and me were the only ones who could have killed the judge using the same signature. 

Even though his alibi was the sketchiest, Anthony was the least likely suspect. He was the city’s Golden Boy. He grew up in San Francisco and had fought for the city his entire life. Now he was protecting and representing the city by the bay in the nation’s capital.

Plus, everyone in this city who had ever met him knew Anthony wasn’t a killer.

Yes, he was a politician that cops probably didn’t love, but it was undeniable that he had connections—powerful people in the city who would defend him no matter what.

No matter what.

At those words, a memory flashed back suddenly of Anthony on the courthouse steps addressing reporters. This was bad. Really bad. 

He was on the record as saying he would do anything it took— “Anything. No matter what”—to keep me out of prison for a crime I didn’t commit. 

Just when I was accepting the horror of this possibility, the memory of someone else saying something very similar came rushing back.

Cold fear filled my core.

Danny.

I would do anything to protect you.

TWENTY

Despite a three-hour nap, I was still exhausted when I woke and began to get ready for my visitors. After ordering room service, I took another quick shower, ice cold this time to wake me up, and then dressed in soft pants and a silky T-shirt. Barefoot, I made myself a double espresso with my sleek, black Breville, once again thinking it was my favorite thing ever.

I poured the espresso shots into a black crystal glass and added four cubes of ice before heading out to my balcony to survey the city below me.

My mind was racing. If I didn’t find out who the killer was, I was convinced I would take the fall for it. Or one of my friends would. 

My phone dinged and I looked at the screen to see an image of Stefano in the lobby downstairs, flanked by Ryder and Anthony, waiting for me to grant them access to my private elevator. After Anthony had (quite embarrassingly) appeared at my door the other day, I thought it would be a good idea to change the code.

I buzzed them in and headed back inside to greet them. 

As soon as I opened the door, Stefano strode past me and headed to the alcove where I kept my bar.

“Hi?” I said in a dry voice.

He was followed by a staff member I knew who wheeled in a large cart laden with grapes, cheeses, baguettes, chocolate, apricot, and slices of Italian cured meats. 

“Thanks Misha,” I said and handed her a $20. She was one of the few on the hotel staff who had passed enough security checks to get the code to my private elevator.

As she stepped back out into the hall, Ryder and Anthony walked in.

Anthony leaned down and kissed my forehead. I caught Ryder’s eye as he did so. His jaw tensed.

“Grab a drink, you two,” I said. 

I wheeled the room service cart over to the couches. Before I could sit, Stefano handed a crystal glass of amber liquid to me. My good bourbon. He knew the score.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “Grab some food and then let’s talk.”

I watched as they prepared plates. Obviously, they were hungry too.

I watched these three men with affection, but worry was clawing at my insides.

Someone had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to make sure I walked free this morning. And someone else—or maybe the same someone—had done it in the most dangerous way possible: by killing a judge exactly the way the landlord had been killed.

And in a manner no one should have known. Unless of course they’d been there. Or had heard it from Danny.

I glanced at Anthony, at Ryder, at Stefano. At the empty space where Darling and Danny might have sat if I’d called them. My chest tightened. The detectives would already be circling them, looking for a loose thread to pull.

“Okay,” I said finally. “We’ve got a problem.”

Stefano arched an eyebrow. “Singular?”

“The cops are going to focus on the people closest to me,” I said. “They think I killed Longfellow, and now that I’m out of jail, they’re going to assume one of you finished the job for me.”

Anthony snorted. “They’d have to prove it.”

“That’s the point,” I said. “They’re not looking to prove anything—it’s about leverage. Pressure. They want me back in a cell. They’ll lean on you until somebody cracks.”

Ryder’s jaw tensed. “So what’s the play?”

I leaned forward, my voice low. “We find the real killer before the cops decide it’s one of you.”

Ryder nodded. “I’m in.”

“Of course, I’ll do whatever it takes,” Anthony said, glancing at Ryder and adding, “They don’t have anything on me. Don’t worry about it another minute.”

“I’m not worried about either one of you,” I said honestly. “Unless…you did it?” 

Anthony burst out laughing. “I’m not a killer, Gia.”

I pressed my lips together and smiled, but it was a sad smile. Bittersweet. But I am. And that’s why we can never truly be together.

“Gia?” Ryder’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “If you aren’t worried about us,” he said slowly. “Who are you worried about?”

“I’ll start with who had the most to gain from both deaths,” I said. “And who knew enough about the landlord to make the second murder look like a pattern.”

Anthony’s gaze sharpened. “That list isn’t long.”

“No,” I agreed. “But it’s troublesome.”

I glanced at Stefano and inhaled sharply.

“As your attorney, you know anything you say is confidential under client-attorney privilege,” he said.

“There are four people—or at least four people close to me—who knew about the killer’s signature.” I glanced at Anthony and Ryder. I could see realization dawn in Ryder’s eyes. He was one step ahead of me. He frowned. He didn’t like where this was going.

“And what might that be?” Stefano asked.

“The killer cut off the landlord’s member and stuffed it in his mouth.”

“The only people who knew that detail besides the investigators are the three of us here plus one more.”

Stefano watched me carefully. “Who is the other person?”

“The person who hacked into the investigative files to provide this detail.”

Anthony closed his eyes for a second. “Oh no.”

“Yep. Danny.”

TWENTY-ONE

The room went quiet, thick with the weight of Danny’s name.

Stefano swirled the bourbon in his glass and stared down into it. Anthony leaned forward, his jaw tense. Ryder just sat there, still, dark, and unreadable.

“Danny is like family,” I said, almost to myself. “I just can’t see it. But I don’t know what else to think.”

“Family’s always the first place to look,” Stefano said gently, as if he were breaking bad news to a child.

I shoved my glass away. “No. I don’t buy it. Danny wouldn’t kill anyone.”

Anthony’s voice was low, careful. “Gia…he’s the only other person who had access to the investigative files and knew about the signature.”

“No.” My voice cracked. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s not a killer! Someone must have set him up. It’s up to me to prove he didn’t do it.”

But in my head, the doubts crept in. Danny was kind and sweet. But he was also loyal to me. He had even said he would do anything for me. He once told me I had saved his life and showed him what it was like to love and be loved by family. Before we met, he’d been through a lot. A hell of a lot. He’d been terribly abused as a child. So he was a survivor. And survivors did what they had to, especially when it came to protecting their peace and the life they had established.

Ryder finally spoke, his voice calm, controlled. Too controlled. “If the cops go after Danny, they’ll find what they want. He’s sloppy sometimes. He leaves digital fingerprints.”

I turned on him. “He does? Are you sure?”

If anyone would know, it would be Ryder.

“When we first met, I dug around. He’s easier to trace and hack than you would think.”

“But he’s the best hacker I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s as careful as he should be. Just because he can hack into damn near anything doesn’t mean he’s covering his tracks.”

“You think he did it, too, don’t you?” I asked and internally cringed. “Maybe he was targeted and set up because he is sloppy?”

“I don’t know about that. But I do think,” Ryder said slowly, “the police will make him their scapegoat if we don’t find another one first.”

“If Danny is their main suspect, they’ll arrest him within the week. Maybe sooner,” Stefano said”

I pushed off the couch and paced to the balcony doors, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. Outside, the city lay below me, oblivious. My city. My home. The place I’d fought so damn hard to keep safe.

And now? The cops were circling my people. My family.

I couldn’t let them take Danny down. I needed to do something to stop Danny spending the rest of his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

Because he didn’t, right?  I blinked. Was I trying to convince myself or the others? No, he had to be innocent.

It was then that I noticed Ryder was watching me with that look—intense, steady, like he was memorizing me. His eyes burned into mine, and something inside me shifted, a cold realization sinking in.

“You already know what’s going to happen,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

“Ryder.” My voice was sharp. Demanding. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His jaw flexed once. “If it comes down to you or Danny or me…” He paused, eyes never leaving mine. “It’s going to be me.”

“No.” My throat closed. “Don’t you dare.”

Anthony shot to his feet. “What the hell does that mean?”

Ryder ignored him. “I can disappear. I’ve done it before. I’ll take the heat, Gia. They’ll never touch Danny. Or you. Not while I’m breathing.”

The room spun. The walls felt like they were closing in.

Stefano set his glass down on a nearby table with a soft click. “Jesus Christ. You’re serious.”

Ryder’s lips curved in the faintest, saddest smile. “Deadly.”

TWENTY-TWO

I woke up with a start, the sheets cold beside me.

For a second, I thought Ryder was in the shower. But the water wasn’t running, and the silence of the penthouse pressed down on me. My heart started hammering. I sat up. His duffel bag was gone. The chair where he’d tossed his leather jacket last night was empty.

On the nightstand, his phone lay face down. My stomach clenched.

The apartment was ominously quiet. Leaning over, I saw the bathroom door was open. The dark space was empty.

I ripped back the covers and raced into the other room. The kitchen and dining room were like silent tombs. Panic coursed through me. I stepped into the living room. Nothing. No trace. The half-empty bourbon glasses from last night sat on the coffee table, silent witnesses. My skin prickled as I noticed the front door was still locked.

Frantically, I pushed a button and the blackout shades lifted, revealing the balcony. Nothing.

The phone. Sitting abandoned on the nightstand. That was the worst part. I knew something was seriously, terrifyingly wrong.

Ryder never went anywhere without that damn phone. He was like a teenager that way. It contained his life. He didn’t believe in computers. Everything important to him was stored on that small electronic device.

I ran back into the bedroom and grabbed it. The screen was locked, but the wallpaper was a photograph of the cliffs in France, the ocean spray caught mid-splash. His home. His fortress. He’d left his entire life behind on that little device—and walked away.

Then it struck me. Something odd. Despite the blackout curtains being closed when I entered the living room, when they rose, something seemed off. I didn’t fully notice it at first. Had I imagined it?

I walked back into the living room with trepidation. No, I hadn’t imagined it. The balcony door was cracked open.

I pushed it wide and stepped into the icy, dawn air. The city glittered below me in the sunrise—bridges, skyscrapers reflecting the golden light, the bay stretching out like steel. And on a small glass table near a set of patio furniture there was a scrap of paper weighted by a large piece of onyx I’d never seen before.

I snatched it up.

Don’t look for me.

That was all it said. His handwriting. Clean. Bold. Final.

I dropped into the nearest chair, the note fluttering in my hand. My chest was tight, breath shallow. My first instinct was rage—how dare he vanish like that, after everything. 

After last night. After we said goodbye to Anthony and Stefano and made love and laid in bed together while I begged him until he promised he wouldn’t do anything rash. That he would let me try to find the killer before he did anything crazy.

But he had been appeasing me. Telling me what I wanted to hear in the moment. The entire time we lay naked in bed, with my head on his chest, for once not feeling guilty that I loved, truly loved, two men, I clung to him, worried about just this thing.

This exact thing happening:

Ryder had gone off-grid. The cops were closing in, and he wanted their focus to be on him. Not me.

Or Danny.

Or even Anthony.

And the worst part was that he was good at disappearing. If it meant protecting me, he would never come back.

I didn’t know if my heart would be able to take it.

“Goddamn it, Ryder,” I whispered.

I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my messages. Nothing. I checked the hotel’s security feed on my private app. At 3:30 a.m., Ryder slipped out through the staff entrance, hood up, duffel slung over his shoulder. He moved like a ghost, unseen by anyone but the cameras.

A professional disappearing act.

I felt sick.

By the time the morning news hit my phone with a breaking headline, I already knew what it would say.

“Senator’s Mistress Linked to Copycat Killing: Mystery Frenchman Now Person of Interest.”

I stared at the screen, bile rising. They’d found him on video last night throwing a gun into the bay from a pier. He’d walked right into their narrative.

He’d done this on purpose. For me.

But I couldn’t let him take the fall. Not this time.

I crushed the note in my fist. If Ryder wanted to vanish, too bad. I was going to find him.

And God help me, if he had killed that judge to save me…then I’d have to decide whether to turn him in or protect the only man who’s ever truly understood the darkest parts of me.

TWENTY-THREE

I didn’t waste time.

If Ryder thought I was going to curl up in bed while he painted a target on his back, he was dead wrong. I’d spent too many years chasing ghosts through this city to let another one vanish on me.

First stop was Danny. If anyone could track Ryder, it was him. But Danny was already in the cops’ crosshairs, and if they thought he might help Ryder disappear, they’d bury him so deep he’d never see sunlight again. I paused. I couldn’t turn to him. They might already have search warrants for his computers and electronics.

That left me.

I slipped on black jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, and shoved Ryder’s note in my pocket. My hands were shaking, but not from fear—from fury.

Ryder had left me a puzzle, whether he meant to or not. I knew his patterns. He always left a trail, a breadcrumb only someone who really knew him would spot.

And I knew where to start.

The airport would be too obvious. The police would have eyes there already. Same with train stations and bus terminals. Ryder was smart enough to vanish without crossing a single checkpoint.

Which meant boats.

San Francisco Bay was full of them—private marinas, old fishing docks, the kind of places you could slip out to international waters with no one the wiser. Plus, he’d made sure to be spotted ditching the gun at a pier near Fisherman’s Wharf. A mistake. One that he would regret.

I grabbed my keys and headed for the elevator.

By the time I hit the lobby, my phone buzzed. A blocked number. I answered.

Static, then a low, rough, dangerous voice spoke. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

“Gia,” the man said. “If you want to find your Frenchman, you’re already too late.”

The line went dead.

I froze in the middle of the marble floor, the phone hot in my hand.

Someone else was hunting Ryder. And whoever it was—they wanted me to know.

The lobby spun around me. Tourists dragging roller bags. Bellboys in red jackets hustling carts stacked with luggage. None of them knew the world had just shifted beneath my feet.

Too late.

The words echoed in my skull like a gunshot.

I pushed through the revolving door and into the cool dawn, scanning the street. Nothing but taxis, a delivery truck, a few joggers with earbuds in. Nobody looking my way. Nobody obvious. No cop cars, unmarked or otherwise, staking out the front of the hotel. And nobody else crouched down in a driver’s seat waiting for me.

But that voice. I’d heard it recently. But where? I searched my memory but came up blank.

Someone out there knew Ryder’s moves. Maybe better than I did.

I ducked back into the hotel and used my private elevator to head to my personal garage.

I jumped into my Jeep and floored it toward the Embarcadero. The city was just waking up—commuters sipping lattes, fog curling around the Bay Bridge. I blew past them all, my mind chewing over the possibilities. Who would call me like that? Who had access to my personal cell? Who had access to Ryder’s trail?

By the time I reached the private marinas tucked near Pier 70, the sun was bleeding through the mist. My boots hit the wood planks hard as I walked down the docks, scanning hulls, decks, shadows.

Empty. Too empty.

Half the slips were vacant. The ones that weren’t held yachts with covers still zipped tight, like corpses in body bags.

I was about to turn back when I saw it.

A black, leather duffel sat abandoned at the edge of one of the docks. Ryder’s. I’d recognize it anywhere.

My pulse spiked. I sprinted the length of the pier, crouched, flipped it open.

Empty. Except for a single item.

A burner phone.

It buzzed the second I touched it.

I swallowed hard and answered.

“Gia.” The same rough voice from earlier. “He’s not yours to save anymore. The King has ordered it.”

I clenched my teeth. “Who the hell are you? And who for fuck’s sake is the King?”

“You’ll find out. Though it will be the last thing you ever do.”

The line went dead again.

I stared out across the fog-choked bay. Somewhere out there Ryder was either running for his life…or already in someone else’s crosshairs.

And for the first time in a long damn while, I felt the icy grip of helplessness. I hadn’t even felt this much despair being charged with murder and thrown in jail.

I shoved it down.

Because whoever had him, whoever thought they could play me like this, was about to learn that Gia Santella doesn’t do helpless.

I do payback.

TWENTY-FOUR

The fog rolled in thick, swallowing sound and blotting out the orange sherbet sunrise. I slipped the burner into my pocket and scanned the docks again.

Movement.

A shadow ducked behind a stack of crab pots at the far end.

“Ryder?” I called out, low but sharp.

Nothing.

I pulled my jacket tighter, my hand brushing the grip of my Glock inside. My instincts were already screaming. This wasn’t Ryder. Whoever had called me was still here. Watching.

I stepped lightly along the planks, each footfall echoing. My breath clouded in the cold air.

Then—creak. Behind me.

I spun, gun out.

A man in a black hoodie lunged, knife flashing.

I sidestepped and slammed my boot into his knee. The crack was satisfying. He howled, collapsing sideways. The knife clattered into the bay.

Before I could pin him, another one came out of the fog swinging a length of chain. I ducked, the metal whistling past my head, and drove my elbow into his ribs. He grunted but didn’t go down.

Two on one.

Chain-guy came again, his arc wide, sloppy. I caught the chain mid-swing, yanked hard, and sent him staggering forward. My fist connected with his jaw—bone on bone. He dropped with a thud. I kicked him in the ribs, and his body rolled into the cold bay with a loud splash. I heard him spluttering and starting to swim toward the shore since the dock was several feet above the water.

I wheeled on the first guy, the one still clutching his ruined knee. He was crawling toward something dark on the dock. A gun.

I didn’t think, just acted. The story of my life. But this time it saved me. His fingers were inches away from the gun, but my boot was quicker. I kicked the hunk of metal into the bay where it, too, would sink into the black. Then I was on him, crouched down, my knee digging in his back, pressing my Glock against his temple.

“Where is he?” I hissed. “Where’s Ryder?”

His eyes flicked toward the shore, just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

I followed his gaze and saw the faint red glow of a taillight disappearing down the boat ramp.

A van.

They had Ryder.

I’d been this close to finding him.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, cuffing the guy in the face hard enough to send him flat. Then I sprinted for my Jeep, heart in my throat, the image of that van burned into my skull.

Ryder was alive. For now.

The Jeep roared to life under me, tires spitting gravel as I tore out of the marina lot.

Fog obscured most of the city, but up ahead, barely visible, was the boxy outline of the van. Same red taillight I’d seen on the dock. I punched the gas pedal.

The streets were slick with mist. Fishermen hauling ice chests glanced up as I blew through a stop sign. Horns blared. Didn’t matter. I had one thought, one mission.

Ryder.

The van cut right onto the Embarcadero. I followed, my Jeep skidding as I weaved between commuters and cyclists. I left a trail of angry drivers honking in my wake.

When the van tried to merge, I gunned it and closed the distance. Close enough to see the back doors rattling, chained shut.

They must’ve spotted me, because the van jerked into the far lane and floored it.

“Game on,” I muttered. I only wished I was on my motorcycle. There was no way they could possibly outrun me then.

We screamed past the Ferry Building, the Bay Bridge rising like a dinosaur in the fog. The van swerved hard toward an on-ramp, tires screeching. I yanked the wheel, Jeep fishtailing, then straightening as we barreled onto the bridge.

I edged closer. I wished I’d learned the PIT police maneuver during my time at racing school so I could stop the van by sideswiping it. 

Suddenly, the sliding door of the van flew open. For a second I expected to see Ryder. But what I saw made my stomach drop.

A man wearing a ski mask leaned out of the black interior behind him, shotgun braced.

“Shit!”

I swerved at the same time the blast hit the pavement where the Jeep had been. Sparks flew. Cars behind us swerved and braked, horns blaring.

The guy pumped the shotgun and aimed.

I slammed the Jeep across two lanes, his shot missing by inches.

I floored it and headed right for the gunman who was reloading and rammed the Jeep’s steel bumper into the side of the van. The guy lost his balance, hanging onto the door with one arm. Another slam and he toppled, cartwheeling onto the bridge before vanishing into the fog below.

One down.

The van fishtailed wildly but didn’t slow. Instead, it veered toward the Yerba Buena exit.

They were heading underground.

The tunnel swallowed us, lights strobing overhead. The van swerved again, sideswiping a sedan that spun out behind us.

Then the van cut sharp, blasting through the tunnel exit toward Treasure Island.

Damn it.

I followed, tires screaming. The road wound tight around the island, which was bordered by nothing but guardrail and black water beyond.

The van suddenly braked hard. I swerved just in time as the rear doors opened again. This time, there was no gunman. Just a flash of something small and metallic tossed onto the pavement.

Grenade.

“Fuck.”

I swerved off-road, Jeep juddering as I hit gravel. A deafening crack split the air, the blast exploding the guardrail into a twisty mess. I lost control of the Jeep. My head slammed the window. The Jeep skidded, spun, then steadied. My ears rang.

By the time I regained my senses and whipped the Jeep back onto the road, the van was gone, vanished into the thick blanket of fog.

I slammed the wheel with both hands, rage boiling hot. My anger quickly turned to despair.

