Luisa
Even though I’mnot supposed to be doing anything but resting, I jump when my police scanner buzzes with news of a shootout and a fire. When the address comes across, my face goes pale. It’s Angelo’s house.
“I told that motherfucker to live!” I roar.
Starling jolts, eyes blown wide.
I point at her as she darts away, tail puffed like I personally offended her. No time for this.
I’m already on my feet, grabbing my keys, shoving out the door.
I don’t care that I’m in civilian clothes, hair still dripping from my shower.
I told Angelo to live.
And if that bastard can’t even keep one damn promise, I’ll drag him back myself—with CPR, a defibrillator, or sheer fucking willpower?—
Just so I can yell at him. Getting to his house isn’t easy. Not when it’s on fire.
Not when a firetruck blocks the road, police swarm the area, and bystanders lift their phones to record the chaos.
Not when an ambulance idles nearby, paramedics pacing, waiting for the inevitable.
But it’s not impossible.
The backyard fence is more for show than security. Old pallet wood, treated in different colors, laid horizontally instead of vertical.
Perfect for climbing. I take a breath—then vault myself over.
I park a block away from his place and make my way there. When I hear someone speaking Italian, I duck down. Every cell in my existence begs me to take the men out. I have a Taser on my belt, a baton, and my gun. I could drop them, I could arrest them, but ...
But Angelo. He could be hurt. He’s more important.
To the case.
Just the case.
“Go! Too many police!” one of them hisses.
Feet pound past me, sprinting away. The fire roars, heat licking at my skin.
Something cracks. A beam? A window? The house coming down? I push forward. No hesitation.
Angelo’s fence isn’t a barrier—it’s an invitation. Asking to be climbed.
I holster my gun and begin the ascent, cursing Angelo with every step. Where does he get off? One night, he tries to be all sweet after we have sex. The next he’s shoving me out of the house, acting like that will keep him from running his mouth.
And now ... now he goes and gets himself killed.
I shimmy over the top of the six-foot fence, drop down, roll, and pull my gun.
No shots. No movement.
Just the roar of the fire?—
Then a gasp. A sputter. I whirl, gun ready. Someone hauls themselves out of the pool, coughing up water.
“Ray?” My pulse spikes as I spot therookie cop, uniform sagging on his too-thin frame.
