My mind races, thoughts whirling, but I keep my expression blank as I calculate the distance to my car, the weight of my knife in my pocket, possible escape tactics, and how to play this without it turning violent.
I’m not in the mood to fight anyone right now.
The man wiggles his eyebrows. “Katie Pierce. That’s you,right? Blonde hair, blue eyes... yeah, I saw your picture this morning. Do you know how much you’re worth?”
Worth?
I blink, struggling to keep my expression blank as I process his words.Worth?I’m not worth anything. I’m just an orphaned nobody trying to find the sister I lost over a decade ago.
“You’ve got the wrong person,” I say, forcing calm into my voice even as panic starts clawing at my throat. I turn away from him, ready to walk away, but his hand shoots out and grabs my elbow.
“Oh no, I’m pretty sure I have the right girl.” His grip tightens, and I don’t miss the way his voice sharpens. “Lombardi’s men were thorough in their description of you—and I have a picture right here.”
Lombardi’s men.He means Romero Lombardi. Criminal lawyer and Nightshades member who controls Brooklyn. They’re sharing my picture? Offering a reward?Fuck. Does Emily hate me that much now?
He pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and holds it up triumphantly. It’s a small, grainy poster, but I recognize my own face staring back at me. My pulse spikes, a cold rush rocketing up my spine.
I glance around quickly, assessing the situation with my training kicking in. We’re in a deserted alley. No one would see us. No one would help.
Good.
That means no witnesses.
“You have about thirty grand on your head,” he continues, sounding almost cheerful in his greed. “And that money is now mine. So you’re coming with me, sweetheart.”
His hand dips into his pocket, and I don’t need psychic powers to know what’s coming next. Gun, knife, taser—something he can use to make me follow him docilely to whatever collection point the Nightshades have set.
They must have left out a crucial detail in their brief: that I’m a trained FBI agent. He would have been more careful if he had known.
Too bad for him.
Before he can grab his weapon, I slam my fist into his exposed throat, straight into his Adam's apple—the most vulnerable and accessible part of a man’s neck. He chokes, doubling over with both hands flying up to protect his damaged windpipe, and I don’t waste a second.
My other hand buries into my pocket and pulls out my knife, the cold metal smooth and familiar against my palm. I aim for his chest, going for a quick kill, but he reacts—grabbing my wrist and shoving me off balance. I catch myself on the balls of my feet before I can fall. Damn it, I didn’t expect him to fight back.
He lunges at me with a wild, desperate swing, but he’s too sloppy. Not professionally trained like I am. Roan was right about that—nobody stands a chance against me except someone equally trained. I’m a lethal weapon when I want to be.
And right now, I need to be.
I sidestep his attack smoothly, ducking under his arm, and slash upward in one fluid motion. The blade rakes across the forearm he’s holding up, and he staggers back with a howl. I don’t stop. I snatch his other wrist before he can throw another punch, wrench it until a clean snap cracks the air, then drive my knee into his gut.
He reels, gasping for air that won’t come, but I’m not done. Not until he can’t tell anyone he found me.
Dead men tell no tales.
Closing in, I force the knife up under his ribs at the perfect angle and twist. He makes a wet, gurgling sound, his eyes going wide as his body twitches. Then his knees give out and hecrumples to the ground, hands clutching uselessly at his chest as blood pools beneath him.
There. Now it’s done.
I stand over him, chest heaving, my fingers sticky and warm with his blood as I watch the life slowly drain from his eyes.
Damn it. What the hell am I supposed to do with his body now?
A scowl tightens my face as irritation pricks through my fading panic. Just my luck. This night was supposed to be about finding a lead on my sister, and instead, I’ve walked into a bounty on my head and a corpse to dispose of.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, rubbing until the metal gleams dully before tucking it back into my pocket. I’ll finish cleaning it properly when I get back to the estate. But the blade isn’t the only thing coated in blood—my fingers are slick with it, so I smear them down the sides of my shirt, already planning to burn it later. The worst of it fades, though the sticky residue clings stubbornly no matter how hard I try to scrub it off. Figures. Nothing about tonight wants to come clean.
I glance around again—still empty, still no witnesses. But that persistent itching on the back of my neck won’t go away, making me increasingly paranoid.