They had Ryder.

I had nothing but a headache and anxiety that I might not ever see him alive again.

I shook that thought away. This was no time to be weak. I would find him.

He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die.

Not on my watch.

TWENTY-FIVE

My hands were welded to the Jeep’s steering wheel, knuckles white, mouth set tight, and my ears still ringing from the grenade blast. I gingerly touched the side of my head where my head had hit the window. There was no blood, but I was going to have a nasty bruise and a painful lump for sure.

The van was long gone, swallowed by fog and island roads I wasn’t familiar with. But Ryder was in the back of it. I knew that in my bones.

I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Then I grabbed my phone.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I muttered as I hit Danny’s number.

Two rings, then a groggy voice. “Gia? Jesus, do you know what time⁠—”

“They’ve got Ryder.”

That woke him up. “What? Who? Start at the top.”

I gave him the quick version of Ryder’s disappearance and kidnapping (leaving out the part about him trying to take the fall for both me and Danny).

“And the guy on the phone said something fucking weird. He said, ‘the King’ had ordered it.”

Silence on his end. Then: “Holy shit.”

“I need eyes, Danny.” My voice was steady, deadly calm. “Traffic cams, satellites, drones—whatever toys you can get your hands on. I don’t care if you have to hack NASA. I need that van. And while you’re at it, figure out who the hell this King is.”

He whistled low. “You’re asking me to pull off about a dozen federal offenses before breakfast.”

“Danny.” I dropped my voice. “They’re going to kill him if they haven’t already.”

“I’m on it.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up!” I yelled. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you this first: There is a good chance you are under surveillance right now. SFPD may have obtained a search warrant for all your electronics.”

“Huh? Why would they do that?” he asked. I could almost see his earnest face scrunched up in confusion.

“You may be a suspect in the murder of the landlord and the judge.”

“What?” Danny’s voice sounded incredulous. “Me?”

I sighed loudly. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus.” He was quiet for a moment. I heard his fingers tapping keys on the keyboard. “Wait, the news is saying Ryder is the suspect.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t surveilling you.”

“Right.”

“Will they know if you do what I asked?”

“No,” Danny said. “Not if I bury a winding trail so deep in the Dark Web that they’ll never be able to trace it back to me. But thanks for the warning.” There was another pause, then the sound of computer keys clicking fast, furious. “What color was the van?”

“Gray. Boxy. No plates.”

“Of course not. Okay, give me five minutes. I’ll cross-reference the traffic feeds with bridge cams and see where it went after Treasure Island.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, Danny.”

Another pause. “Gia…if Ryder’s in the hands of whoever did this, it’s not just about him. It’s about you. You know that, right?”

“I know.” My throat tightened. “But I’m not letting them use him to get to me.”

The line went silent other than the frenzied taps on his keyboard.

I stared out at the black water lapping against the island shore. 

“Find him, Danny,” I whispered. “Before they put him in the ground.”

TWENTY-SIX

I couldn’t sit on Treasure Island waiting for Danny to work his hacker magic. The longer I stared at the fog, the more I was filled with despair and an increasing anxiety.

I felt so helpless. There was nothing else to do, so I pointed my Jeep back toward the city.

By the time I pulled into the hotel garage, my hands were cramped from gripping the wheel. I cut the engine and sat there a moment, willing my heart to stop racing.

The truth hurt: I’d lost him.

When I stepped out of the elevator into the private hallway outside my penthouse, Stefano was already there, pacing with a tumbler of coffee clutched in his birdlike hands. Anthony was leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression unreadable. 

I knew why. I had walked the two of them to the door last night while Ryder stayed on the couch. When I kicked them out, saying I needed to go to bed, it was unspoken that Ryder would remain. After all, he was staying with me. I could have made the argument that he was an out-of-town guest, but really, so was Anthony, despite the apartment he still owned. 

I didn’t blame Anthony for acting cold toward me.

“You look like hell,” Stefano said flatly.

“Thanks, Stefano. You always know how to cheer a girl up.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you?”

I ignored him, letting us into the penthouse and heading toward the bar. My throat was dry, my nerves shot. Bourbon for breakfast? On a day like today: Absolutely.

Stefano followed, his tiny frame hustling to keep up. “You can’t keep running around like this, Gia. You’ve got half the city watching you, waiting for you to slip.”

I poured two fingers into a glass and tossed it back, savoring the burn as it traveled down my throat and warmed my insides. “Newsflash: I already slipped. Now I’m trying to claw my way back out of the hole.”

Anthony stepped closer, lowering his voice. “What happened? Did Ryder skip town when they declared him a suspect?”

I glanced at him—at his perfect jawline, the silk tie knotted with precision, the very image of self-control. He was the opposite of Ryder’s raw edges and chaos. And yet right now? They both terrified me in different ways.

“They’ve got Ryder. I chased a van onto the bridge. Ryder was inside.” I didn’t bother sugarcoating. “They had firepower. Grenades. I lost them on Treasure Island.”

Anthony swore under his breath. Stefano rubbed his temples.

“Who’s they?” Anthony asked.

“The question of the hour,” I said. “A dude on the phone said something about ‘The King’ or some odd nonsense like that. I’ve got Danny tracing the van.”

Anthony’s face scrunched up at my words. “The King?”

“Yup,” I said.

“That young man is a liability,” Stefano muttered. “You need to distance yourself from him.” 

“He’s also the only one keeping me a step ahead of the cops,” I shot back.

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “You’re putting Danny in danger.”

I met his gaze. “You think Ryder isn’t in worse danger?”

That shut him up. For a beat, anyway.

I set my glass down with a hard clink. “Look. You both can sit here and argue over my soul like it’s a goddamn prizefight, but the fact is someone out there took Ryder. They’re taunting me. And if I don’t move fast, he’s dead.”

Stefano exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Gia, sometimes the best move is to wait. Let Danny dig. Let me work channels you don’t have.”

Anthony added, “Charging out there half-cocked is what they expect from you. Don’t give them what they want. If they can trap Ryder who is…”

His words trailed off.

Did he know Ryder was an assassin?

“They are very dangerous,” Stefano said, cutting off that line of conversation.

“Okay,” I conceded. “Let me think.”

I hated being told to sit still, to wait. But for once, they weren’t wrong.

My phone buzzed. Danny’s name lit the screen.

My pulse jumped, but I didn’t answer right away. I stared at it, heart hammering, afraid of what I’d hear. Stefano watched me. Anthony took a step closer. I met his eyes and then swiped my finger up the screen.

“Talk to me.”

His voice was clipped, urgent. “I found something. And Gia—you’re not gonna like it.”

Danny’s words snapped every nerve in me taut.

“I’m listening,” I said, pacing onto the balcony. The city sprawled beneath me, rooftops and windows glaring in the harsh sunlight, oblivious to the terror clawing up my insides.

“I traced the van through bridge cameras,” Danny said. I could still hear the furious clicking of his keyboard. “They dumped it in an industrial lot near Dogpatch. But…” His voice dropped. “It made a stop first.”

My throat went dry. “Where?”

“An abandoned warehouse. At least, that’s what the city thinks. But satellite heat maps tell a different story. There were six bodies inside last night. Two this morning.”

My stomach clenched. “Ryder?”

“I can’t tell. They moved fast and efficiently. Like special-ops fast.”

My grip on the railing tightened until my knuckles burned. “You’re saying professionals took him?”

It tracked. Only another pro could have trapped Ryder. I wasn’t surprised, but it still was difficult to hear.

Danny exhaled. “Yeah. And Gia? That warehouse—it’s not a random site. It’s tied to the judge.”

I froze. Behind me, I felt Anthony and Stefano watching. Waiting. I turned and met their eyes. They couldn’t hear Danny’s side, but they knew from my face that it was bad.

I stepped back inside the living room and hit the speaker phone.

“What do you mean tied to the judge?” I asked, giving the two men a meaningful look.

Stefano scowled, and Anthony shook his head.

“I dug deeper. The property’s owned by a shell company. Guess who signed the incorporation papers?” Danny’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Halvorsen’s brother.”

I closed my eyes. Jesus.

“Do you think he’s ‘the King?’” I asked.

“No idea. What I do know is that this isn’t just about some slumlord picking off vulnerable women. This goes way higher.”

“How high?” I asked, my voice low.

“I don’t know yet. But if they’ve got Ryder, they’re not keeping him alive for long. Not unless….” Danny hesitated.

“Unless what?”

“Unless they think he’s leverage. Against you.”

I sent Anthony and Stefano home, saying I wanted a good night’s sleep before I tagged along behind the SWAT team Anthony had quickly organized for a pre-dawn raid of the warehouse. His contacts told him they would gather the team and meet at 3:00 a.m. to prepare.

That was way too long for those men to have Ryder in their clutches.

As I closed the door on Anthony and Stefano, I felt as if a big chasm had opened between me and Anthony. He suddenly felt like a stranger to me.

Because although Stefano had a look in his eyes that told me he was suspicious, Anthony cheerfully said he’d pick me up at 2:45 a.m. 

I went along with the charade, even throwing in a large yawn and stretch.

I was surprised and disappointed at how easy it was to fool Anthony. At how little he truly knew me. If he really believed I would let Ryder sit in that warehouse for another night, then he didn’t know me at all. 

In fact, it took everything I had to wait until sunset so I could move under cover of darkness.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Dogpatch smelled like rust and salt. The kind of neighborhood where you could scream your lungs out and nobody would bother looking up from their welding torch. It was the perfect place to stash a body—or several.

I parked the Jeep three blocks away from the warehouse, killed the lights, and slipped into the shadows. Black jeans. Black boots. Hair tied back. Gun snug in the holster under my jacket. My whole body was vibrating.

Ryder was in that building. Or at least I hoped he was.

I told Danny to call me if he had any intel that showed Ryder had been moved. I checked my phone one last time as I grew closer and then turned it off.

The warehouse sat at the end of a deserted lot; its corrugated steel walls were streaked with rust. A chain-link fence surrounding it had a gap where somebody had half-assed cut through it near the brown weeds. I dropped to a crouch, slid through the gap, and kept low.

No guards. No cameras that I could see. This was too easy. It made my spine tingle. Was it a trap? My head swiveled, all my senses alert for danger or an attack. Any lights that had once lit the lot were long gone, so I navigated quickly and quietly by the slightest light from the hazy moon above. I paused when a cloud crept over the moon drenching the ground in black. But it was a windy night. Soon the clouds had moved on, and my way was dimly lit.

My Glock was in my hand before I reached the side door. The padlock was new. Industrial. I grabbed my lockpick kit from my jacket and popped the shackle in under thirty seconds. Dante always said I had criminal talents I never should’ve learned. He wasn’t wrong. No locked door or padlock would ever stand in my way.

I pushed the door open, praying it wouldn’t squeak on its hinges. When it silently swung open, I stepped inside the dark warehouse and quickly closed the door behind me. I leaned back against the closed door and listened. It was silent inside. The air was damp and oppressive. There was a slight metallic smell. I crept forward, my boots silent on the concrete, my elbow grazing the wall as a touchstone until I could get oriented.

Tall windows let moonlight seep into the cavernous space, and once my eyes adjusted I could make out shapes and forms. The warehouse, or at least the area I had entered, was floor to ceiling shelving that created a maze of corridors. I’d stick to the outside one until I knew more.

I’d gone about ten feet when I heard it.

A low groan. Human.

My chest tightened. Ryder.

It was coming from deeper inside the warehouse, more toward the center. I stepped into one of the long rows and followed the sound, which was now coming more frequently.

I crept through the rows of rusted shelving, and soon it became apparent I was heading toward a light source. I hurried until I came to an open space in the center of the warehouse. A single chair sat under a hanging work light. And in that chair⁠—

Wasn’t Ryder.

My pulse jackknifed, the sound pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. The room tilted. Move, my brain screamed, but my body stayed frozen in utter terror.

It was Danny.

His head lolled forward, his wrists duct-taped to the arms of the chair. A trickle of blood was drying along his temple.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

His head jerked up. “Gia?” His voice was hoarse. “It’s a trap. Get out.”

Too late.

The shadows shifted. Boots scuffed concrete. Four men stepped out, all masked, all armed.

And one of them—the tallest—spun a machete lazily in his hand.

I eyed the machete, and sheer terror raced over me. It was the maniac who’d killed the landlord and judge. 

“Looking for your boyfriend?” he asked, his voice muffled by the mask. “You’re in the wrong place.”

I raised my gun, my rage at his words overcoming my fears. I let my glare speak for itself.

“Just kill her,” one of the men said, “What are you waiting for?”

The guy with the blade held up his palm to stop the other men from moving forward.

“Your dude isn’t much of a man if he needs a woman to come save him.”

I didn’t have to think about an answer to that. My best answer was action. I pulled the trigger.

I knew, despite the pause as he taunted me, that it was a kill or be killed scenario.

The first shot dropped Machete-Man before he even had time to blink. The bullet went straight into his chest, and he collapsed.

The others froze for half a second—but it gave me time to turn and fire again. One bullet struck a guy’s shoulder. The impact spun him into a stack of crates and then he was also on the ground.

The third man came at me with a crowbar. I ducked and felt and heard the weapon whoosh past my ear. I was up again and drove a boot between his legs. He groaned and doubled over. The crowbar clattered to the floor. I kicked it away and brought the butt of the Glock down on the back of his head. He crumpled.

But Jesus, there was another one. He had a gun. He fired wildly.

Concrete slivered beside me. My cheek stung, and for a second, I thought I’d been grazed by the bullet, but it was just shrapnel. I rolled and ducked behind some shelves, coming up to a crouch with my gun aimed.

Danny was shouting something—a warning, maybe—but I couldn’t make it out over the ringing in my ears.

Then I heard the gunman heading toward me, taunting me.

“Gia Santella,” he said, voice low. “You’re supposed to be a killer. Let’s see it.”

I took a slow breath. Counted his steps. Three…two…one⁠—

I lunged out low, sweeping his legs before he could adjust. His gun went off, the bullet ricocheting into the rafters. I was on him before he hit the ground, my knee in his chest and my Glock pressed against his temple.

“Wrong night to fuck with me,” I hissed.

He signed his own death warrant when he reached for a gun in an ankle holster.

I pulled the trigger. His body went slack beneath me.

I froze, listening for another attacker. There was only the hum of the hanging light above and Danny’s ragged breathing.

I stood unsteadily. I glanced around. Bodies lay scattered. One moaning in the wreckage of the crates, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

I stalked over, yanked the pistol from his grip, and pressed my boot to his wound. He screamed.

“Where’s Ryder?” I demanded. “And who the fuck is ‘the King?’”

He shook his head, eyes wide with terror. “I don’t know⁠—”

I pressed harder. He howled.

“Wrong answer.”

“They already moved your boyfriend. To South Bay. An old cannery. That’s all I know!”

“Who’s the King?”

“I don’t know. They only call him that. I don’t know his real name.”

I believed him. He was too scared not to spill.

I knocked him out with the butt of my Glock.

Then I spun and rushed to Danny, scooping up the machete and using it to cut the tape binding his ankles and wrists.

He sagged forward, and I caught him under the arms. “Easy, I got you.”

His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale. But his fingers clutched my arm with surprising strength.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he rasped. “They want you.”

“Story of my life.” I helped him to his feet. “But they’re not getting me. And they’re sure as hell not getting Ryder.”

We staggered toward the door, stepping over bodies. I smiled grimly as I shoved Danny into the Jeep and gunned the engine.

My pulse was still thundering. My brain was racing even faster.

South Bay. An old cannery. 

The bastards who had Ryder thought they could bait me like a worm on a fishhook.

They had no idea.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The cannery squatted at the edge of the bay like a rusted skeleton—broken windows, roof sagging, chain-link fence falling down. A sign swung by one bolt: NO TRESPASSING.

I parked the Jeep a block away, reloaded my Glock, and left Danny snoring in the passenger seat. The bruises on his face made my gut twist. He’d tried to argue against staying behind, saying he could hack into the cannery’s electrical grid and maybe trigger a blackout. I told him to rest. I could see him fighting sleep as I wove the Jeep through the San Francisco streets, but soon he nodded off. I wasn’t dragging him into another war zone tonight.

This one was mine.

I slipped through a hole in the fence. A slight breeze brought a whiff of the worst of the bay smells: The usually refreshing ocean breeze stank of oil and rotting fish. Dim yellow light filtered through the warehouse’s broken windows. Then I heard voices—low, muffled, masculine.

I drew my Glock. My heart wasn’t pounding. Not anymore. It was slow and steady. Cold.

I crouched by a broken window and listened.

“…boss wants us to keep him alive until tomorrow.”

“Why? Easier to dump him now.”

My stomach tightened.

I made my way to the side of the building and used my lockpick on a side door. I cracked it slowly and slid inside, hugging the shadows. Rusted conveyor belts loomed like prehistoric creatures. Crates and toppled barrels littered the floor. And in the middle of it all⁠—

Ryder.

Tied to a chair. Shirtless. Blood streaked down his chest, but his head was up, eyes sharp. He wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Two guards flanked him. A third leaned against a column, cleaning his nails with a switchblade.

I fired from the shadows.

The first two never knew what hit them. Two clean shots, one in each skull. They dropped like marionettes with cut strings.

The third spun and fired, but my bullet struck his wrist and his round went askew. His weapon clattered to the floor. Before I could react, he launched himself at me with a large knife in his other hand.

The knife flashed near my face at the same time my boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing back into the column. His head cracked against concrete. He slid down, knife clattering away.

I crouched over him, my gun aimed between his eyes. “Who’s your boss?”

Blood leaked from his nose. He laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Wrong answer.

I silenced him with a bullet.

Then I was at Ryder’s side, sawing through the ropes with the knife I’d scooped up off the floor.

“You’re late,” he rasped. His eyes gleamed and his lips were curled in that infuriating half-smile.

“Traffic,” I muttered, yanking the last knot free.

He staggered up, and I threw his arm over my shoulder. The heat of him pressed into me, familiar, dangerous.

We were halfway to the exit when headlights flared through the broken windows. Engines. Multiple.

Reinforcements. Shit.

“Go,” Ryder whispered.. “Leave me. You’ll make it out.”

I glared at him. “Shut the hell up.”

The front doors banged open. Half a dozen silhouettes stormed inside, armed to the teeth.

I tightened my grip on Ryder, lifted my Glock with my free hand, and smiled.

“I knew this wasn’t going to be that easy.”

Gunfire exploded, deafening inside the rusted shell. Sparks leapt off of metal beams, bullets whining past. I dragged Ryder behind an overturned barrel, both of us hitting the ground hard. My shoulder screamed, but I didn’t let go of him.

“Still think I should leave you?” I hissed.

Ryder grinned, blood on his teeth. “Did I say that?”

Then I saw he had been hit. Blood was pooling on his torso.

“Jesus. We need to get you to the hospital.”

“I’m good.”

I leaned around the barrel and squeezed off three shots. One body dropped, another staggered, clutching his stomach. Four left.

They fanned out, closing in.

I shoved Ryder flat, rolled, and came up firing. Another went down. That left three.

One of them lobbed something small and black across the floor. My blood iced.

“Flashbang!” I shouted, yanking Ryder’s head down against my chest.

The blast went off, white light searing my retinas even through my closed eyelids. My ears rang like church bells. I blinked through the haze, my vision swimming, and fired blind. A scream told me I’d hit something.

Ryder pushed against me, voice raw. “Give me a gun.”

“Not in your condition.”

“Gia—”

“Don’t you dare argue with me.”

I dragged him toward the side door, my Glock barking every time a shadow moved. Another body hit the concrete. Then another.

And silence.

I pressed my back to the wall, panting, ears still buzzing. The air stank of cordite and blood. My clip was nearly empty.

Ryder leaned against me, still unsteady but grinning like a lunatic. “Not bad, Santella.”

“Not done yet,” I muttered. I tried not to look over at him. I was afraid I was going to watch him bleed out.

Outside, more engines were growling. More headlights cut through the fog. Reinforcements. Again.

This was bad. Really bad.

We were outnumbered. We couldn’t fight. We had to run.

I stumbled out into the night. Ryder was behind me. Or so I thought. He was still in the warehouse. Panic coursed through me. I took a few steps inside, expecting to see his dead body on the ground, but instead he appeared in the darkness, grinning and holding a gun in each hand. I shook my head.

“Do you think you can walk?”

He leaned against the door jamb. Blood dripped onto the ground around him. He had ripped off his dress shirt and tied it across his wound. It wouldn’t be enough for long.

