He kisses me. Softly this time. A reward.
"A cop," he muses. "You played a cop."
He pulls out of me and adjusts his clothes. He picks me up off the counter and sets me on my feet. He buttons his jacket, regaining his composure instantly.
He walks to the foyer. He picks up my purse. He pulls out the file.
He flips through it.
"Sloppy," he comments. "They have circumstantial evidence. No bodies. No weapon."
He looks at me.
"You did good getting this. But you were reckless."
"I was bored," I say, leaning against the doorframe, my clothes still disheveled.
"Well," Silas says, pulling a lighter from his pocket and setting the corner of the file on fire. He drops it into a metal wastebasket and watches it burn.
"You won't be bored anymore."
He looks at me through the flames.
"We have a detective to hunt."
CHAPTER 29
THE UNTOUCHABLE
POV: SILAS
There is nothing more dangerous in this world than a man with a conscience.
Criminals, I understand. They are driven by hunger, by greed, by the primal need to elevate themselves above the muck they were born in. A criminal has a price. You can buy his loyalty, or you can buy his silence. You can threaten what he loves, because a criminal always loves something—money, power, a woman.
But a saint?
A saint is a chaotic variable. You cannot bribe him because he values righteousness over gold. You cannot threaten him because he views martyrdom as a promotion.
I am staring at the dossier of Detective Thomas Kane.
It is spread across the glass desk of my new office in the Penthouse. Unlike the mahogany fortress of Vane Enterprises, this desk is transparent. Nothing to hide. Or so it appears.
Luca stands by the window, looking out at the rain slashing against the glass. He looks frustrated. He looks like a man who wants to punch something but can’t find a target.
"Nothing?" I ask, my voice low.
"Nothing, Boss," Luca says, turning around. "I’ve dug back twenty years. The guy is a monk. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens. He drives a ten-year-old Ford. No gambling debts. No ex-wives asking for alimony. He doesn't even drink on the job."
I pick up a photo of Kane. He looks tired. His eyes are dark circles of exhaustion, but there is a hardness in them. A resolve.
"Everyone has a vice, Luca. You just haven't found the right vein to tap."
"We checked his financials," Luca argues. "Clean. We checked his browser history. Clean. We even put a tail on him to see if he visits massage parlors in Chinatown. The guy goes to work, goes to the gym, goes home. On Sundays, he visits a cemetery."
I pause. "Who is buried there?"
"His sister. Emily Kane. Died twelve years ago."
