“Upstairs!” he yelled. “It’s Rio! Doc! It’s Rio!” Robbie gestured for me to go up. His face was tight with panic, his voice gone, so I didn’t waste time asking questions. I took the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing off the metal. Enzo was at the top, his stance wide, his expression carved in stone, but his eyes—those gave him away. Worry, anger, fear—just another morning at Redcars.
I pushed past him, shoulder-first through the door. My mind was already cataloging what I’d need—pressure packs, gauze, maybe sutures, how deep a knife wound would it have to be to slow man-mountain Rio down. Routine. Cold calculation. I was halfway through the mental checklist when the door slammed behind me.
I stopped dead. No blood. No Rio.
Just a stranger in the middle of the room.
A stranger with a badge on his belt.
Cop. Dangerous.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His blond hair was cut short on the sides but too long on top, curling slightly where sweat or rain had touched it. His eyes—brown—his gaze cutting straight through me, assessing every inch. A rough shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and he wore a suit, creased from what I assumed were hours doing whatever cops did to get them here this early in the day, the jacket open enough to show that damn badge clipped to his belt. A gun hung easily from his hand, and every inch of him radiated danger and control—feral in its intensity, a hunter’s focus locked on prey, a magnetic pull I would’ve liked far too much if I wasn’t aware of exactly who he was and exactly what I was.
“Hands where I can see them!” the cop snapped, and I made a show of holding my hands in front of me. He gestured toward the chair with the gun, the movement steady, unhurried. “Sit down,” he said. His voice was calm, collected, not a hint of strain or threat—just command. That unwavering gaze locked on me.
I sat because, in sitting, I could reach my knife and throw it between his eyes before he could flinch. I sat because I could lean a certain way, so my gun stayed accessible. I sat because, although I had a million choices that would end with him on his back bleeding out, I wanted to know what the fuck was going on.
He gestured with the gun again, slow and deliberate. “Doc?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about Kyle Rourke,” he said.
“Who?” I asked, my voice flat, emotionless. I knewexactlywho Kyle Rourke was, but I wasn’t about to confirm any of that.
“We have you on surveillance at the Pit. He fought there, and you attended him. Goes by the name of Red.”
“And by surveillance, you mean Rio’s camera phone?” No point in lying now, after all, Rio had been there. “Red… hmmm… tall skinny red hair. Got himself hurt badly. Myfriendshelped get him to St. Patrick’s Hospital.” I sat back in the chair, keeping my posture loose.
His stare didn’t falter, his gaze steady. Then, right in front of me, he shifted—the change so smooth it was like watching the man shed his cop skin. He dragged a chair across the floor and sat opposite me, gun in his hands, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on mine, his hands steady, his posture straight, his breathing controlled. I guess that Enzo was right outside the door, so I wasn’t going anywhere soon, and there was something raw about this cop.
I wanted to touch him to see if he was real, but it wasn’t warmth or hunger—surely it was curiosity, the pull of symmetry, the fascination of finding something so finely tuned it reflected me at myself. I wanted to take him apart, understand him, see what made him tick. Recognition. Possession. Control.
This was new.
The hell?
“Virgin-Robbie is a good actor,” I said to make conversation, flexing my wrist where the hypodermic sat, ensuring I was one step ahead of whoever the fuck this cop was. “Said Rio was hurt. You all paid me and everything, and you’re not getting the money back.”
“Why did you carve up Kyle Rourke?” the cop asked.
“Hmmm…” The cop thought I’d killed Red and carved him up? “If you think I did that, then why am I not being arrested?”
The silence stretched, and he watched me, probably waiting for me to break the silence. My skin prickled, but I didn’t move, didn’t blink. Thetickof a distant pipe dripping somewhere filled the gap between us until finally, he spoke, voice flat.
“Did you murder Kyle Rourke?”
“I think you’ll find a big Russian was the onehurtinghim.”
“But he died in yourcare.”
I wasn’t happy with the way he spat out the wordcareas if it tasted like shit. I kept people alive when possible. “No, he didn’t.”
“Who dumped Red’s body?” He let the question hang, eyes sliding over me from head to toe, and back again. “You?”
“I don’t have anything to add,” I said, voice flat, nonchalant.
The cop’s lips twitched—something between disbelief and irritation. Then he turned his phone around, screen glowing in the dim light. A paused phone video timestamped from the warehouse. My face—clear as day—caught mid-motion tending to Kyle Rourke.