“Here, lean on me,” I said and wrapped my arm around his waist. His weight almost took me out. I could tell how injured he was by how much his body pressed into on me. I tried to choke down my terror.

We slipped outside and pressed our backs against the cannery’s exterior, clocking the scene to make sure we weren’t stepping into an ambush.

It was silent and dark. My mind raced. We couldn’t go up the well-lit driveway. Someone would see us.

The Jeep was a block away. Too far. Too exposed.

My stomach roiled with the thought that Danny was inside like a sitting duck. But I couldn’t help him if I was dead.

Then I saw it.

A motorcycle, chained to the fence. Big. Beautiful. Deadly. It was only a few feet away in the shadows like a dark angel had parked it there for me.

I jutted my chin at Ryder.

“On three,” I said. I counted down, and we both hobbled toward the bike. When I was close enough, I shot the lock clean off, helped Ryder swing his leg onto the seat, and swung on in front of him. He started to protest, but I jammed the keys into the ignition—still there, thank God—and the engine roared to life.

Headlights swung toward us. Shouts rose.

“Hold on,” I snapped, twisting the throttle. Ryder grabbed me tightly around the waist as the Ducati leapt forward, tires screaming on wet pavement. We shot through the gap in the fence just as bullets tore through the air where we’d been.

The wind hit my face like freedom. Ryder’s weight leaned into me, steady, solid. He moved with me as I took sharp corners. I turned, heading away from the Jeep. I needed to lead them far from it. Behind us, men shouted and vehicles revved, but the Ducati ate the road like fire.

I yelled back over my shoulder to Ryder. “Grab my cell out of my jacket pocket. Call 911 and tell them there is an injured man in my Jeep on this road. That his attacker is returning, and he needs help right away. Police and ambulance.”

Ryder’s fingers dug into my side and then I heard his voice near my ear as he loudly conveyed what I had asked. His words were urgent.

“There is a man dying in a Jeep. Men who want to kill him are about to find him there. He needs police and medical care immediately.”

Hearing Ryder say this made the night air feel thick in my lungs, pressing down on my chest until it felt impossible to breathe.

Not Danny. Please not Danny.

But then I felt wetness seeping into my back. Ryder’s blood.

Despite my attempts to calm myself, terror coiled around my ribcage, squeezing tighter with each breath. I could feel my body tense stiffly.

Ryder held me tighter. Then his hot breath was in my ear. “He’s going to be okay. They’ll save him.”

I shook my head. I didn’t believe him.

But what about you? I didn’t say the words out loud.

Then, in the distance, I saw the blue and red flashing lights before I heard the sirens. They were coming in from the other side, where the Jeep was.

Thank God. Hopefully they weren’t too late.

No, he had to be okay. I had to believe that. For a second I let myself believe. And then, for the first time in hours, I let myself breathe.

Ryder was alive.

For now.

We hit the freeway and didn’t stop until the South Bay lights were specks behind us, the Ducati chewing up the highway. My body hummed with adrenaline, fingers locked on the throttle. Ryder’s weight pressed against my back, heavy but alive.

Finally, I veered off an exit toward the hospital. 

We squealed into the Emergency driveway, me shouting. “Help! This man is bleeding out!”

Hospital workers raced out with a gurney. Within seconds, Ryder was supine atop it and being wheeled away. They ran. I dropped the Ducati onto the pavement and ran after them.

They didn’t stop until they were behind a set of swinging doors. I followed. They were too busy checking his vitals and wounds to notice me. At first.

Then they were cutting off his clothes. With gloved hands, three of them immediately pressed gauze into bullet holes on his torso, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“Ma’am you need to come with to the waiting room,” someone said. A strong hand clamped on my arm. I started to fight it.

“What?”

“Ma’am!” the voice repeated. “Let them do their job. If they have to worry about you, they’re not focused on him. You’re keeping him from getting the help he needs.”

The words froze me in my spot.

“Ryder!” I shouted as the woman pulled me away, but it was too late. He was beyond the double doors that had swung shut.

I crept closer to the doors cutting me off from Ryder. Maybe forever. I felt a hole in my heart. I watched through a small window as he was wheeled away, any view of his face blocked by bodies hovering over him.

“Stay behind the red line.”

I looked down, confused. Behind me was a red line. The doors also had signs on them saying access was restricted.

“Who are you?” a nurse asked.

“Family.”

“I’ll take you to the surgery waiting room,” a different, kind voice said.

TWENTY-NINE

Hours later, the surgeon sought me out in the waiting room. “You are here for Mr. Ryder? Let’s go into this room.”

My blood curdled. He was giving me an update in a separate room?

“Miss Santella?” The surgeon was waiting for my response.

I had filled out admitting information for Ryder while I was waiting. There was a lot I didn’t know. The nurse told me he had a global-reach health insurance policy card in his wallet. I told her I didn’t know much else and that I didn’t have an emergency contact for him.

“There was a note that said to contact Giada Santella in case of emergency.”

I nearly burst into tears. 

“That’s me,” I choked out to the nurse. We had never really talked about it. Did he have relatives somewhere? How could I be his only emergency contact?

Now, the surgeon was waiting. He led me to a small windowless room. A woman in scrubs followed us. Jesus. This was bad.

“The surgery was a tough one,” the doctor said. 

“Is he alive?” I said, my voice breaking.

“He is. He’s in recovery. He has a long road ahead of him. There was damage to his liver. As we were repairing that, we discovered that his aorta was nicked, so we had to go to work on that. We had a few, uh, difficult, moments.”

“What do you mean?” My voice was shrill.

The woman reached over and put her hand on mine.

“He had to be resuscitated.”

“You mean he died? On the table?”

“His heart did stop for a short period of time, but we were able to save him.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” the surgeon said. “I have a few more gray hairs and possibly years off my life, but he made it through. He’s a fighter.”

The surgeon paused.

“What else?” I asked, my adrenaline spiking. What if when he quit breathing, he had brain damage? 

“He’s got a few more surgeries in the works once he’s recovered. His kneecap was shattered. It will require a full knee replacement.”

I nodded. That was fixable. I was more worried about things that couldn’t be fixed.

“In addition,” the doctor began.

“There’s more?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “There appears to be a bullet in his shoulder, which will need to be removed when he’s stronger. You wouldn’t happen to know how it got there, would you? We’re required to report any shootings to the authorities.”

Fuck. I had to think fast.

“Ryder is law enforcement. Deep cover. He was ambushed and called me to help. When I found him, he was…well, you saw how he was.”

The doctor opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “He was investigating corruption in the SFPD. If you call them, he’s as good as dead.”

He sat back in the chair. “Hmm. I see. Well, the most important thing is his recovery. Perhaps we can hold off on making that call for a while yet, nurse?”

“I think that would be best, doctor.”

“What about his brain? You said his heart stopped for a few minutes.”

“We won’t know for sure until he regains consciousness.”

“Miss Santella?”

I looked around. The door was open. The surgeon was gone. I blinked rapidly. That had never happened to me before. I’d never gone offline like that. It shook me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Did you say something?”

“Can I bring you down to the ICU waiting area? That way we can come get you as soon as he opens his eyes.”

I nodded mutely. I felt like a child as she led me to the elevator and to another floor.

It seemed like forever until they called me in.

My face turned to ice when I walked in and saw Ryder in the ICU room.

His leg was in traction. Wires trailed out of him to a bank of machines. An oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose. What I could see of his face was stark white. 

I let out a small sound, something close to a whimper and wail.

His eyes flew open, and relief flooded my body when I saw the spark of life in them. And then, through the mask, I saw him smile.

I tried to compose my features as I made my way to his bed.

“You scared me something awful,” I said, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze.

He took his other hand and slid the mask down.

“Ryder!”

“It’s fine. It’s just to help when I need it. I guess I had a collapsed lung that’s getting back up to speed.”

“Jesus.” The surgeon had left out that little detail.

For a second, we just stared at each other. I felt my eyes well up. I resolved not to cry.

“You could’ve left me,” Ryder said finally, his voice rough, ragged.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Knew you wouldn’t.”

I wanted to shake him. To kiss him. To scream. Instead, I put my head down and pressed my forehead to his. I had no words.

“Gia,” he said. His voice was low.

I pulled back and took him in. What I saw made my breath hitch. His face was pale, but his eyes—dark, steady, unflinching—were the same as they’d been the first time we met. Dangerous. Magnetic. Impossible to resist.

“They’ll keep coming,” he said. “Whoever’s behind this—they won’t stop.”

“I know.” My voice cracked.

“And it’s not just about me. Or you. This is bigger.”

Bigger. Always bigger.

“Can I just enjoy us both being safe right now. At this moment?” I asked, half-jokingly. 

Ryder raised an eyebrow. I was wishing for a fantasy life that didn’t exist. At least not for me. Or us.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, shattering the moment.

Danny.

He’d texted me earlier. They took him to an Oakland hospital for observation. He’d received dozens of stitches. Luckily, it didn’t appear he had any internal or serious injuries, but they were keeping him overnight to be safe. 

I swiped up to accept the call, suddenly filled with panic and fear that I’d hear another voice on his phone. A doctor? One of the killers. I hit the speaker phone.

“Gia,” he said, his voice sharp with panic. “Get somewhere safe. Now.”

“Why?”

“I traced the shell companies. The judge’s brother doesn’t own that warehouse. It’s a front.”

“Who owns it then?” I asked.

Danny hesitated. “I’m still trying to pin it down, but the shell company donated to Anthony’s campaign.”

I froze.

“Find out who’s behind it, Danny,” I said.

“I’m on it,” he said and hung up.

Beside me, Ryder’s eyes narrowed.

“The senator is in this deep,” he said quietly. “Whether he knows it or not.”

And just like that, my fleeting moment of safety evaporated.

I paced the length of the hospital hallway, making calls.

The first was to James who immediately arranged to send four off-duty feds to provide round-the-clock security for Ryder. It had the added benefit of satisfying the doctor’s requirement to contact the authorities. SFPD couldn’t be trusted, and obviously, neither could Anthony. I refused to leave until the agents arrived. 

Speaking of Anthony… He’d been calling and texting nonstop since 3:00 a.m. 

I quickly texted him. Sorry. Plan called off. Ryder is not at the warehouse.

Until I could be 100 percent sure I could trust him, I had no intention of telling Anthony where Ryder was.

He instantly replied: Are you okay???!!

I’m fine.

When can I see you? I have some muckety-muck thing I have to go to tonight, but can I come over after?

Sure.

Some muckety-muck thing?

Danny’s info looped in my head: The shell company donated to Anthony’s campaign.

If the senator knew, it was betrayal. If he didn’t, he was being used. Either way, I needed proof before I let him anywhere near me—or Ryder—again.

I perched on the edge of a plastic chair in the family lounge and texted Danny.

Any luck tracing the shell company?

Still working on it. I’m trying to narrow it down. I’m looking at his campaign finance records as we speak.

Can I come visit you?

Nah. I’m good. I’m out of here any minute anyway.

Why did they take you to Oakland?

Asked em to.

Why? San Fran General is closer.

I have a phobia of San Francisco hospitals. From when I was a kid. Long story.

Oh.

That shut me up. I knew Danny had been physically abused as a child. His father had even burned him with hot oil once. He still had horrific scars on the back of his legs. But he’d also landed in the hospital with bruises, cuts, even head injuries. When an alert doctor finally notified authorities, his father had committed suicide. Then his mother kicked him out as revenge. He’d had a rough life.

While Danny dug, I called Olivia, my hotel manager. She picked up on the first ring.

“Miss Santella?” She sounded startled—nothing good ever came out of a 4:00 a.m. phone call.

“Olivia, I need you to do me a favor. Quietly pull every guest record from the last six months tied to Senator Anthony Ferraro. Cross-check names against private suites, room service charges, bar tabs. Anything unusual, flag it.”

There was a pause. “Gia…is the senator in trouble?”

My jaw clenched. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

I hung up before she could ask more. 

I poked my head back in Ryder’s room. I walked over and stared at him. As if sensing me, he stirred. His eyes were half slits, but he smiled at me.

His voice was groggy, half-asleep. “You don’t want to know the truth about Anthony.”

I froze. “And why’s that?”

His eyes cracked open, dark and sharp even in exhaustion. “Because once you do, you’ll have to choose.”

“Between what?”

“Between him…and me.”

I turned away before he could see my face. The bluntness of his words made my face hot. But the reality of them had sent a razor-edged panic slicing through me.

I stayed with Ryder most of the day, waiting for the off-duty feds to arrive. Anytime the door opened, I jumped a bit. I kept my gun in the pocket of my hoodie and my hand tucked inside the pouch, at the ready. If danger came through that door, I would have less than a second to react.

Whoever had taken Ryder was good. Better than good. Ryder was one of the top assassins in the world. For somebody to get the drop on him meant they were extremely dangerous. A dark sense of foreboding overcame me. If I left him unprotected, he was probably a dead man.

Four men, armed to the teeth, arrived around 7:00 p.m. 

I was both relieved and sad. I’d enjoyed spending the day with Ryder, but I was on edge, on guard, waiting for someone to try to attack him. Now I could go find who tried to kill him and make them pay.

I quickly briefed the four men. “Professionals have put a hit on this man. The men who want him dead are good. Damn good. Be careful. I promise I’ll make it worth your while. And then some.”

They nodded. Thank God, they had taken me seriously.

One thing about being an heiress was that money was never a problem. I usually had little need for the excess of money in my accounts. But on days like today, I truly believed the money made the difference between life and death.

I rushed home to my hotel suite and quickly hopped in the shower.

I had a hot date that I was going to make no matter what—an appearance at the muckety-muck event.

No hair and makeup team tonight. But I knew damn well how to shed my leather pants and torn T-shirt and clean up. I was a chameleon that way. I’d had to be.

While staring in the mirror slicking kohl around my dark eyes, I faced something that I hadn’t wanted to admit.

I loved two men.

I loved Anthony.

And I loved Ryder.

I’d never thought it possible to love two men at the same time, but I was wrong.

I not only loved two men, I was in love with two men.

For the past two years, I considered one of them the white knight and one the black knight. I’d been attracted to Anthony for his innate goodness—he was a kind soul who devoted his life to making other people’s lives better. I’d been drawn to Ryder because he was the penultimate bad guy—a stone cold dangerous killer who took lives.

But maybe I had it all wrong.

While Ryder lay in a hospital bed in the ICU, I’d step out in black stilettos to confront the man I believed had put him there.

I was dressed and ready and about to walk out the door to catch the livery car I’d called when I saw that I’d received an email from Olivia.

I downloaded the files she’d attached.  

The data trail led back to one man: Mark Burton. Of all the large donors, he was the common connection. Was this man the King? Maybe. He definitely had power. People did what he said. 

Burton was the Chair of Appropriations—he held the purse strings of the nation, and Anthony, for all his speeches about independence, maybe danced when Burton tugged the leash. I wasn’t sure if this was true, but I was going to find out.

Anthony had mentioned Burton before and told me he often met with him to keep him happy, and thus, keep the money flowing. But did this mean that Anthony voted the way Burton wanted? If so, Anthony was not the man I thought he was.

The thought made me sick to my stomach. Was my gut instinct that bad? Had chemistry and attraction skewed my judgement? If he was a crooked politician, I’d have to question everything I knew about myself.

I scrolled through more documents.

One page caught my eye: a donation ledger from one of Mark Burton’s “charities.” On the surface, it was a youth arts foundation. Underneath, it was a washing machine for dirty money. Buried halfway down the donor list was a familiar name.

I frowned. He’d been at the gala. The guy who wrote checks as big as a yacht, Olivia had said.

The respectable silver-haired type who probably collected overpriced Bordeaux and first editions. What the hell was he doing bankrolling one of Burton’s foundations? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he just liked writing checks to anyone who smiled the right way.

Olivia had put a note by his name. “Raines also donated $1 million to Ethel’s Place at your gala.”

The look he’d given me across the gala floor flickered back into my head. Cool. Measuring. Like a man already calculating the odds.

THIRTY

San Francisco’s Palace Hotel

The chandeliers twinkled, the champagne flowed, and the city’s power couples glided through the ballroom in black ties and diamonds

I wasn’t on the guest list. But that’s never stopped me.

My dress was strapless black silk that clung like a second skin, falling just at my knees. Unlike the other women with sparkling jewels on their fingers, wrists, ears, and neckline, the only jewels I wore were those huge dangling emerald earrings I’d worn for the fundraiser. Hair sleek, black eyes lined in kohl, red lips. I was the woman they whispered about—the heiress, the vigilante, the killer in couture.

If they thought I looked dangerous, they were right.

The room was a throng of tuxedos and taffeta. I slipped through them, my smile aloof, my eyes always moving. Looking for him.

Anthony.

And more importantly—the man who apparently told Anthony to jump and how high.

Mark Burton.

Burton wasn’t the kind of man you’d mistake in a crowd. Thick through the middle, shoulders gone soft, but his face still carried that old wolfish cut—sharp nose, hard jaw, eyes like cold river stone. His suit was dark, expensive, tailored to disguise the bulk, but nothing could hide the arrogance in the way he moved, as if the whole damn city belonged to him. He didn’t need muscle to make people fall in line; the gavel in his hand was power enough. 

The Chair of Appropriations wasn’t just another suit in DC—he was the guy who decided where the money flowed. Every road paved, every military base funded, every shiny new project senators bragged about back home ran through his hands first. He didn’t need threats or hired guns; his weapon was the budget. With a nod, he could fatten state coffers. With a shrug, he could starve them dry. That kind of power made senators like Anthony play nice, even when it burned their pride.

Then I spotted him.

He was standing near the stage where a jazz trio played. The Eva Andersen Starlighters.

Anthony looked like the golden boy senator he always did: tux immaculate, smile honed for the cameras. But his body language told another story—shoulders tight, jaw tense as he leaned in toward Burton. 

My skin prickled as I watched Burton clap him on the back, laughing too loud, too easy. It was a performance, and Anthony knew it. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

I moved in, plucking a flute of champagne from a passing tray. I looked over the rim of the glass, watching as the bubbles tickled my throat. I stopped near a column wrapped in black velvet, hoping I would blend in a little bit. I was close enough to hear snippets of their conversation.

“…handled, Senator. No loose ends.”

“Handled how?” Anthony’s voice was low, strained.

Burton’s smile widened. “Don’t trouble yourself with details. You don’t want to upset the apple cart.”

My stomach dropped.

A waiter brushed past, and I used the movement as cover to slip even closer. My reflection winked back at me from the gilded mirror behind the bar: femme fatale, listening in on men who thought they ruled the city.

Burton leaned in, his voice silk and steel. “You have a choice, Anthony. You can keep shining, keep rising, keep giving those speeches that make women swoon and donors swoon harder—or you can dig around in shadows you don’t comprehend. You can remain a junior senator for the rest of your term and then go back to your state politics. But you can’t do both.”

Anthony didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed. His champagne glass tilted, then stilled.

My chest ached. He was being threatened. Do as Burton said or his hands would be tied in Washington, DC, and he would not be re-elected.

Anxiety spiked through me as I waited for Anthony to respond. But he didn’t. And for the first time, I couldn’t tell which way he was going to lean.

I sipped my champagne, eyes locked on the two men, my pulse pounding so hard the Champagne flute in my hand trembled.

If Anthony chose wrong tonight, I’d know.

And if he did…then I’d finally have to admit the truth I’d been avoiding.

That the most dangerous man in my life wasn’t Ryder.

It was the senator.

THIRTY-ONE

The Champagne flutes clinked, the jazz trio played their last sultry note, and the crowd melted into the velvet night. Chauffeurs lined the curb, headlights cutting through the fog as San Francisco’s glitterati drifted out in a haze of perfume and politics.

I slipped out with them, black silk gown hugging me like spilled ink. To anyone watching, I was just another bored heiress dripping in emeralds, bourbon on her breath.

But my eyes were locked on Burton.

Shortly after my eavesdropping session, Anthony excused himself. I slunk into the shadows and watched him stalk toward the elevator. I knew him well enough to tell by the set of his jaw that he was furious. Good.

That gave me some hope. But I had watched in disbelief as any political façade fell away during his hurried exit. People tried to stop him to chat, but he brushed past with a half fake smile and hurried excuse over his shoulder. Not a good look for a politician to leave a stream of confused and dismissed constituents in his wake.

Still, I hoped this uncharacteristic behavior meant he was outraged by the donor’s words. I clung to that.

Part of me was tempted to run after Anthony, to confront him, maybe to comfort him and tell him I was on his side and would help him fight against Burton.

But tonight, the powerful senior senator was my real prey—the billionaire who was trying to direct the man I loved like he was a pawn on the man’s own chess board. 

The second I saw Burton starting his goodbye handshakes I darted toward the elevator to make my escape, calling a car to wait for me on the sidewalk.

I waited in the shadows outside the hotel’s circular driveway for Burton to step outside to his car. 

Dozens of drunk socialites poured out of the hotel and into their cars.

Finally, the politician emerged, still shaking hands and hobnobbing with constituents.

He was easy to spot—he had the arrogance of a man who thought the whole city was his stage. 

And to my surprise, he strode out of the hotel with Anthony at his side, photographers swarming them. Anthony had apparently come back and was now by Burton’s side. Like a good little puppet.

I watched Anthony as he smiled, shook hands, played the part. But his eyes darted once—toward the shadows where I stood.

He knew I was there.

He didn’t call me out. Didn’t warn me off. That told me everything I needed to know: He wasn’t sure which side he was on either.

Burton’s driver opened the back door of a sleek, black Maserati. Anthony climbed in first, Burton second. Then the door shut, and the car slipped into the stream of traffic.

How ridiculous to have a driver for a powerful beast like that. If it were my car, I’d never let anyone else behind the wheel.

I hopped in the back of my car telling the driver. “Follow that Maserati but be cool about it.”

The driver met my eyes in the rearview mirror and rolled his own eyes. I told him $100 cash up front and another $100 when the night was over, in addition to his regular fees.

He sighed and gunned the engine, catching up within seconds and keeping two cars back from the Maserati.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”

The Maserati led us through downtown, past neon dive bars and shuttered storefronts. At first, I thought they were headed toward Pacific Heights, where Burton owned a glass mansion overlooking the bay. But then the car turned south. Toward the waterfront.

Toward Hunters Point. The formal naval shipyard.

Not exactly the neighborhood for billionaires in tuxedos. It was the most dangerous neighborhood in San Francisco.

“Stealth mode, here,” I said, leaning into the front seat.

The driver killed his headlights and crawled along the road. The Maserati turned down a deserted street lined with abandoned buildings. I rolled down the window. The air was colder and thicker here, heavy with the smell of diesel and salt.

The Maserati stopped in a small parking lot in front of a crumbling wooden pier. Several large black SUVs were already parked there. 

A squat two-story building sat halfway down the pier, its broken windows lit up shining squares of light on the murky black water below.

Like specters, they were black shadows trodding the length of the pier and then climbing stairs to the building. My pulse raced. I fished my Glock out of my sparkling evening bag and tugged the hem of my dress high, tying it into an unyielding knot so I could run and fight—and easily access my weapon, which I stuck into a simple holster on my thigh. 

“Stop here.”

I slid out of the car, stepping gingerly in my heels on wet pavement. I whispered to my driver that I’d pay him extra to wait for me.

Despite my words, as soon as I set foot on the pier, he restarted the engine and drove away. Damn it. At least he kept his headlights off until he hit the main road.

The pier groaned under me as I crept forward, each board threatening to give me away. I cursed how click clackety my stiletto heels were, but I wouldn’t dare walk barefoot on the old splintery pier. I stayed low, hugging the shadows, moving one step at a time.

The building loomed ahead, two stories of rot and ruin. Its siding peeled in long gray strips. Most of the windows were broken, glass jagged in the frames. But the second story was a beacon in the darkness.

I stopped, tucked behind a beam thick with barnacles, and waited. Through the lit windows, shadows crossed. Men moving back and forth, their outlines sharp against the light. Their voices drifted across the pier—low, tense, familiar.

I felt the weight of the gun against my thigh. The pier was too open. Too exposed. One wrong step and they’d hear me.

The whole place creaked and shifted with the tide, like it might come apart any second. The waves slapped steadily against the pilings, reminding me how easy it would be for them to make me vanish here. One gunshot, one scream, swallowed by the bay.

I stayed still, eyes on the second story. Watching. Waiting.

Creeping up the wobbly stairs, I crouched low until I was on the small outer deck near a broken window. I held my breath and listened.

“…judge should’ve been left alone…”

“…too many bodies…heat’s coming down…”

“…Santella.”

My blood froze at the sound of my name.

Then a new voice, deeper, colder. One I didn’t recognize.

“She won’t be a problem. Not for much longer.”

THIRTY-TWO

I poked my head up ever so slightly, hand on my gun. They were on the opposite side of the room, which was packed with old decrepit wooden crates and rusted machinery. The door near me was falling off its hinges and was cracked open an inch in its frame. Enough to let the voices spill into the fog, enough for me to give a gentle push to test it. It mercifully did not creak or make any noise as it opened further.

I crouched, smoothed the silk of my gown against my thigh, and slid into the gap.

The air inside was damp and metallic, heavy with the smell of oil and old wood. Stacks of crates towered around me, shadows layered thick. I pressed my back against one, the cool metal of my Glock steady in my hand.

Voices echoed from deeper inside.

“…Santella’s sloppy. She should’ve been taken out years ago.”

“She’s a problem, but a useful one. Every city needs a villain.”

My jaw clenched.

Where was Anthony’s voice defending me?

I moved slowly, cursing the faint sound of my gown whispering around my upper thighs.

Staying low, I crouched as I made my way past the first stack of crates and saw that the space opened up and was lit by flood lamps. It was littered with wooden chairs and tables, and a large desk was at one end.

Anthony stood near a table, hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders and jaw tense. His tux looked out of place against the men circling him—muscle in leather jackets, guns glinting under the light.

And at the head of the table sat Burton, fingers steepled, eyes hooded.

“Loose ends are dangerous,” Burton said. “We cut them.”

“You’re calling murder a business decision,” Anthony said, his voice low.

Burton smiled. “Don’t look so shocked, Senator. You benefit as much as anyone. Cleaner courts. Quieter streets. Voters love results.”

Anthony didn’t answer.

“You’re worried about your girlfriend?” Burton asked.

Anthony opened his mouth to answer, and I held my breath waiting for his response but suddenly Burton's gaze shifted. Past Anthony. Past his men.

To me.

My stomach dropped.

“Why don’t you come out, Miss Santella?” His voice was calm, almost amused. “No need to ruin that beautiful dress hiding in the shadows.”

The room stilled. Every gun turned. Anthony’s head snapped toward me, eyes widening with something—fear? Regret?

I stepped forward, Glock raised, heart hammering.

“Guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought,” I said coolly.

Burton chuckled. “On the contrary. You wanted to be found. You’re too smart to think you could sneak in here without us knowing.”

His smile widened, all teeth.

“Which means you came for something. A name, maybe. Proof. Or perhaps…” His eyes slid to Anthony, then back to me. “…you came to see where your senator’s loyalties really lie.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any blade.

Anthony’s eyes met mine across the room. And in them, I saw the one thing I feared most.

Doubt. Or was it uncertainty?

I didn’t lower my gun. But I didn’t fire either. Not yet.

The lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a jaundiced glow. Burton leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the table. I wanted to shoot the smug look off his face.

“You talk too much,” I said evenly. “You sound like a man who thinks he’s already won.”

A few of his men smirked, but no one laughed. They were waiting. Watching.

Burton’s lips drew up into a sneer. “And you sound like a woman who thinks she has a choice.”

“I always have a choice,” I shot back. “Starting with who I point this gun at first. Him—” I tipped my Glock toward one of his goons, who flinched—“or you.”

Burton’s eyes gleamed. “If you kill me, another will take my place before my body is cold. That’s how power works. You of all people should understand.”

“I do.” I stepped closer, silk gown whispering against my thighs, heels clicking. “I learned long ago that cutting the head off a worm doesn’t always kill it. Certain types of worms can regrow their heads. And that’s what you are, Burton, a worm.”

He laughed, but I could see his eyes flicker with anger.

“You speak of power,” I continued, “but what you don’t understand is I don’t give a damn about power. I care about the truth. And the truth is, you had the judge killed. And the slumlord. And maybe others. And somehow, I know all this. Which makes you sloppy.”

Burton’s smile faltered for the briefest flicker.

Got him.

I pressed harder. “You want me to believe Anthony’s in bed with you? Then show me something real. Otherwise, all I see is a desperate little man who hides behind hired guns and a terrible tailor.”

I meaningfully eyed the hem of his tuxedo pants, riding up to show his socks.

That got a low growl from one of his men. Burton raised a hand and silenced him, his gaze locked on mine.

Anthony finally spoke, voice tight. “Gia, stop.”

I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “Why? Afraid I’ll say something true?”

His silence was answer enough.

Burton spread his hands, as if magnanimous. “She’s got balls. I’ll give her that.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “But big balls won’t keep you alive. Loyalty does.”

My finger twitched on the trigger. “Funny. Loyalty’s what gets most people killed.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lamps and the distant crash of waves outside.

It was a stalemate. A Mexican standoff in silk and tuxedos.

Burton’s smile grew wider, which sent a chill racing across my scalp. “You think you’re clever, Santella.”

I kept my Glock steady, heart thudding in my ears. “Clever enough to stay alive this long.”

“Alive, yes. But alone. You ever wonder why?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Because everyone you trust is already mine.”

I didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Inside, my stomach dropped.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked, voice steady. 

His smirk widened. “See for yourself.”

He turned his gaze deliberately, slowly, toward Anthony.

The room seemed to contract. Anthony didn’t move. Didn’t deny. Would not meet my eyes.

My finger tightened on the trigger. I wanted to tell Burton to shut the hell up. I didn’t want to hear more. I didn’t want to know more.

I glanced at Anthony, pleading for him to do or say something. But he stared straight ahead, somewhere past me, somewhere far away.

Burton leaned back, folding his hands like a priest about to deliver a sermon.

“The senator here knows what it takes to change the world. It takes knowing your place and letting your elders teach you the ways. He knows. He’s known. The slumlord? The judge? They were useful to me. Until they weren’t. Anthony looked the other way because he knew if he didn’t, all his little pathetic bills would not pass.” 

His smile was pure venom. I’d have killed him right then, but I was outnumbered. I’d be dead before the bullet went in. Instead, I’d need a distraction.

Suddenly, I felt Anthony’s eyes burning into me, but I didn’t dare look at him. Not now.

“Liar,” I said flatly.

Burton shrugged. “Believe what you want. But ask yourself this—why wasn’t the good senator at your arraignment? Why didn’t he lift a finger while you rotted in a cell? Because he was already planning his exit strategy. One that doesn’t include you.”

Silence dropped like a blade.

Finally, Anthony spoke, voice rough. “Gia—don’t listen to him.”

Burton’s head swung, and his gaze pinned Anthony into silence.

But it was too late. The seed was planted.

And from the smug gleam in Burton’s eyes, he knew it.

My hands were steady, but my blood was ice.

“Shut up.” I didn’t take my eyes off Burton. “You say one more word, and I won’t know if I’m pulling this trigger for you or to save him from you.”

Burton chuckled, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. “That’s the beauty of it. You’ll never know who to trust. You’ll die knowing that those you loved betrayed you.”

He turned toward the gunman closest to me and nodded.

As he did, I heard Anthony scream, “No!”

I fired.

The round slammed into the lamp above Burton’s head, glass showering down in a burst of sparks. The men around him flinched, ducking, and that half-second was all I needed.

I dropped low and rolled behind a crate as gunfire erupted, the building filling with thunder and smoke. Bullets shredded wood inches from my head.

“Gia!” Anthony’s shout cut through the chaos, but I didn’t stop to answer.

I came up firing, dropping one man clean with a shot to the chest, another with a bullet that shattered his kneecap and sent him screaming to the floor.

“Get her!” Burton roared.

I sprinted. One of Burton’s goons came at me from the side, but I was ready for him: knee up, heel to his jaw. He dropped like a stone.

Anthony grabbed my arm as I passed him. His eyes were wild, desperate. “Gia, listen⁠—”

I shoved him hard against a crate. “Hide. Stay alive. We’ll figure out later if I’m glad about it.”

I bolted for the door, ducking behind the line of crates as gunfire trailed me.

Outside, the night air hit me like a slap. I flew down the stairs and stepped right out of my stilettos—splinters be damned—as I raced down the pier toward the road. My only hope was to get to one of the abandoned buildings and lay low until I could find a ride back.

I was halfway up the road when Burton’s men hit the parking lot. 

Tires screeched as they piled into the black SUVs. Headlights cut through the fog, beams slicing across me like prison searchlights.

My heels cracked against the pavement, dress whipping behind me. One SUV roared forward, the grille aimed straight at me.

I dove, rolled, and came up firing. Three shots punched through the windows. The driver slumped, and the SUV veered sideways and into the ditch. Within seconds I was behind the wheel.

I pushed the dead driver out the open door and floored it. As I peeled away, I saw Anthony’s silhouette standing near the Maserati watching me go. Within seconds, I was on the freeway and the lights of the SUVs behind me had disappeared—thank you Skip Barber racing school.

My chest heaved. My hands shook as I finally let go of the gun, placing it on the seat beside me.

But as the city lights appeared before me, I couldn’t shake the image of Anthony’s face in that building.

Fear. Regret.

Or guilt.

And I didn’t know which one terrified me more.

THIRTY-THREE

I drove until the skyline gave way to silence. During the drive, I texted my friends and asked them to meet me at dawn.

I ditched the SUV by the waterfront and called an Uber. I tried to clean up, but it was useless. The sparkling evening bag that had been worn cross body style during the gunfight had luckily kept my phone safe. I tucked the gun in it so the driver wouldn’t think I was carjacking him.

I asked the driver to head north across the Golden Gate Bridge. He was an older man with gray hair and didn’t question my bare feet or silky gown. Or the scrapes on my face.

Instead, he played low jazz and kept the car warm for me as I was shivering.

The city’s glow faded in my mirrors, swallowed by rolling hills and black water. By the time we pulled in front of the Marin County safe house, the sun was just smearing pink across the horizon.

The Uber shuddered to a stop. I handed the driver $100 and thanked him.

“You never saw me.”

He nodded.

“Stay safe, young lady. It appears you might be hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

The understatement of the year.

“I know,” I said wearily.

Dante stepped out of the shadows of his front doorway. His eyes narrowed when he saw my gown—torn, blood-spattered, slit up to my thigh—and the Glock dangling from one finger.

“Jesus, Gia,” he muttered. “What the hell did you walk into this time?”

“Same old story,” I said, my voice rough. “Rich men, dead men, and me in the middle.”

He didn’t laugh; he just opened the door and jerked his chin. “Inside. Before the neighbors start asking questions.”

The safehouse smelled like espresso and bacon. My mouth watered. Darling was already there, sprawled on the couch in a silk caftan that looked like it cost more than my diamond cuff. Her eyes flicked over me.

“Well,” she drawled, “you look like you lost a knife fight with Valentino.”

I ignored her, dropping onto a chair, head in my hands. My heart still rammed wildly in my chest, my body buzzing from the warehouse gunfight…and from Burton’s words.

“Thank you both for meeting me here in the middle of the night.”

“Honey, it’s morning,” Darling drawled.

Dante set a mug of coffee in front of me. “Start talking.”

So I did.

Rescuing Ryder. The gala. The pier in Hunter’s Point. The standoff. And Anthony—standing silent while Burton painted him as dirty. 

When I finished, Darling set her mug down hard enough to crack it. “You can’t seriously be doubting him.”

I looked up, eyes burning. “I don’t know what to believe.”

Dante came out from behind the kitchen bar with a plate full of eggs, bacon, and buttered sourdough toast. He handed it to me, and I wolfed it down, keeping my eyes on Darling as she spoke.

“Anthony’s a politician,” she snapped. “That means he’s dirty by default. But Burton? He’s a viper. He’ll say anything to get under your skin. And from the looks of you, darling, he succeeded.”

She leaned over and plucked a strip of bacon off my plate, holding it delicately between two fingers with gold talon nails. She took little nibbles off it like it was a delicate petit fours.

Dante’s gaze was steady. “It doesn’t matter what you believe. What matters is proof. You don’t have any yet. Until you do, Anthony is Schrödinger’s cat—both dirty and clean at the same time.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “So I’m supposed to sit on my hands until someone opens the damn box?”

“No,” Dante said. His voice was flat, final. “You’re supposed to keep breathing. Because if you go charging at Burton again, you won’t be breathing at all.”

Darling leaned forward, eyes glittering. “And that’s exactly what he wants, Gia. He wants you doubting Anthony, doubting Ryder, doubting yourself. Divide and conquer.”

Dante poured more espresso into my mug.

The silence stretched as the sunrise filled the living room.

Finally, Dante said, “Then we hit him back before he finishes the job.”

I let Dante talk. Darling poured another drink and laid out her version of strategy. I nodded at all the right times, pretending to listen. But the whole time, my mind was already gone.

Burton’s smug face. His voice saying Anthony’s name. The way Anthony hadn’t denied it. Those things looped in my head like a broken film reel.

Waiting wasn’t an option.

By the time Dante turned his back to answer a call, I was already moving. I slipped down the hall, grabbed a change of clothes from the stash I kept here—black jeans, leather jacket, boots—and tucked the Glock into my waistband.

Darling caught me at the door.

“You’re not seriously walking out of here.”

I zipped my jacket. “Watch me.”

“Gia.” Her tone was sharper now, all the silk gone. “You go after Burton without us, you’re dead before sunset. He’ll be expecting it. You’ll burn every bridge you’ve got left.”

“Then I’ll build new ones out of his bones.”

She didn’t flinch. She just shook her head like I was a child running into traffic. “You’re not thinking straight. This is exactly what he wants.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But thinking straight has never saved me. Moving fast has.”

And with that, I was gone.

I stepped inside the garage and straddled the high-performance Tomahawk Viper motorcycle I had stashed here. It started up immediately, purring as I hit the garage door opener and zoomed into the foggy morning.

Hearing a shout, I glanced behind me and saw Dante and Darling standing under the open garage door. A sliver of guilt raced over me, but I didn’t have a choice. I needed to act.

Burton thought he’d rattled me. He thought I’d sit around second-guessing Anthony, letting paranoia eat me alive.

He was half right.

But I wasn’t going to let doubt paralyze me.

I was going to use it as fuel to find the proof I needed. I didn’t care if I had to kick down every locked door in the city to find it.

THIRTY-FOUR

My first stop was the hospital. I had to make sure Ryder was okay. I took the stairs to the floor where Ryder was still in the ICU. 

The feds were seated in chairs outside his door. They immediately stood when the elevator door opened, reaching for their guns.

“At ease,” I said and grinned, happy with their quick response.

I stopped at the nursing station and spoke to a nurse I recognized from earlier visits.

“How is he?”

“He’s doing okay,” she said. “Stable. He’s sleeping right now. I’m going to have to give him more sedatives because he keeps trying to get up.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“I keep telling him he needs to rest, but he tries and then lays back down.”

I shook my head.

Of course he didn’t want to stay in bed.

I crept into the room. The two other off-duty feds nodded at me. 

I thought I’d been stealthy, but Ryder opened one eye and grinned.

“You just can’t stay away,” he said in a sleep-laced voice.

“You just can’t follow doctor’s orders.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to be cooped up anymore.”

He gestured his arm with the IV flailing, making the tubing zing through the air.

“I know,” I said gently and leaned over to kiss his cheek, but he grabbed my arm with surprising strength and turned his head so our lips met.

“Hmmm,” he said when I finally pulled back.

“If you do what the doctor tells you to, you’ll get a lot more than that soon,” I said.

“Promises, promises.”

“Seriously, Ryder. I need you to be strong, and if you don’t allow yourself to heal, you’re going to end up stuck in this hospital. We can only do so much here.”

He frowned. “This is bullshit.”

“I know.”

“Where are you going? Where have you been? I don’t like you out there on your own.”

“I know.”

The nurse came in and hung up a new bag that connected to the IV in his arm.

“Oh geez, I don’t like the looks of that.”

“It’s going to help you relax.”

Before he could respond, his eyes grew heavy. “You’re drugging me?”

I felt bad, but not all that bad. If he continued to struggle to get up, it was going to kill him. At least that’s what I was worried about.

I leaned over and kissed his forehead.

“I’ll be back soon,” I whispered in his ear.

I hoped I was telling the truth.

Although I desperately wanted to, I didn’t go straight for Burton.  That would’ve been suicide. Instead, I went for the edges. The men who thought they were invisible, who blended into traffic and bars and alleys. The ones who carried his messages and made his murders look like accidents.

I’d found a matchbook on the floor of the SUV I’d taken. It was for a bar I’d been to years before.

I swung by the hotel and exchanged the motorcycle for my Lexus. A few minutes later, I parked a block away from the bar and staked out a corner booth at the Tenderloin dive, nursing a whiskey, eyes flicking to the door every thirty seconds. Then I saw one of them. I’d seen him at the pier. He had a scar on his left cheek, grease-stained jeans, and a permanent scowl. Impossible to miss.

He didn’t recognize me. The gown was gone, replaced by my black jeans, biker boots, a ponytail, and a ballcap pulled low. I looked like any other woman in this part of town—tired, pissed, and thirsty.

I watched him down four beers at the bar. I was impatient. What if he stayed here until closing? But then, at ten sharp, he tossed cash on the bar, grabbed another book of matches off the bar, and walked out. I counted to five before sliding off my stool and following.

He lit a cigarette under the streetlamp, then headed south toward the Mission. I stayed half a block behind, blending into the shadows, boots silent on wet pavement.

He moved fast but was careless. He checked his phone at crosswalks, ducked into bodega doorways, and smoked another cigarette or two before we hit 16th Street. I could tell he thought no one would bother trailing him.

He was wrong.

Finally, he stopped in front of a narrow brick building with boarded windows. No sign, no light. He slipped inside.

I waited. Counted to sixty. Then crossed the street.

The door wasn’t locked. Of course it wasn’t. These guys weren’t worried about anyone else. They were the predators, not the prey. But not tonight.

Inside smelled like mildew and old beer. A staircase creaked under my boots as I followed faint voices up to the second floor.

“…Burton wants it cleaned up tonight.”

“…the senator’s girl won’t stop digging. She knows too much. She needs to be handled.”

My stomach went cold.

I crept closer until I could see through a gap in the half-open door. Two men. Scarface and another I didn’t recognize. They stood over a table littered with maps, burner phones, stacks of cash.

And right in the middle—a photograph.

Of me.

Not from a gala. Not a news clip. Something more intimate. Me leaving the safe house this afternoon.

I swallowed hard. This was bad. I was suddenly worried about Darling and Dante. 

This wasn’t surveillance. This was a countdown.

Scarface lit another cigarette and tapped the photo with his lighter. “She won’t see it coming.”

I stepped into the doorway, Glock raised. “Wanna bet?”

Scarface’s hand holding his cigarette froze halfway to his lips. The other guy’s eyes darted to the pistol in my hand.

“Don’t,” I warned. My voice was flat, calm. “We all know I’ll pull the trigger before you take two steps.”

Scarface scowled, trying to regain his composure. “Santella.” He rolled my name off his tongue like a curse. “Should’ve known you’d sniff your way here.”

I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me. “Sit.”

Neither man made a move.

I pointed the Glock at Scarface’s knee. “You’ll be alive. You just won’t walk again. Your choice.”

Scarface eased into the chair. The other guy followed, eyes flicking back between me and his colleague.

“Good boys,” I said. The photo of me still lay on the table, my own face staring back like a ghost. I jabbed the barrel of the gun against it. “Where’d you get this?”

Scarface blew another lazy stream of smoke. “We have eyes everywhere.”

I pressed the muzzle to his temple. “Try again.”

His smirk faltered. “Burton’s got a tech guy. A good one. He feeds Burton whatever he wants.”

“And what does he want?”

He hesitated.

I slammed his head against the table hard enough to rattle it. “Answer me.”

“Jesus!” he spat. “You. You, okay? He wants you! Alive long enough to break Anthony, then dead. That’s the order.”

My stomach clenched. “Break him? How?”

Scarface’s grin was bloody now. “By making him watch you take a fall without him being able to help. You’re either going to be underground or behind bars. Either way, your life is over, sweetheart.”

The words hung in the air.

Behind him, the twitchy one’s hand crept toward a knife on the table.

In one smooth motion, I shot the knife clean off the table. The bang shook the room. He howled and shrank back, clutching a hand that now had a two-inch long splinter lodged in the flesh of the palm.

Both men stared at me.

“I’m only going to say this once,” I said coldly. “You tell me where Burton is. Now. Or I redecorate this wall with your brains.”

Scarface swallowed. “Pier 39. He’s meeting someone on his yacht. Midnight.”

I leaned close. “If you’re lying, I’ll know. And I’ll hunt you down.” I pistol-whipped him across the head. He slumped sideways, out cold.

The other one put his hands over his ears. I jabbed the gun in his chest. “You. Give me your cell phone, and get in the bathroom now.”

He stood so fast his chair toppled, then he hobbled to the bathroom. He handed me his phone and shut the door behind him. I leaned down to Scarface and grabbed the gun out of his jacket pocket, tucked the photo of me into my jacket, grabbed all the burner phones off the table, and headed out into the night.

In the parking lot, I shot out a tire on both vehicles parked there.

I didn’t want them to give Burton a heads up that I was on my way.

Pier 39. Midnight.

THIRTY-FIVE

Before me, Alcatraz lay dark, silent, and ominous in the waters that stretched out from Pier 39.

To my right was the Bay Bridge, dotted with red taillights as vehicles motored their way to Oakland. To my left was the Golden Gate Bridge, a looming orange structure that led to the hills of Marin.

The pier was almost deserted, the tourists gone, the seals silent, the lingering smell of fried seafood dissipated. Only the slap of waves against pilings and the faint hum of generators filled the air.

And the silent specter of Burton’s yacht.

It gleamed under floodlights at the far end of the dock—sleek and obscene, all chrome and arrogance. A floating palace with a name stenciled in gold across the stern: Dominion.

Of course.

I crept silently down the dock, Glock snug under my jacket.

A guard smoked by the gangway. He barely had time to register me before the butt of my gun crushed his windpipe. I rolled his body into the shadows.

Then I was on board.

The deck smelled of teak oil and money. Jazz floated from the saloon. I slid along the railing, eyes scanning, ears straining.

Voices drifted out through the open glass doors.

“…the senator is slipping. He won’t hold much longer.”

Burton.

A second voice answered. One I didn’t recognize. 

“Then dispose of him when he breaks. He can join his girlfriend at the bottom of the bay. I’ll take care of them both. Just say the word. I’ve still got another six brand new machetes.”

My blood iced.

Burton’s hit man.

Peering in the room, I saw the men were facing the opposite way from where I was. Both were seated in large, velvet armchairs facing an open fire. A large painting hung above the mantle. I blinked. I knew that painting, but why?

Then I realized it was the stolen Goya. Or at least one of the Goya’s that was missing, stolen during transport from a Madrid museum. Saturn Devouring His Son.

It was disturbing—depicting a ghoulish, wild-haired Saturn holding a figure the size of a Ken doll after chomping off its head and going to work on its left arm. Jesus. Disturbing but also 100 percent fitting for a goblin like Burton. And whomever his equally evil cohort might be.

I squeezed inside the cracked sliding glass door, crouching behind a leather settee. Burton held a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, a jacket draped over the edge of his plush armchair. Beside him was a man in a gray suit with the posture of a soldier and the crew cut to match. When he turned to speak to Burton, I caught his hawklike profile and one black flat eye like a shark. Ex-military. I shrank into the shadows, suddenly fearful that he could see me hiding behind them. But then he turned to face the fire again.

Burton gestured with his own crystal-cut glass.

“This is my favorite Goya,” he said.

“It’s a beauty,” the man in gray said.

“It should be. Cost me more than my car.”

The man in gray gave a low whistle. Clearly, neither one of them knew a damn thing about art.

“I asked you here because this is dragging out far too long,” Burton said. “I’m getting pressured. We need to close this deal soon.”

I paused. Pressured? By who? Burton wasn’t the head of the snake.

“It has been… more difficult than we had expected,” the man in gray said.

Burton tapped a thin folder on a small table between them. “I warned you about her. She is slippery. You’re supposed to be the best of the best.”

“I am,” the man said confidently. “But her boyfriend got in my way. He is known in some circles. We’re lucky we even had him for the time we did.”

“Bullshit!” Burton said. “I don’t pay you and your crew to be second rate. If you’re saying it was luck, then I should’ve hired him.”

I smirked. Ryder? He thought he could hire Ryder to go after me? Delusional.

“My point is that our friend is impatient. This has taken too long. She’s already circling too close. If Anthony doesn’t do what we want, we will eliminate her to show him we mean business.”

Our friend?

I squinted. The folder’s top page bore a grainy surveillance photo. Of me. Again. This time stepping out of my Jeep in front of the slumlord’s apartment building in the Tenderloin.

I’d been watched every second. For much longer than I realized.

The man in gray leaned back. “Santella won’t go quietly.”

Burton’s voice had a smile in it. “She will when she realizes who betrayed her. That will break her.”

My chest tightened. The bastard was still playing his Anthony card. Still trying to drive the knife deeper. But he was wrong. Anthony wouldn’t betray me. Not in any world I wanted to live in. I refused to believe it.

I rose from cover, Glock raised. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”

They both turned, startled for only a heartbeat before Burton’s grin widened.

“Gia Santella,” he purred. “You do have a talent for crashing parties.”

I stepped closer.

The man in gray moved first, his hand darting for a pistol under his jacket. I fired, the bullet striking him in the shoulder and sending him spinning sideways where he crashed into the bar.

Burton, however, didn’t flinch. He just sipped his scotch, eyes never leaving mine. “You won’t shoot me,” he said calmly. “I’m a freaking US Senator. I’m the Chair of Appropriations for the goddamn US Senate. You wouldn’t dare kill me.”

I raised the gun pointing it toward his chest. “Oh yeah?”

He smiled. “If you do, you’ll never learn who’s really behind this. I’m just the middleman.”

I froze.

“Go on,” I said, voice low.

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Pull that trigger, Gia. End me. And you’ll never know the name of the one who owns us all.”

His hand. I hadn’t noticed his hand. It had snaked behind him and emerged with a flash—a small, silver gun aiming at me. 

I didn’t hesitate.

One squeeze. One shot.

The round punched clean through Burton’s chest, his scotch glass shattering against the floor as his body slammed back into the chair. The silver gun dangled on his pointer finger. His eyes widened, mouth opening like he had one last smug line ready. But no words came. Just a wet gurgle.

Then he slumped sideways, dead.

The man in gray groaned from the bar, clutching his bleeding shoulder, eyes wide in disbelief. “You…you don’t know what you’ve done. They will hunt you down. They will never rest.”

I stepped closer, Glock still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. My voice was ice. “Correction. I know exactly what I’ve done. Besides, it was self-defense.” 

He laughed—ragged, broken. “Burton was nothing. Not important. A pawn.” He coughed blood onto the polished wood. “Now the King will come out of the shadows and destroy you. Game over.”

My stomach knotted.

“Name. Now,” I demanded.

He smiled with bloody lips that he then pressed tightly together. 

His hand twitched toward his jacket. I wasn’t going to wait to see the flash of a gun this time. I fired. The shot snapped his head back. He slid to the floor. I ran over and checked his pocket, as if to reassure myself. There was a gun. A small black thing. I hurriedly wiped my fingerprints off it and stuck it in my jacket pocket. A small sliver of relief filled me.

I wasn’t an assassin. I wasn’t a stone-cold killer. I only killed when I needed to. For self-preservation.

At least that’s what I had to keep telling myself. Over and over.

Otherwise? Otherwise, I would be the same as these two vermin who lay dead before me.

The yacht went silent. Just the hiss of waves slapping the hull, the faint crackle of broken glass under my boots.

I exhaled, lowering the gun.

Burton was gone. His lieutenant too. But instead of answers, all I had was a bigger shadow looming over me. Someone above Burton. Someone worse.

And they knew my name. My face. My every move.

The yacht rocked gently under me. 

Burton’s body sprawled where it had fallen, a crimson bloom spreading across the teak flooring. For a long beat I just stood there, chest heaving, ears ringing.

Then I swung around. There were cameras everywhere. It took me ten minutes to find the small screening room and delete the camera footage. 

I shoved my gun into the waistband of my jeans, grabbed the folder off the table, tucked it under my jacket, and bolted.

My legs felt like rubber as I made my way to the outside deck. The night air smelled like salt and decay. I wanted nothing more than to slip into the shadows and never come back.

By the time I hit the dock, Pier 39 stretched silent and empty, but I felt a shiver down my spine. Someone out there was always watching. The photographs were proof of it.

Out on the dock, I looked around. I didn’t see a damn thing, but that didn’t mean I was in the clear. There might be cameras everywhere showing when I arrived and when I left. I just didn’t know.

It was a chance I’d have to take.

As I walked back down the pier, the city rose before me in the distance—San Francisco, oblivious and shining, as if I hadn’t just signed my own death warrant. I reminded myself that I didn’t have a choice. If I hadn’t killed those two men, it would be my body on the floor.

I forced my lungs to slow. Inhale. Exhale. The adrenaline leeched out of me, leaving only cold clarity. This was no victory. This was survival. And there would be a price to pay.

I hopped into my car and started it up, hands shaking, mind racing.

I checked my phone. It had blown up. Missed calls. Texts from Ryder. Anthony. Darling. Danny. My found family, all no doubt wondering if tonight was the night I didn’t come back.

Before I could reply, a new message lit the screen. No name. Just a blocked number and six words that iced my veins: You’ll pay for that. You’re next, Gia.

Proof positive: Burton hadn’t been the mastermind. He’d just been another piece on the board. And by taking him out, I’d hoped to buy peace. Instead, it painted a bigger target on my back—and maybe on the people I loved.

I’d killed Burton, but only too late I had realized I’d only cut out the middleman.

The war wasn’t over. It was just getting started.

And somewhere out there, the King was moving his next piece.

THIRTY-SIX

The city glittered in front of me as I sped away from the marina, Burton’s blood still on my boots. My hands trembled around the wheel, but not from adrenaline. From clarity.

Burton hadn’t been the King. He’d been a pawn. And pawns don’t spend months tracking me, photographing my every move, unless they’re ordered to.

At a stoplight, I yanked the folder from my jacket and flipped it open across the passenger seat. Along with several disturbing surveillance photos of me, there was also a stack of printed out photos of those I loved: Darling. Kato. Dante. Ryder. Anthony.

My insides filled with ice as I flipped through pieces of paper containing descriptions of our daily routines. I read on, feeling rage that the ones I loved had been watched and targeted in this way.

Then, one page stopped me cold.

A memo. Half a page, typed. The header read: Senate Bill 482 — Urban Housing Transparency Act.

I scanned the highlighted line: “Prohibits use of anonymous shell corporations for residential property purchases.”

My gut twisted. This wasn’t just about me.

This was about Anthony. It wasn’t Anthony betraying me. It was something else entirely.

They weren’t using Anthony to get to me; they were using me to get to Anthony.

I saw it clearly: If Anthony refused to vote the way they wanted on this bill, someone would lose their empire. 

But who? Who would stand to profit—or lose—if the bill passed or failed?

Burton’s job had been to terrorize me. 

The King didn’t want me dead. Not yet. He wanted Anthony’s “Nay” vote to turn into a “Yea.” And I was the leverage.

They were trying to break Anthony by breaking me.

My stomach lurched.

I flipped the pages and saw something that made my face numb.

It was a photo of me out on the back deck of the safe house. I was wearing leggings and a workout top, having just come back from a run through the hills near the home. I was out near the pool pacing with the phone to my ear. It was only a few weeks ago. I had gone there for a mini retreat from the hotel business.

Only one person knew I was there. Only one person had access to the security system that contained the videos this photo was screenshotted from.

Danny.

It didn’t make sense that it would be in this folder.

I quickly flipped back to the stack of photos. Someone behind me honked, so I pulled to the shoulder of the road.

I looked through the photos twice. Everyone I loved, everyone who was important in my life, was represented. Except Danny.

Snippets of conversations came back to me like a punch to the gut:

Stefano warning me that family is always the first place to look, and Ryder saying Danny was too sloppy with his digital fingerprints. The pieces locked into place.

Somehow Danny was involved. 

I shook my head. No. Maybe not. Maybe there were no photos of Danny because he had been able to stay under the radar? No. The King was too good to have missed this person in my life. Besides which, they had held Danny captive at that warehouse and damn near killed him. My thoughts whirled, my mind raced. It was nearly impossible to believe that Danny could have been involved in any way. I stared out the windshield at the dark city as cars roared past me.

My hands clutched the steering wheel for dear life.

I picked up the folder again.

The photo of me at the safe house. It could have only been taken from our surveillance camera facing the pool.

And the footage was only stored for forty-eight hours before it was erased.

There was a slight, very slight chance that the King had hacked our surveillance system and obtained the photo. But the other factor I had to consider was that I had told nobody except Danny that I was at the house. And I made sure I hadn’t been followed. I’ve learned over the years how to elude, recognize, and lose even the best tail. 

I knew for a fact that for at least five miles leading up to the safe house, I had not had a single vehicle behind me.

So how did the King get this picture? What role did Danny play? Was it his job to feed the King information about me? I had so many questions. And I hated that I even had to think them.

My phone buzzed. Danny’s name flashed on the screen.

I stared at it until it went dark.

For the first time, I didn’t see my friend’s sweet nature when I saw his name. I saw something else. Something dark. Something ominous. Something that was trying to bury me.

I pulled back onto the road and turned the heat on full blast because I was shivering, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold or because someone I considered family might have betrayed me.

Back in my hotel suite, I thought about the surveillance system that Danny had arranged to be installed and monitored throughout my penthouse. I grabbed my phone. I was tempted to take the system offline. But no. If Danny was involved, it would tip him off.

I couldn’t even believe I suspected one of my oldest friends of turning on me and becoming one of my worst enemies.

Danny didn’t call back. I didn’t know if this was good or bad. 

My mind raced wildly as I paced the balcony of my penthouse sipping bourbon. So many times I reached for my phone to call Anthony. Or Darling. Or Ryder. Or Dante.

I needed to share my suspicions with someone. But Danny was the best hacker I knew. If there was the slightest chance he was working with this “King”—or worse, was the King—then he would know every text, every phone call, every conversation I made.

Jesus.

It was too much. Maybe I was just exhausted and paranoid and would realize how crazy it was in the morning.

I finally fell into bed when I could barely keep my eyes open.

But sleep never came. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw Burton slumped in that velvet chair, blood on teak, whispering that I’d never know who really pulled the strings.

He had been wrong. Now I knew. And knowing was much worse than not knowing.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even about Burton. It was about Anthony.

That memo from the folder sat on my kitchen table like a landmine: Senate Bill 482 — Urban Housing Transparency Act. If Anthony refused to fold, every shell company the King used to launder blood money through San Francisco’s luxury towers would be dragged into the light. Billions were at risk.

I was the pressure point. Break me, break Anthony.

I reached out to Olivia and asked her to do some digging about which property developer or billionaire or corporation owned the most property in the city—who stood to lose the most if the bill was passed. She told me she was on it.

Olivia was good. Damn good. But Danny was better. However, in this instance, I wasn’t going to turn to the one person who might be working for the King.

I couldn’t prove it yet. But I would.

By morning I had a plan.

I curled up on the couch with a double espresso and watched the sunrise turn the Golden Gate Bridge its namesake color. I called Danny just after sunrise. He picked up quick, voice rough, like he’d been awake all night. He was a night owl, so there was a good chance he had been…which was precisely why I was calling him early, when he was ready for bed. When his defenses would be down.

He spoke before I could.

“Gia? Jesus, you disappeared. Where the hell are you?”

I forced myself to not glance up at the small camera in the corner of my living room. 

“Lying low.” I forced a steady tone. “I’ve got something. Remember that developer, Miranova? Word is she’s tied to shell companies buying condos through an illegal network. A stash of files was supposedly hidden down in the Sutro Baths tunnels. The files are in a locked black box. I want you to know I’m going to check it out in case something happens to me.”

I held my breath waiting to scatter more bait.

“Oh, when are you going?”

“Tonight. Midnight.”

A beat of silence. Too long. Then: “Want me to come?”

I laughed softly. “Aren’t you still at the hospital?”

“Nah, I’ve been sprung. Home sweet home.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d prefer you rest. The ruins are unstable. And after the last time we were underground, I figured you’d want to stay above the surface. It’s better if I go alone.”

Another pause, then his voice, softer: “Be careful.”

“I always am,” I lied, and hung up.

I spent the rest of the day trying to act normal but was increasingly aware of the cameras throughout my penthouse that most likely were feeding live footage right back to Danny. And, also, the King, whoever he was.

I lifted some weights in my home gym, a twelve-by-twelve-foot square room with a padded floor and mirrors on all four walls. It contained a Smith Machine, a rack of dumbbells, and a barbell rack. In the center of it all was a boxing bag that I used when I couldn’t get to Kato’s dojo. It had dust on it. But it wasn’t because I’d been to the dojo.

Once again, my routine had been tossed in the gutter. I halfheartedly glanced at my pink boxing gloves on a shelving unit and instead headed for the bench press. 

Later, I stared at myself in the mirror as I deadlifted. My body was toned and fit. Over the years, I had honed it into a killing machine. I’d never cared about the aesthetics of lifting or boxing or martial arts. I just wanted to be a lethal force if someone came after me.

This was also the only room that didn’t have surveillance cameras. It was a windowless box. But even realizing that Danny couldn’t see me in there didn’t give me any idea what I would do if he wasn’t watching. Because there was nothing I could do. Not right then.

As soon as it was visiting hours, I was at Ryder’s bedside.

“How’s it going, slugger?”

“Slugger?” He smirked.

Sometimes I forgot he was French.

“How are you feeling?”

“I want to go home.”

“Home to my place or home-home?”

He stared at me for a long moment. As I waited for him to answer, I realized I was holding my breath.

Finally, he shrugged. “Maybe wherever you will be.”

Right answer. I tried to play it cool, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“Well, I’m not letting you out of my sight until you are 100 percent.”

He swore loudly. “They think that will be a long time. More surgeries.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s life. I’ve been in worse shape.”

I’d seen the scars. He’d been shot and stabbed. But I don’t know if it had ever been worse. He came within inches of dying, both in that warehouse and during surgery. 

“Once, I was in bed for nine months. And worst of all, I was not here in a beautiful city with a beautiful woman checking on me. I was in a God forsaken Siberian tundra in a smelly, cold shack with a vicious and bitter old man nursing me back to health. This,” he gestured with his hands, “this is like the Ritz Carlton.”

I smiled. Of course Ryder would never complain.

The nurse came in. “Time for your painkiller, killer.”

This nurse was an older woman I hadn’t seen before. She winked as she said “killer.”

“Killer?” I asked and raised an eyebrow while giving Ryder a smirk.

“Well, I would say he’s a lady killer, but honestly, honey, you’re the only hot babe who visits him,” she said. “Although every nurse on this floor fights to have him as their patient during their shifts.”

I burst into laughter. “Including you?”

She gave me a smug look. “Damn right. I obviously won this round today, didn’t I?”

Ryder tried to sit up. “Carole is my favorite.”

“For good reason,” she said, putting a new IV bag in place.

“Carole, can you let up on the painkiller? I swear I’m fine.” 

“The real reason I’m your nurse so often is because I’m the only one you can’t sweet-talk into changing the doctor’s orders.”

He chuckled. “Probably true.”

Carole left the room, and I clutched his hand. “Just do what the doctor orders so we can get you out of here as soon as possible.”

He nodded.

His eyelids drooped. He was growing tired. I’d been waiting for that before I spoke.

But first I looked him in the eyes for a long time and then I kissed him, very gently, on the lips. 

When I pulled back, I looked away as I spoke.

“I emailed you something through the Dark Web. It’s a scheduled email. You’ll get it tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” he asked and tried to sit up again. His arms trembled, then gave out, and he collapsed back into the bed. His eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you up to, Gia?”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Probably before the email is sent.”

“Gia!” he shouted. “Stop. You can’t leave like that. How come every time I have a question, you make the nurse give me a sedative?”

“Really?” I said and smiled. “I guess it just works out that way.”

He knew exactly what the email was—he wasn’t stupid. It was something for him in case I didn’t live through the night.

Instead of answering, I left. I refused to say goodbye. Even if that was what it ended up being.

THIRTY-SEVEN

I parked my Jeep on an overlook high above the Sutro Baths and killed the engine, the Glock feeling solid and reassuring against my thigh in its holster strapped over my leather pants. I settled in for a long wait with a Thermos of espresso. I was an hour early, arriving at 11:00 p.m.

Below me, the Sutro Baths ruins crouched against the cliffside like the bones of some long-dead beast. Fog tumbled off the water, swirling past me and swallowing the lights and sounds of the city behind me. Waves hammered the rocks below, salty spray drifting up with the wind.

At 12:10 a.m., headlights cut through the mist below me. A black SUV coasted to a stop by the trailhead. Three men climbed out, geared and armed, flashlights slicing the fog. They didn’t hesitate—they moved straight for the Baths.

My stomach clenched.

It hadn’t even been twelve hours since I’d fed Danny that line about files hidden in the ruins. And now here they were, sweeping the tunnels for my imaginary bait.

I pulled a dark beanie over my hair and silently made my way over to an outcropping of rocks overlooking the baths. I crouched low, watching their beams scatter over crumbling walls and tidal pools. One cursed in Russian when the area turned up empty. Another muttered into a radio. They regrouped, frustration sharp in their body language, then loaded back into the SUV and drove off into the fog. They weren’t there very long, because they weren’t searching for a box of files that might be hard to find in the ruins. No. They were there for one reason and one reason only: Me.

And when they figured out I wasn’t there, they had no reason to stay.

The tide below hissed a relentless whisper: You know who told them you’d be here.

I tried to ignore the voice. No. I didn’t want to believe it. What if, just what if, someone else had tapped my cell phone and heard me tell Danny that? It was possible.

But that still didn’t explain the safehouse photos. Unless they had already been listening in and heard me tell Danny I was going there. But I hadn’t told Danny. Not directly. He would only have known I was there after the safehouse alarm went off, and then he would have checked the security system, seen it was me, and not thought about it another second.

Ideally.

I gripped the Glock until my knuckles cracked. I wanted it to be anyone else. Ryder. Darling. Hell, even Anthony. But the safehouse photos. The absence of surveillance photos of him. And now this.

Danny.

The little brother I’d chosen. The one I trusted with my life.

And unless I was wrong, he’d just tried to hand my life to the King.

I was sick to my stomach, but I needed to act right away. If I waited, doubt would creep in.

For a second, I thought about turning to Anthony, Ryder, Dante, or Darling for advice, but I didn’t want them to persuade me against confronting Danny. I didn’t have hard evidence. I had my gut instincts. And they had served me well in my life.

I pulled over about a block away and gave myself one last chance to change my mind. Nope.

Burton’s last words were lodged in my head. “You’ll never learn who’s really behind this. I’m just the middleman.”

This needed to happen. I turned the ignition and drove right to the front of his loft, parking near the front door of his building. If he looked out his window, he would be able to see me. The red light on the security camera flicked from red to green as I approached the door. The camera whirled, following me as I grew closer. I looked straight at it. In fact, I yanked the beanie off my head and stared at the small reflective camera lens for a second.

I didn’t bother with subterfuge. No games, no lies. I wanted him to see me coming.

I punched in the building code he had shared with me years ago.

I jogged up the four flights of stairs, not bothering with the elevator. When I got to his door, I entered the code on the pad, and the door clicked open.

I stopped inside the dimly lit, open air room. One wall contained a bank of computers. A few were showing black and white security footage from the front of the building and the street. A small beeping sound was coming from the computers. An alert that I was in the building? In any case, he wasn’t moving to turn it off.

Danny’s loft smelled like gun oil and cheap bourbon. As soon as I’d stepped in, I could see the back of his head across the room. He was sitting on the couch, a massive TV in front of him flickering some late-night rerun, volume low. He still hadn’t moved. I’d been there for at least two minutes, steeling myself to confront him.

Pausing, I waited for him to move. His head was slightly tilted to the side. Terror spiked through me. Had they decided he was no longer useful and gotten to him first?

I closed the distance between us, coming around the corner of the couch, my hand on the Glock, which I had tucked into the front pocket of my oversized hoodie.

I stood for a second, listening to his soft snores. 

“Danny.” My voice was low, cold, and dangerous.

His head jerked and he jumped, blinking rapidly, arms flailing. Then, when he saw me for a flicker of a second, relief lit his face. It made me pause. He was relieved to see me?

“Gia.” He started to stand.

“Sit,” I said. My Glock was out of my hoodie’s pouch, now in my hand, steady, aimed at his chest.

Any relief he had felt was clearly gone. His shoulders sagged. He searched my eyes, and a look of intense sadness spread across his face.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

It was the confirmation I needed. A terrible emptiness flooded my body. I was surprised to find myself blinking back tears. I needed to be cold and calculating. This was no time for emotion. I had to distance myself from the Danny I saw before me and the kid I had saved, who had suffered a childhood of horrible abuse. I had to push all that, all those motherly instincts out of my mind.

“Damn it, Danny? Why?” I kicked the side of a coffee table in rage and frustration. “You were the only one who knew I’d be at the Sutro Baths. The only one.”

I bit out the words one by one, watching his face as the TV light flickered over his features.

“You were the only one who knew I was going there and then, like clockwork, three shooters showed up at midnight.”

“Shooters?” His face crumbled. “That’s not what they said…Gia⁠—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. The fury in my chest threatened to blow the whole building apart. “I want the truth. No spin. No charm. You talk, or you don’t get to breathe another minute.”

His eyes grew wide. Hell, my own words shocked me too. 

He stared at the floor so long I forgot how to breathe. The room shrank to the distance between his shoes and the scuffed wood. When he finally looked up his face had gone small, the way it does when a man tries not to cry and fails.

“I’m dying,” he said, his voice flat and dead like a shark’s eyes.

The words hit me like a fist.

“What?”

He laughed, a broken little sound that had no humor in it. “Not just the old stuff. The pituitary thing—the gigantism—it’s always been there. You knew that.” He swallowed. “But the last few tests…they’ve shown my heart’s failing. The doctors say the years of excess growth hormone have gutted me—sleep apnea, my heart, my circulation. They say the damage is irreversible. Months, not years. Maybe less.” 

He looked at me then, and something hot ran down my face; I couldn’t tell if it was grief or fear. 

My hand moved on its own, and the Glock dipped a fraction. I felt sick. “So you sold me out because you’re going to die?” The accusation tasted like bile in my mouth. “You decided, ‘Fuck it, I’m dying,’ so you dragged the one person who loves you down with you?”

Tears caught me off guard; they carved warm tracks down my cheeks. I hated that I was crying. I hated that he was crying too.

“No.” He shook his head so hard his hair swung. “No. They found out about my diagnosis before I did—or at least they knew I was slipping. They used that, used me.” His hands fisted at his knees. “They said they could keep you alive if I gave them enough. Even if you ended up in prison for life. All I had to do was feed them pieces of your life and make you look guilty enough that they could have leverage over Anthony without tracing it back to them. They said it was either prison for you or a bullet. I told them I’d give them anything for you to live. Anything.”

He said the last word like it was both a prayer and a lie.

I lowered the gun the rest of the way. Noise filtered into the silent room from a cracked window.  Out there, the city kept doing what cities do—a horn, a dog barking—as if the world could go on being ordinary while two people sat inside and watched the rest of their lives unravel.

After a long exhale he added, quieter, “I should’ve told you. I thought I was protecting you. I thought I could make it right without you knowing. I failed you twice.”

I didn’t know if I hated him more for betraying me or for breaking like that in front of me. Or simply for dying on me. The truth sat between us, heavy and terrible and impossible to take back.

“Protect me? At least until you were gone, right?” I said the unspoken words. “Do you know how goddamn selfish that is? You knew they were going to kill me or put me in prison for life, but you didn’t want to suffer the grief of losing me. You think you can trust people like them? Did you really believe they were planning on keeping me alive in return for your information? You’re smarter than that.”

“I was stupid. I should’ve known better,” he said and hung his head.

My disbelief was quickly turning to anger.

“You’re the smartest person I know, Danny. I have a hard time believing you fell for that shit. I think you knew they would eventually kill me, and you just wanted to delay it until you were gone so you wouldn’t have to grieve for me.” My words were steel. “That is the most selfish bullshit I’ve ever heard!”

“No!” he said, struggling to stand. “I swear to God, Gia!”

“Sit the fuck down.” I said. My voice was filled with the rage coursing through me. Had I known this man at all? I knew he was damaged. I knew he had a fucked-up childhood. I knew he struggled with mental illness—God knows we all did to some extent. But I guess I didn’t know how fucked up he truly was.

“I was going to find a way to save you before I died,” he said, sinking back down onto the couch. “I just needed more time. I was giving them what they wanted to buy time to stop them. You have to believe me. That’s why I had them take me to the hospital in Oakland. I thought it was over. That’s where my endocrinologist is based. He told me I still had some time. But I truly thought it was the end.”

I shook my head, bile rising in my throat. “Why would I believe you now? Why should I believe a word you say? No matter what your intentions were, you betrayed me. Worse than anyone else has in my entire life.”

The words stung. His head reeled as if I had physically slapped him across the face.

“I swear, I thought I was buying you time,” he said hoarsely. “Every tip I leaked, every move I gave them, was calculated. Enough to keep them satisfied without giving them enough to kill you. I thought if I played along, maybe Anthony would fold, and then they’d stop. And when I was gone, you’d still be here.”

“You should’ve trusted me. You should’ve told me.”

His voice cracked. “I couldn’t. Because once I told you, it was real. And I couldn’t stand to see that look in your eyes—the one you’re giving me right now.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the TV’s canned laughter. Everything clicked into place. Danny had given me the landlord’s address. Danny had stalked my every move for the past few weeks. And he’d fed it all to my enemies. He knew where I was and what I was doing. He had more access to my life and movements than any other person in the world. 

Because I had literally trusted him with my life.

“You betrayed me,” I whispered again, as if saying it aloud would help me believe it.

“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “And if you want to put a bullet in me, I won’t stop you. Hell, I deserve it. Just…please don’t hate me when I’m dead. Remember that I tried. I even posted your two-million-dollar bail. Everything I did, all of it, was to keep you alive.”

I stared at him, at the man who’d been closer than blood. The man who’d chosen the King over me, even if he thought he was saving me by doing it. My finger hovered on the trigger, itching, aching.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet.

I shoved the Glock back into my waistband. My voice was ice. “You’ve got one chance to make this right. You give me the King. You give me everything. And then you disappear. Because Danny…” I swallowed hard. “…you’re dead to me. But as long as I don’t ever see you again, I’ll let you live. Don’t make me regret that.”

His face crumpled, equal parts relief and heartbreak. 

“Who is he?” I demanded, hands on my hips.

“Maxwell Raines,” Danny said, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he said the name. 

“Give him to me. Send me everything you’ve got on him,” I said, my voice like a blade. I didn’t give him the chance to respond. I turned and walked out, slamming the door behind me.

The night air hit me like a slap. My hands were shaking, my chest raw, but my path was clear.

Maxwell Raines. The King. He thought I was easy leverage. A pawn.

But he forgot one thing. A pawn can be the most dangerous piece on the board. It’s potential is almost always underestimated.

Many players take their eyes off the innocent, seemingly harmless pawn as it steadily makes its way across the board. And then, before you can stop it, it reaches the other side.

And then it is no longer just a pawn.

It’s a Queen.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Before I pulled into my private garage at the hotel, Danny had texted me everything I needed to take down Maxwell Raines: his address, door code, security details, and a promise to help me sneak into what appeared to be a fortified penthouse compound.

I gave his message a thumbs-up and then wrote back, sitting in my parked car in the garage. I want all of my security turned over to Darling. All of it. She’ll know how to handle it. If she asks why, make up an excuse. I don’t want you in my business—or my life—for a second longer than necessary.

They may have been some of the cruelest words I’d ever typed. But I had to be firm. If I didn’t, I would cave. I would forgive him for everything. 

I had to be hard. Harder than I’d ever been before. Even if it ripped my heart out.

Then I saw that Olivia had come through. She had a list of three possible people who would be hurt the most if Senate Bill 482—the Urban Housing Transparency Act passed.

There were three names on it. Maxwell Raines was at the top of the list.

According to what she had dug up, if the bill was passed, his empire would be all but dismantled. No more laundering through half-empty condo towers. No more hiding blood money in glass and steel. Billions were on the line.

If Anthony refused to fold, every shell company that King Raines used to launder blood money through San Francisco’s luxury towers would be dragged into the light.

While I was pouring through the information, my phone buzzed. Another call from Anthony. I’d been dodging his calls all night. I knew he was trying to make excuses for what I’d heard and seen.

But now I knew that, like me, he was just a piece in a larger game.

When I entered my suite, I listened to his latest message: “Gia, I swear, it’s not what it looks like.”

I deleted his message and made a double espresso.

Tonight wasn’t about alcohol. Tonight was about fueling myself so every instinct was alert, alive, even if it was nearing dawn. 

Everyone in law enforcement and the military knew that the best time to catch the enemy was at dawn when it was likely they would be asleep. That’s why Anthony’s SWAT team had planned the 3:00 a.m. raid on the warehouse. Funny thing is that the bad guys never seemed to catch on that this vulnerable hour was when they would get caught.

In the pre-dawn darkness, I set out across the city toward Russian Hill on foot. I wanted nothing that could trace back to me. CCTV cameras would show only a woman in black with long red hair streaming out of a black beanie. Her face would be obscured behind a Halloween mask.

I hoped they would only notice the hair and mask, but just in case, I also gave myself a heftier frame by putting on three bulky hoodies under my oversized jacket. 

When the BOLOs went out, the killer on camera would be unrecognizable. Danny had said he’d try to hack into the CCTV cameras along the way, but I wasn’t going to count on that.

I looked up at the camera outside Raine’s penthouse suite. The camera’s light was not on. 

I’d trusted Danny one final time. He told me he would intercept the security system at the penthouse for thirty minutes so I could gain access. I stared at the camera a second longer and then placed my black gloved finger on the keypad, punching in the temporary access code Danny sent me. 

A light on the pad turned green, and I heard a small click. I slowly turned the door handle. The door opened. I held my breath. No alarms went off. Everything seemed to be offline as Danny had promised.

It was the least he could do. Keep his word.

THIRTY-NINE

The penthouse reeked of money and arrogance—leather, cigars, old brandy. Floor-to-ceiling windows bled San Francisco’s lights into the room. Above the fireplace hung a stolen Goya, Saturn Devouring His Son—grotesque and perfect. It was the same painting that had been on the yacht, claimed by Raines from his dead soldier.

And in front of the fireplace, sipping scotch like he owned the city, stood Maxwell Raines.

The King.

“Gia Santella,” he said smoothly, turning from the glass. His voice was silk wrapped around steel. “I was beginning to think you’d never come.”

I kept my Glock leveled at his chest. “I like to make an entrance.”

As soon as I stepped into the light, the storm that had been brewing erupted outside. Lightning crackled through the sky, and wall-shattering booms of thunder shook the windows in their panes.

He chuckled, unfazed. “You definitely know how to make an entrance.”

I glared at him. 

“You’ve already proven more efficient than Burton,” he continued. “He was loyal but messy. Pawns always are. You, though, you’re a queen on the board. And queens are dangerous.”

“You mean you’ve been using me,” I said, stepping closer. “Burton. Danny. Me. All of us.”

Another boom of thunder drowned out all sound for a few seconds, and the bulbs in his Tiffany lamps flickered.

His smile widened. “Not you. Through you. Anthony is the one who matters. Senate Bill 482—if it passes, my companies are dragged into the light. The senator’s vote can ruin everything. Men like him think idealism can change the world. But men break when they’re forced to watch the people they love bleed.”

My stomach clenched, but I didn’t lower my gun. “So this is just about money.”

“Money,” he corrected, lifting his glass in mock salute, “is power. Condos, towers, blocks of this city—they’re the lifeblood of order. Without me, San Francisco drowns in chaos. Anthony should thank me. Instead, he resists. And so…here we are.”

Sheets of rain began pelting his windows, blotting out the city below. A deep chill ran through my body.

“And Danny?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous. “What leash did you put on him?”

I already knew. But I wanted it confirmed. 

Raines’s eyes twinkled. “Everyone has a weakness. His? You. He truly believed that if he was a good little soldier, I’d let you live.”

His words cut deeper than any knife. Knowing I had been Danny’s weakness made my legs weak. Danny had been their pawn too. Just like Burton. Just like me.

I steadied my voice. “This ends tonight.”

“Yes,” Raines said, smiling. “But not the way you think.”

A shadow moved near the bar—an enforcer stepped out between us, gun rising.

I was faster.

The room exploded with gunfire.

When the smoke cleared, the marble floor was streaked with blood. My ears rang. Across the room, Raines still stood, calm as ever, a small black pistol in his hand. His gunman was a twisted heap between us.

“You’ve been entertaining, Santella,” he sneered. “But this is where your story ends. Even your own turned on you. Don’t feel bad. Everyone falls eventually.”

I tried to fire my gun, but the magazine was dry. My shoulder screamed. My body was out of moves. My mouth wasn’t. Big surprise.

“Go to hell.”

He smiled and raised his pistol. A shot cracked from the doorway behind me. Raines swung the gun, and the arc of his bullets whooshed past me. Someone behind me groaned.

Raines staggered. I whirled to face the doorway. Behind me, half-collapsed against the frame, was Danny. He was pale and bleeding, but alive enough to aim. His eyes burned like fire dragged back from the grave.

“Gia,” he rasped. “Down!”

I couldn’t move. My heart stopped cold.

“Danny—”

He stumbled forward, each step a war. He put himself between me and Raines, his arms spread like a shield. “No more knives in your back, Gia,” he said. “Not from me. Not ever again.”

Raines snarled and swung his gun. Danny fired, but his hands shook, and the bullet went wide. Raines’s shot struck true.

Danny jerked, then crumpled at my feet.

For a frozen, brutal second, the world stopped. Gunsmoke hung in the air. Danny’s blood gushed onto the marble. His glassy eyes searched for mine. I dropped beside him, cradling his head.

“Told you….” He coughed blood, trying to smile. “Told you I’d buy you time.”

Then his chest sagged. The light in his eyes went out.

Rage roared through me; red flared at the edges of my vision. Raines was still standing, smug, certain.

I picked up Danny’s fallen pistol. It was warm and slick with his blood, but my grip was firm. 

“You were wrong, Raines,” I said, my voice sharp like a blade. “Family doesn’t betray family. Not at the end.”

Raines lifted his gun. But he was too late. His eyes widened just before I squeezed the trigger. One to the chest. One to the throat. One between the eyes.

He toppled backward, lifeless before he hit the floor.

My ears rang. My hands shook. Rain pounded on the roof and windows, drowning out all other sounds. The King was gone. But so was Danny.

I pressed my forehead to his cooling skin. “You broke me, Danny,” I whispered. “But you saved me too.”

Outside, rain sluiced down the movie-screen-sized windows, the wind howled, and lightning streaked the sky, but Mother Nature, despite all her fury, remained indifferent. For San Francisco, nothing had changed. For me, everything had.

FORTY

I didn’t want my first call to be to Anthony.

But I also knew it was my best bet of getting out of this mess forever. 

He had the contacts. He had the power. And he owed me.

“Gia? Where are you?” His voice sounded frantic.

“I’m in Maxwell Raines’s penthouse.”

“Good God! What the hell are you doing there?” He paused. “Is everything okay?”

I closed my eyes for a second and then opened them, looking down at Danny’s head cradled in my lap.

“No,” I said, my voice breaking. “Nothing is okay.”

After I explained everything to Anthony while crying hysterically, he told me not to move and that he would handle everything. But I was spiraling. I couldn’t stop weeping. Or talking.

“I killed Raines. He killed Danny. They are going to put me away for murder.” 

“I’m calling Stefano. And the United States Attorney’s Office. Carla Lombardi is going to handle this from now on. Lawrence Carlton is out. This has gone too far.”

He paused.

“Gia, are you sure Danny is dead? You sound like you’re in shock. Should I send an ambulance?”

“For fuck’s sake, I am in shock. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Nobody in this room is alive except me. I’m sitting on the goddamn floor with Danny’s body in my lap. Just get me out of this, Anthony. You owe me that much,” I hissed the last words. 

I meant for them to hurt. And they did.

Danny’s blood was still warm, seeping into my jeans, sticky on my hands. His head rested heavy in my lap, his eyes half-open. The penthouse was silent except for my sobs and the rain tapping against the glass walls.

“Gia—”

“Don’t you dare.” I tightened my grip on the phone. “Raines is gone. Danny’s gone. And you—” My throat closed, fury choking me. “You fucking knew. You knew Burton was pulling the strings, and you never told me.”

Silence. Then a harsh breath. “I didn’t know it would come to this.”

“You let him blackmail you.” My voice rose, sharp as glass. “You thought if you played along, it would stop at politics. You thought you could keep me safe by keeping me in the dark. And now I’m sitting here with my best friend’s blood all over me.”

Anthony’s voice cracked. “I was trying to protect you. Burton had something on me, something that could’ve ruined everything. I thought if I gave him what he wanted, he’d back off. Gia, I never imagined they’d use you. That they’d hurt you to get to me.”

“They did hurt me, Anthony. More than you can possibly understand.” 

What I didn’t say was that now I’d lost two men I loved: Danny and Anthony.

“I swear to you, Gia, I never imagined he’d take it this far.”

I looked down at Danny and brushed a strand of hair from his face with shaking fingers. 

“That’s the problem, Anthony. You never imagine how far men like Burton will go. I do. And now I’ve got another body in my arms because you chose secrets over trust.”

On the other end, he was silent. I could hear his breathing, heavy, broken.

“I never wanted this,” he said finally, his voice a whisper. “If I could trade places with Danny I would.”

I closed my eyes and let the weight of Danny’s body crush the space between us. “Too late, Anthony. Just figure out a way to make all this go away,” I said, and hung up.

Somehow, Anthony did just that. Lombardi, the US Attorney for the Northern District of California, swooped in and took over everything to do with me. She tied everything up in a pretty little bow and unveiled it at a press conference the next day. International media was there. It was a huge story.

I watched it on TV from Ryder’s hospital room.

The marble steps of the courthouse were choked with bodies—cameras stacked three deep, reporters jostling for position, the air sharp with the hum of microphones and shouted questions.

Anthony had made it all go away.

US Attorney Lombardi stood at the podium, hair neat, suit pressed, eyes steady. She didn’t flinch beneath the lights as she explained that Anthony had been targeted and I had been a pawn in the scheme

Lombardi continued. “As for the death of Judge Halverson, we have reason to believe this was the work of a copycat acting independently. That investigation is ongoing.”

I felt Ryder’s presence more than I saw it. He was propped up in the hospital beside me, fresh out of another surgery, hospital bands still tight around his wrist. I turned, searching his face. He kept his eyes down, fixed on some invisible point on the screen. He wouldn’t look at me.

That’s when I knew.

A copycat. Neat, clean, tidy. Lies wrapped in a bow.

It was a gift from Anthony. To me and Ryder. 

Lombardi adjusted her papers, lifted her chin. “In the case of Mark Burton, video surveillance from his yacht confirms that Ms. Santella acted in self-defense in the shooting of Mr. Burton and his colleague, Marty Sampson, who we believe was the man who killed Mr. Longfellow.”

The crowd broke into loud shouts with reporters volleying questions at Lombardi. She ignored them, and when the furor died down, she continued.

“In addition, when it comes to Maxwell Raines, the evidence confirms that again, Ms. Santella acted in self-defense after he turned his gun on her companion. She is exonerated of all three crimes. The remaining homicides under investigation appear tied to rival gang activity. They are not connected to Senator Ferraro or Ms. Santella.”

More lies. But I wasn’t going to complain.

A reporter shouted a question—something about blood on the streets, justice for the dead—but Lombardi ignored it, already turning away.

The crowd surged forward, hungry for their soundbite, their story, their headline.

But Ryder and I knew the truth. The story Lombardi fed them was only half of it. The other half—the real half—was still written in blood.

Anthony flew back to Washington, DC with his tail between his legs. At least when it came to me. He called and left one last message. I deleted it and blocked him.

Even seeing his name on my phone hurt too much.

I spent my mornings at the dojo and my afternoons sitting beside Ryder’s hospital bed, talking to him when he was awake and reading while he was asleep.

Finally, after three weeks, he was discharged. 

I cried when he stepped out of the wheelchair on the sidewalk in front of the hospital and walked to the livery car I had hired to drive him home.

We spent a few days holed up in my penthouse suite, gingerly making love and blocking out the world. I never once asked him about the judge.

One day, I ventured out into the city I loved. It felt soiled, tainted. Everywhere I went I thought of Anthony and Danny. 

Kato was the one who finally made me admit the truth. The dojo was the only place I could escape myself and my thoughts. I was running from something indefinable and couldn’t get far enough away. The only person who made me feel safe was Ryder. 

My heart had chosen him so long ago. I told Darling that he was the one I wanted to be with because he was the only man I’d ever met who made me feel safe.

“You seem full of nervous energy,” he said one morning, hopping out of the shower, his poor body riddled with scars from all his surgeries. He was getting ready for the physical therapist I had hired to show up for their regular daily appointment. “Why don’t you go visit Kato?”

I loved how he called “me time” at the dojo visiting Kato. It made me laugh.

“Yeah, I think I need to do some punching and kicking.”

He grabbed me by the waist and kissed me long and hard.

“I’m making you dinner tonight,” he said. “Work up an appetite.”

“Oh, I will,” I said.

But as soon as I walked out of the penthouse suite with my leather duffel bag, my smile faded. I hated leaving him. It was becoming a little concerning. That’s why I kept forcing myself to go to the dojo. 

The gym smelled like old leather and liniment, the kind of smell that roots itself in your clothes and won't let go. I liked that about Kato’s dojo—nothing pretty, no pretense. Just rhythm: the slap of gloves, the thud of pads, the steady hiss of breath. I wrapped my hands the way I always did, thumbs tucked, tape creaking, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the curl of cloth over bone and the weight in my palms.

Kato stood at the other end of the mat with a pair of pads, his posture the same calm compass it’s always been. Kato—my friend, my sensei, the one who reads my bruises like a map —waited for me. We went through the basics: jab, cross, low kick. My legs remembered what my head kept trying to forget. Each strike was a syllable in a language I’d learned to speak when everything else around me was chaos.

“You’re holding back,” Kato said between sets, breath even. He’s small in a way that surprises people until he turns and moves and the surprise becomes a warning. “You’re soft in the hips. You’re thinking. Fight with your body, not with your head.”

I hit the pad harder. Hard enough to sting his glove and hard enough to wake something in me that I hadn’t allowed to surface in days. “You don’t know what’s running through my head,” I said. I tasted copper every time I thought of Danny. I saw an empty chair where Raines had been. I saw Anthony’s face folding in on itself like paper. The city followed me into every round.

“San Francisco is getting to me,” I said during a break when we were both catching our breath.

Kato watched me for a long beat, then shook his head. “The city is a mouth,” he said, as if he was saying something about the weather. “It chews up what it wants. Sometimes it spits something useful out. Most times it swallows.” He set the pads down and came close. The dojo was quieter now, the other students giving us space. “You cannot train while you carry a grave in your lap,” he said bluntly. “You cannot fight with a body that belongs at someone else’s funeral.”

I laughed, but it was a thin, ugly sound. He put a hand on my shoulder, firm and alive, and the pressure grounded me. “You keep looking over your shoulder,” Kato said. “Looking for ghosts as if their footsteps will give you advice. They don’t. They only take.”

The truth landed like an elbow to the sternum. I had convinced myself that staying in San Francisco was strength: I would not allow my demons to chase me from my home. But staying had become a tether, not a choice. I thought of the rain on Raines’s windows, the way it had turned the city into a smear. I thought of Danny’s hand, slack and empty. I thought of Anthony— his secrets, his silence—and how every day in San Francisco was a countdown.

“Kato,” I said, when my voice stopped shaking enough to form the word, “what if I left? What if I went somewhere where nobody couldn’t find me? Would that be running?”

He looked at me as if weighing rice. “Running is something people do when they’re afraid,” he said. “Leaving is sometimes the only way to live.” He tapped my chest with two fingers, right over my sternum. “You need a place where your body can remember peace.”

He stared at me for a long moment. When I didn’t answer, he continued. “You won’t be running, Gia” he said. “You’ll be moving. Away from the noise.”

I closed my eyes and felt the steady throb of my pulse, the only sound I could trust. The dojo was warm around us, like the last safe room in a house full of ghosts. The decision didn’t fix anything. It didn’t bring anyone back. But it unhooked something—a small, stubborn possibility that I might breathe without tasting copper.

“Okay,” I said finally. The word was small, but it sat like a seed. “For a while. Maybe forever.”

Kato nodded once, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Then train hard enough to be ready for whatever finds you next.”

When I got home, Ryder was in the kitchen wearing my flowered apron stirring this and tasting that. The penthouse smelled delicious.

He grabbed me around the waist and kissed me.

“You seem better. Freer, ma cherie,” he said softly, examining my face.

“I think I am,” I said. “I need to leave this city for a while. Maybe longer. I can’t handle the ghosts. Not right now. Maybe not ever.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Ryder said.

My body nearly folded with relief. It was all I needed to hear.

The next day, I started making plans.

Dante promised the hotel would be fine without me and that Ethel’s Place was in good hands.

“Leave,” he said. “Disappear where nobody can find you.”

I sobbed like a baby in his arms when he said it.

Two days later, all the arrangements had been made, and we had plane tickets. Ryder had handled it all. He said our first stop was New York City, and we’d decide where to go from there. 

“I have a few ideas, but I want you to decide what plane we hop on from there.”

I didn’t tell him that I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I would when we arrived.

We both woke up early on the day of the flight. I was packed before six and then paced my penthouse suite, anxious to leave but also filled with dread. My lone suitcase waited for me near the door. I walked into the bedroom where Ryder had his suitcase on the bed and was rolling the few clothing items he had brought from France and placing them neatly inside. 

I glanced at my walk-in closet, which was still overflowing with clothes that seemed like they belonged to someone else: silk and velvet gowns, sparkling stiletto heels, fur capes and coats.

Each was tied to a vivid memory of an event with Anthony. I had never dressed that way until we began dating.

“Any ideas yet about where to go from New York?” he asked gently as I stood in the doorway of my closet.

Still staring at my clothes, I said softly, “I want to go someplace with no memories.”

He turned and held out his arms. I collapsed into them. 

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re safe with me. We can disappear for as long as you like and go wherever you need to be.”

I nodded and pulled back from his embrace.

“I think I need to start somewhere off the grid. Someplace where nobody can find me. Can you do that? Can you take that much time off of work to be with me?”

I hated that it sounded like I was begging. I wasn’t begging. I was just, for once in my life, asking for what I wanted from a man.

He smiled. “I get vacation time too.”

“Is that in the contract-killer contract?”

We both laughed.

He sighed heavily. “I don’t need the money right now. And my body still needs time to heal. You’re good for me. You make me take time to live.”

“You’re good for me too.”

“When are we leaving for the airport?” he asked..

“I just have to take care of one thing first,” I said.

FORTY-ONE

Ocean Beach stretched wide and endless, the horizon melting into gray. The wind howled off the Pacific, biting cold, but I welcomed it. It stripped everything down to what mattered.

We stood at the water’s edge—me, Ryder, Darling, Dante, and Kato.

Anthony’s absence felt like both a punch to the gut and wings on my back at the same time.

Not inviting him flooded me with guilt, but I also felt that he didn’t deserve to be there. He hadn’t stopped the chain reaction that led to Danny’s murder when he could have. He had been passive, and lives had been lost.

He had not murdered anyone, but his inaction had deadly consequences.

He could make his peace with Danny in his own way.

I owed Anthony Ferraro nothing. Not a damn thing.

Danny’s urn was heavy in my hands, heavier than it had any right to be.

There was no priest. No speeches. Just us—the found family he’d betrayed and then saved. The surf roared like it wanted to swallow the whole damn world. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying in the gale.

I twisted the lid.

“Danny wasn’t perfect,” I said quietly. “God knows he wasn’t. He lied. He betrayed me. But in the end…” My throat closed, then forced the words out. “…in the end, he came through for me. He gave me time. He gave me this moment. And I’ll never forget that.”

Silence. Just the crash of the surf and the sting of salt on my lips.

I tipped the urn. Ash swirled into the wind, catching sunlight before scattering into whitecaps. For one heartbeat, I swore I saw him the first time I met him, sitting on his couch in his crappy little apartment: his cheeks flushed bright red, his red hair sticking up all over the way it always had, so shy, so insecure, so miserable, and so innocent in his own way. Then the tide and wind took him, and he was gone.

Darling slipped her arm through mine. Ryder stood solid at my back, a wall of heat against the cold. Kato crouched to the ground in prayer. Dante’s hand found my shoulder, steady, grounding. At last, Darling’s voice broke the silence.

“We were the 3Ds,” she said mournfully. “Nobody can ever replace him. That means you can’t be friends with anyone whose name starts with a D ever again.”

I gave a choked laugh.

“She’s right,” Dante said hoarsely. “He was family. Flawed. But family.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. “We all are.”

The tide crept higher, foam hissing around our shoes. I let the empty urn fall into the surf. The waves tugged it under, carrying it out to sea.

For the first time in a long time, I felt the weight lift from my chest. The King was dead. The blood feud was finished. Danny had found his redemption. And me? I was still standing.

When I turned, my family was waiting. Broken, bruised, but mine. My chest ached, but inside that ache was something sharper—resolve.

“The King is dead,” I said. “But there’ll be others. There always are. And they’ll be coming for us now.”

Ryder’s grin was wolfish, ready. “Then let’s make sure they regret it.”

Darling wiped her eyes and nodded. Kato stood staring out at the horizon, the picture of calm confidence. Dante exhaled loudly.

I closed my eyes for one last breath of salt and wind. The fight was over. For now. For once that was enough.

We walked up the beach together, leaving the ocean and the ghosts behind.

EPILOGUE

The dark-haired woman with the long, tanned limbs strode like a panther out of the crashing turquoise waves. A man with equally dark skin and the muscles of an MMA fighter followed on her heels. He caught up to her and grabbed her hand. They walked down the beach, parallel to a thick grove of palm trees bordering a dense, black jungle. 

At one point, the woman paused and lifted her foot to examine her heel. The man crouched down beside her, holding her foot, and carefully removed something from the bottom of it. 

They walked on. They talked animatedly as the water dripped down their bodies, drying in the pervasive heat before they even reached the sand.

At one point, the woman tossed her head, and the black curls that reached to her mid-back flung water all over the man’s face. He reared back in mock dismay, but the huge white grin on his tanned face gave him away. He grabbed her by the waist and picked her up, putting her over his shoulder and spinning her around before gently placing her back on the beach and pulling her close.

She lifted her head to his and pressed her chest against him as they kissed.

They erupted into a fury of passion—her clawing to pull down his bathing trunks, him untying her bikini top and dipping his head to her breasts, which, the man watching noted, were as tan as the rest of her.

The man shifted in his chair in his 103rd floor penthouse in Dubai, perched at the top of an impossibly tall and sleek skyscraper that towered over the other silver, glittering feats of gravity-defying architecture. If he pried his eyes away from the computer screen, he would have been met by miles of sweeping, turquoise ocean views, but he was still too far away to see the island where his prey was hiding.

He was paying good money for this high-tech satellite imagery showing him Gia Santella in real time. He would not even blink for fear of missing something—something important that would tell him more. Something that would give him an indication that the couple was not just on vacation on a small private island. He needed proof that they were not on an operation.

Because he hadn’t gotten as far as he had without trusting his gut.

He watched her carefully for a tell. Something that would reveal this erotic ocean scene was acting. And his gut said that Gia Santella would not rest until she had hunted him down.

Were they on the island because it was close to Dubai? To him? When they disappeared into their small beach bungalow, were they plotting and planning his demise?

Unless… He sat back in his chair.

His fingers flew on the keyboard. He punched in numbers on his phone, all the while keeping his eyes glued on the satellite footage. The island itself was off the grid, but he had assumed she was using the Dark Web to hunt him, hiding her online location through a maze of ghost servers, each hop sealed with encryption until her trail was nothing but smoke. 

He never once suspected she hadn’t been in touch with a single soul for the past week. It seemed impossible. And even if she had been able to do so, Ryder surely wouldn’t have been that naive.

Finally, he had his answer.

They had been completely cut off from technology for the past week.

That explained it.

She wasn’t acting at all; she really didn’t know.

The King smiled and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his Louis XIII Black Pearl Cognac and watching them fuck like savages on the beach.

Gia had taken one of his knights off of the board--a simple and meaningless sacrifice in the grand scheme. His move would hurt her much more.

She didn’t yet know her best friend was dead.

The End

Thank you for reading Deadly Strike!

If you like badass women, check out The Queen of Spades boxset here!

Here is a sneak preview:

QUEEN OF SPADES

CHAPTER 1

Los Angeles

Eva White tried to sneak a look at her cell phone beneath the table but her downward glance didn’t escape the Queen Bee at the front of the class running the parent volunteer meeting.

“Mrs. White?”

“Yes?” Eva jerked her eyes up.

“I think you would be a great candidate to head up the committee organizing the food drive.”

Eva pushed down her revulsion at the woman’s sickly sweet tone and plastered a smile on her face. “I think you’re right. Food drives are near and dear to my heart.”

It wasn’t a lie. Back in Sicily, she’d made sure nobody who lived in her village ever went hungry.

“Wonderful,” Krystal said. “I’ll mark you down as chair. Remember, for every dollar donated to the Santa Monica food shelf, Tilly Conway’s mother will match it with an equal donation to our school fundraiser.”

It was a totally messed up way to raise money, but if it meant that a Los Angeles food shelf was able to benefit from some of the wealthy families in the school—even in a convoluted way—Eva was all for it. She’d hacked into Krystal’s bank account last year just to make sure the woman wasn’t depositing most of the fundraising money into her own account but, surprisingly, all the money raised went straight back to the school.

“So, I can count on you?” Krystal asked.

Eva nodded.

“You are now the food drive chair.”

“Fantastic,” Eva said, matching the blonde woman’s fake excited tone. “And Matthew and I will match the food donations, as well.”

Krystal beamed. “That’s so generous of you.”

But Eva wasn’t done speaking. “But I think in our case, we’ll match the donation with an equal one that will also go to the food shelf.”

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Nikos said. He was one of the dad’s Eva had become friendly with over the past year. His son, Ricardo, was a sweet kid.

Krystal’s face fell, but she quickly rallied. “Wonderful. I’ll let the principal know.”

“Fantastic,” Eva repeated and smiled widely.

Kill them with kindness. It had been her motto the past ten years. It was a viable alternative to killing women like Krystal Diamond. But Eva had left that part of her behind when she fled Sicily. That way of life felt like a vague memory—something another person had experienced, somebody she’d read about in a book. So, Krystal Diamond was safe. For now.

The woman had apparently kept her maiden name, which was about the only thing Eva approved of about the pretentious PTA head. But what kind of name was Krystal Diamond, anyway? Jesus. It had to be a stripper name. Or maybe a porn star name.

Eva shifted in her uncomfortable plastic chair. She wasn’t overweight, and was, in fact, very fit from a daily home workout modeled after the Navy SEAL team’s training. But she was Italian and did have curves—especially on her backside. Her backside simply wouldn’t fit into this tiny, orange plastic chair made for a fifth grader.

A few seats down Nikos shifted uncomfortably, as well. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back.

Luckily, Krystal Diamond had missed it all. Smiling was forbidden unless the smile was directed her way. But Krystal was at the front of the room, distracted with her head down, going through a thick file folder. Yeah, definitely a fake name. Like her boobs. No way they were the real deal. No. Way. No one with boobs that big could have a butt small enough to fit neatly into the little orange plastic chair, could they? No self-respecting Malibu trophy wife would go that big, even when your husband was the top plastic surgeon to the stars. Eva frowned. Maybe that was it—Dr. Andrew Wyatt used his wife as a model for his porn star clientele. Eva could just imagine him waving his skinny little arms and saying, “Allow me to show you my work first hand. Krystal, darling? Please show these women your tits.”

Eva snuffled back a laugh.

Nikos shot her a glance of alarm but then winked. He was her age and attractive. She knew it was his Greek heritage that appealed to her. Even though she’d married a hot American man with blonde hair and blue eyes, she couldn’t deny that men from her part of the world had an undeniable, earthy sexiness about them.

That diversity was one reason she’d enrolled Lorenzo and Alessandra in this elite school. Though she had to put up with people like Krystal, the student population ran the gamut from Somali-Americans to Japanese-Americans. She didn’t want her children to feel like misfits in Beverly Hills schools. But she had to admit, the Rembrandt Academy still didn’t exactly provide a realistic slice of American life—every family with a kid in the school was filthy rich.

Speaking of that, why did they even need to do fundraisers, anyway?

Krystal droned on at the front of the classroom, organizing committees and assigning tasks to the thirty parent volunteers crowding the room.

In a way, Eva admired Krystal’s leadership skills. And whatever

her faults, Eva could not deny that Krystal’s son, Yates, was possibly the sweetest child on the planet.

Poor thing couldn’t help who his mother was. And he couldn’t help his unfortunate name. Who named a baby Yates? Yates Wyatt sounded like a poet wearing a dinner jacket while riding a donkey in the old west. But the kid was a sweetie. His mother wanted him to be a doctor like his father, but he claimed he wanted to be an opera singer. The kid wasn’t even out of elementary school, and his parents were already planning out every second of every year until he was thirty!

Alessandra had befriended Yates in the first grade until Krystal had put the kibosh on their playdates. Every time Eva had reached out to her about it, Krystal made some excuse. She usually claimed Yates was busy with Little Mozart or Chinese lessons or some other lame excuse. But every time Alessandra asked him about it the next day, the poor kid said he’d gone straight home and stared at the iPad all evening while his mother locked herself in her office.

Alessandra and Yates resorted to secretly hanging out at school during lunch hour.

Krystal had her back turned, doing something with the iBoard, so Eva snuck a glance at the time on her phone. Crap. Twenty more long minutes. She’d planned to swing by Delmonico’s and pick up a platter of sashimi and a sesame kale salad for dinner. She also wanted to grab a ham and cheese brioche for Matthew’s breakfast. He’d texted that his flight had been bumped up, so he’d have to head straight to the airport in the early hours the next morning.

He’d promised that when he returned, he’d take an entire week off for a staycation and they could unwind and make love every day while the kids were at school.

She could hardly wait. She sighed and stretched languidly.

Krystal heard the sigh and shot her a sharp look.

“Mrs. White, did you have a question?”

She smiled. “No. But thanks for asking.”

Krystal turned her attention toward another victim. Heidi, the mother of one of Alessandra’s good friends.

Nikos grinned at her again. He held up his phone, keeping it below the level of the table. He was playing a video game. He mimicked a yawn and then scraped back his chair. All heads turned his way. He stood and held his phone up in the air. “Sorry. I just got a text. Emergency at the office.”

And with that he was gone.

Eva stared at his retreating back with undisguised jealousy. What the hell? Is that all it took? A fake emergency? He’d been playing a video game.

“As I was saying…” Krystal said in the front of the room, clearly annoyed.

For a split-second Eva felt sorry for her. After all, the woman’s entire life revolved around the annual school carnival. As soon as one year’s event was over, Krystal would send out emails about what they would do the following year. Planning for the event began six months ahead of time.

But then any pity dissipated. Krystal had been downright mean to Eva since the first day of kindergarten orientation four years ago.

And yet, today, here she was volunteering under Krystal’s tutelage.

The things she did for her children… Lorenzo had begged her to volunteer, saying if she didn’t she’d be the only mother not on the committee.

Reluctantly, she’d agreed.

Someday, when they were older, she’d explain to Lorenzo and Alessandra the sacrifice she’d made kowtowing to such a controlling witch, but for now she’d do whatever it took to make sure she and her family blended in.

Her phone vibrated. Eva looked down.

The picture that appeared on her phone took her breath away. She shot up out of her seat. Her world spun, and her legs grew weak and unsteady. She stumbled, clutching at the table to keep herself from collapsing. Her phone fell to the floor. It landed face up. A photo of a man’s severed head filled the screen.

She couldn’t get air into her lungs. Her vision closed in. Her legs had grown useless. She slumped back down into her chair and felt a hand on her forearm. It was Heidi’s.

“Are you okay?”

The words ignited Eva into action. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her bag and phone, and began to run, calling “Thank you,” over her shoulder to a bewildered Heidi.

She’d barely made it out the door, her three-inch designer heels clacking on the pavement, when someone grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

“Excuse me!” She recognized the high-pitched squeak. Krystal.

“You did not ask to be excused from the meeting.”

“Back off, Krystal.”

Eva wrenched her arm free so forcibly, a few of Krystal’s fake nails went flying. Krystal spluttered in rage, but Eva was already across the parking lot.

She was almost to her vehicle when the driver of a silver Porsche slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt inches away from her thighs. She kept running, barely registering the woman’s concerned face hanging out the window asking if she was okay.

In her Mercedes SUV, Eva’s hands trembled so violently it took her three tries to get the key in the ignition. With her foot pressed to the gas, she fumbled under her seat and unsnapped a small case. She threw it on the passenger seat. As she squealed out of the parking lot, she barely noticed the other cars darting out of her way.

With the salty Pacific breeze whipping her hair, Eva raced down the highway, passing slower cars. She pushed back thoughts of her family. It was dangerous to allow herself to get caught up in sentimentality. It would weaken her. She had to reach deep down and draw from her dark past if her family was going to survive.

Her darkest memories rose to the surface. A moonlit Sicilian night full of bloodshed:

Walls splattered with red arterial spray; pools of coagulated blood turned black; clothing stiff with dried blood; a hand with ruby red fingernails placing the queen of spades card on a motionless chest; a head held by the hair with blood dripping onto the ground out of the jagged flesh that had once connected the neck to the body…

The mutilated body of her Sicilian lover and fiancée sprawled under a white sheet.

It all came back, blotting out the golden Southern California sunshine pouring through her driver’s side window.

Chapter 2

Sicily

The rolling hills of Sicily—so green and lush—rendered a stark contrast to the view of white-capped Mt. Etna soaring above the horizon. Like the majestic volcano, in Sicily, beauty often concealed the darker ways of the world.

The idyllic and scenic Italian island, nestled just off the toe of Italy’s boot, was home to some of the most ferocious and coldblooded killers on the planet.

At first, none of this touched Eva. She led a carefree life when she was young. But then she was recruited into the family’s business and found she thrived on the thrill of covert missions and delivering secret packages in the dead of night. It took a while for her to realize just what business her family was in—the Mafia.

But it didn’t take long for her to adapt.

As a teenager, when her father was sent to prison, she was the one tapped to deliver the important messages—the pizzini—that allowed him to rule from behind bars.

It was standard practice in the Cosa Nostra—the Sicilian Mafia. Because only females could visit Mafiosi in prison, they became messengers. Most of the time, the handwritten messages were delivered on tiny scraps of paper that were then conveyed to the prisoner in code. Other times the women or children who could have physical contact with the prisoner could pass on the pizzini themselves.

Prison officials were none the wiser. It ended up being yet another of the millions of times in history that women were underestimated. After serving as her father’s courier for so many years, delivering important pizzini, Eva had proven herself.

Her two half-brothers—Luca and Stefano—resented her for it. But they’d never liked her anyway. They thought they should succeed their Mafioso father—that they should be the ones he turned to and trusted. But her father knew that they were more like their backstabbing mother. They were greedy and immoral and disloyal to a fault.

That’s why when Eva turned seventeen, and her father was still in prison, he handed over the reins to her, ordering her to maintain his one unbreakable rule: no matter what the other mob families did, their family would never, ever, participate in the sex trade.

Eva solemnly agreed.

Her half-brothers, consumed by jealousy and greed, immediately made plans to get rid of Eva, believing that without her around, they would take over the family business.

But Eva quickly rose to power in the Mafia world, gaining respect and protection from the other mob bosses. It began at the first mob boss gathering she attended in her father’s stead.

While the dons sat around drinking and eating and plotting how to kill a dangerous enemy, they ignored Eva completely. After all, she was only a woman.

They dismissed her and refused to take her seriously. Eva watched as the men grew drunker and meaner and then slipped out when nobody was paying attention.

She returned to the gathering holding the bloody head of the enemy the dons had been plotting to kill. At that moment, she rose above just a “fill-in” for her father and was soon made a woman of honor—a donna d’ onore.

As far as Eva knew it was the first time a woman had been initiated into the Sicilian Mafia—Cosa Nostra. Her cominato—initiation⁠—

involved her swearing an oath that she would remain a Mafiosa until her death. During the rite, her father’s elderly uncle drew blood from her finger and smeared it on a wooden icon of St. Agatha—the patron saint of rape victims, wet nurses, and those afflicted with breast cancer. The icon was then lit on fire and passed around while Eva chanted that she would burn like the icon if she ever betrayed Cosa Nostra.

Other women had taken over the family business for their husbands and been both feared and respected by the other mob bosses, but her father told her she was the first woman ever initiated into the Costa Nostra. As a result, she became a legend to the children of Sicily. Little girls dressed all in black like Eva and played with sticks pretending they were swords.

For two years, Eva owned the world. At least her small world on the island of Sicily.

She stole from the rich and gave to the poor.

The people loved her. They called her “Eva the Saint” or “The Godmother.”

She grew into a ruthless assassin but only killed those who deserved to rot in hell. Her calling card—left on all her victims—was the queen of spades. A card that signaled death in Sicily.

Soon, all her other nicknames were shed, and she was known throughout Italy as the Queen of Spades.

But she was betrayed. Her brothers cut a deal with the other mobsters to participate in the sex trade. When Eva protested, they made her pay. And dearly.

They arranged for their own father to be assassinated in prison so he wouldn’t stand in their way any longer. Then they ambushed her men. And killed her lover.

Eva had no choice, she had to kill them both.

Luca was in prison, so she went after Stefano first, killing him without an ounce of regret. Before she could go after Luca, the other mob bosses convened to discuss Stefano’s murder and decided that she’d gone too far. Killing her own brother, even a half-brother, was punishable by death. Even if he’d been responsible for killing his own father. It was twisted logic and Eva knew it. The mob bosses said she had no proof that her half-brothers had arranged for their father’s death. But a woman had witnessed Eva killing Stefano and that could not be disputed.

Not for the first time, Eva regretted being soft in not killing another woman.

The dons put the contract out on her life; it would never be rescinded.

Eva had no choice but to flee to America and go into hiding. After all, her brother Luca was still alive. He’d worshipped Stefano. He would never let the price on her head be forgotten. Never.

She was nineteen when she first stepped foot on American soil.

Over the years, she’d watched from afar in Los Angeles, reading newspaper accounts as his rule grew larger and more powerful. He’d taken over several other families in Italy. He was more powerful than she’d ever been. And yet, for some reason, he seemed to have forgotten about her.

Until now.

For the past ten years, her youth had seemed a distant memory.

But it had finally caught up to her. She would now have to draw on that life, on that training, on that mentality, on those forgotten skills—if she was going to save her family.

Chapter 3

Los Angeles

It was a lot easier than he thought it would be.

At first, he’d worried he wouldn’t have enough time. He

was cutting it close. But for a man like him—who spent hours each day visualizing exactly how something would go down, it would happen like clockwork. He was like the Michael Phelps of the crime world.

He’d read about Phelps. How every day for years, Phelps woke up and visualized the perfect race, then did the same thing when he fell asleep at night. The theory was that when you imagined something in your mind enough, your brain couldn’t distinguish between what was real and what you were imagining. As a result, when you visualized it, your brain thought your body was actually doing it.

He loved that.

But just in case, along with his two hours of daily visualization, he’d also put in the work. He’d researched the hell out of every aspect of his plan. Every tiny, minute detail was planned to the second. He would not fail. He’d waited much too long to exact his revenge.

So, of course, when the time had come, all the pieces fell perfectly into place.

It could not have gone better.

Now that the plan was underway, there were a few more wheels to set in motion before he could return home. And when he did, he would be a hero.

He could not wait.

READ MORE HERE:

THE FIRST SIX BOOKS OF THE QUEEN OF SPADES CRIME THRILLER SERIES. From award-winning journalist and USA TODAY Bestselling author Kristi Belcamino.

What readers are saying:

★★★★★ “Another edge of your seat read by Kristi Belcamino.”

★★★★★“Queen of Spades is an action-driven book with a gripping storyline; I read it in one day as I simply could not put it down.” - MaryAnn Forbes

★★★★★WORTHY OF 10+ STARS” - Amazon

warningWarning! Be prepared to lose sleep and skip chores while reading this series!

Book 1: Queen of Spades

When Eva Santella’s father was sent to prison, she took over his role as a Mafia boss.

But then the other Sicilian Mafia families turned on her and put a price on her head.

She was forced to flee to America and go into hiding.

They found her.

And destroyed everything she held dear.

She has one thing left to live for: making them pay.

Book 2: One-Eyed Jack

The men, mostly virgins, gather in the darkest corners online, drawn together by a common bond: self-hatred.

Women are the root of all their problems.

Eva Santella, independent, beautiful, confident, represents everything they despise.

And there, in their shadowy forums, they plot revenge.

When Eva tries to stop them, they turn their deadly sights on her.

Book 3: The Suicide King

Former assassin and mafia boss Eva Lucia Santella has lost everything she’s ever cared about, but is still attempting to carve out a new life for herself back in Italy as a modern day Robin Hood, devoted to taking down those who prey on the innocent.

And she’s training an army of female assassins to help her do it.

When one of her top lieutenants comes under attack, Eva vows revenge.

Book 4: The Ace of Clubs

When an American girl goes missing on spring break in Cabo San Lucas, her desperate mother turns to the Queen of Spades for help.

Drunk tourists on spring break are a dime a dozen in the popular resort town, but nobody who lives there wants to help find the missing girl. Including the police.

Eva finds that nothing is as it seems on the Baja Peninsula.

If she is going to find the girl, dead or alive, Eva must travel a twisted and dangerous path and risk it all.

Book 5: The Joker

THE CHILDREN HAVE LITTLE CHOICE: KILL OR BE KILLED

In this new pulse-pounding thriller, Eva will risk everything to free the most vulnerable from a life of violence and tyranny.

T﻿he gun-toting children are lethal and highly trained instruments of death. The cartel has given them little choice: kill or be killed.

Eva is the only one who can possibly save them from a dark future they have little chance of escaping on their own.﻿﻿.

Book 6: The Wild Card

Rose never had a normal childhood.

Death pursued her at every turn.

Finally, Rose realizes in order to defeat her killer

... she must become one herself.

"As an avid fan of Jack Reacher, Mitch Rapp, Scot Harvath, Orphan X, etc., Can't tell you how pleased I was to discover the female version of my favorite heroes!” - HB LEVESQUE, Amazon

Perfect for readers who love vigilante assassins.

Like the Atomic Blonde, Red Sparrow, Jason Bourne? You'll love Eva Santella.

You can find it here:

And here is my Amazon page with all 40 of my books:

ALSO BY KRISTI BELCAMINO

Enjoying Kristi Belcamino? Click the link below to see her Amazon Author page!

www.amazon.com/stores/Kristi-Belcamino

Gia Santella Crime Thriller Series

Vendetta

Vigilante

Vengeance

Black Widow

Day of the Dead

Border Line

Night Fall

Stone Cold

Cold as Death

Cold Blooded

Dark Shadows

Dark Vengeance

Dark Justice

Deadly Justice

Deadly Lies

Additional books in series:

Taste of Vengeance

Lone Raven

Vigilante Crime Series

Blood & Roses

Blood & Fire

Blood & Bone

Blood & Tears

Queen of Spades Thrillers

Queen of Spades

The One-Eyed Jack

The Suicide King

The Ace of Clubs

The Joker

The Wild Card

High Stakes

Poker Face

Standalone Novels

Coming For You

Sanctuary City

The Girl in the River

Buried Secrets

Dead Wrong (Young Adult Mystery)

Gabriella Giovanni Mystery Series

Blessed are the Dead

Blessed are the Meek

Blessed are Those Who Weep

Blessed are Those Who Mourn

Blessed are the Peacemakers

Blessed are the Merciful

Nonfiction

Letters from a Serial Killer

AUTHOR’S NOTE

When I was 16, I read Jackie Collins’ book, Lucky, and it rocked my world. For the first time in my prolific reading life (yes, I was the kid holed up in my room reading as many books as I could as often as I could), I met a character who was not only Italian-American like me, but a strong, powerful, and successful badass woman who didn’t take crap from anybody and loved to have sex!

Although I had dreamed of being a writer, it never seemed like a realistic dream and my attempts at writing seemed pitiful. So I studied journalism and became a reporter—it was a way to be a writer and have a steady paycheck.

It was only when I was in my forties that I got the guts to write a book. And it was a few years after that I was brave enough to write the character I really wanted to write—Gia Santella.

She’s not Lucky Santangelo, of course. I mean, nobody could be as cool as Lucky is, but I like to think that maybe Gia and Lucky would have been friends.

Gia is my alter ego. The woman who does and says things I never could or would, but whom I admire and would love to be friends with.

If you like her, I’m pretty sure we’d be the best of friends in real life!

x Kristi

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristi Belcamino is a USA Today bestseller, an Agatha, Anthony, Barry & Macavity finalist, and an Italian Mama who bakes a tasty biscotti.

Her books feature strong, kickass, independent women facing unspeakable evil in order to seek justice for those unable to do so themselves.

In her former life, as an award-winning crime reporter at newspapers in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca, attended barbecues at the morgue, and conversed with serial killers.

During her decade covering crime, Belcamino wrote and reported about many high-profile cases including the Laci Peterson murder and Chandra Levy disappearance. She has appeared on Inside Edition and local television shows. She now writes fiction and works part-time as a reporter covering the police beat for the St. Paul Pioneer Press.

Her work has appeared in such prominent publications as Salon, the Miami Herald, San Jose Mercury News, and Chicago Tribune.