“You were magnificent,” Gabe whispers, his lips brushing my temple. “Everything I could have ever imagined and more.”
I lean back into his embrace, feeling his strength supporting me as the adrenaline begins to ebb. My hands, covered in drying blood, rest over his forearms.
Gabe turns me around to face him. His eyes—usually calculating and cold when he works—now burn with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Blood spatters his face like abstract art, making him look both terrifying and beautiful.
“Amelia,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “I love you.”
I freeze. Three simple words hang between us, more shocking than anything we’ve done tonight. No one has ever said those words to me—not my distant parents, not past lovers who came and went. I’ve struggled with that emotion my whole life, never truly understanding what it means to love or be loved.
But looking at Gabe now—this dangerous, complicated man—I suddenly understand. Love isn’t the sanitized version sold in romantic comedies. It’s this: seeing someone’s darkest depths and wanting to dive deeper. It’s creating terrible beauty together. It’s finding the person whose broken edges fit perfectly against your own.
I reach up, my bloodstained fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I love you too,” I whisper, the words feeling both foreign and absolutely right on my tongue.
His eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn’t expected my response. Then his mouth finds mine, desperate and demanding. We kiss amid the carnage we’ve created, tasting blood and salt and each other. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, consuming me completely.
30
GABE
The bell chimes as I push open the door to Adrian’s chocolate boutique, Amelia’s warm presence right behind me. I spot Adrian talking to a man whose stiff posture screams cop.
“Adrian! Those paintings we discussed arrived,” I announce, keeping my voice casual despite the warning text Adrian had sent earlier. I pretend to notice the visitor for the first time. “Oh, sorry—didn’t realize you had company.”
Adrian gestures between us with practiced ease. “Detective Carter, this is Gabriel Dawson, owner of Blue Room Jazz Club. And Amelia Stone, our resident artist.”
Amelia steps forward with a brightness that never fails to amaze me. The woman who slit Walsh’s throat a month ago now beams at the detective, immediately launching into details about her upcoming installation at my club. I watch Carter’s body language shift, his suspicious stance softening as she shows him photos of her work on her phone.
“Your artistic approach is fascinating,” he tells her, completely disarmed by her enthusiasm.
Maya returns with coffee, smoothly positioning herself like a barrier between Carter and Adrian’s office—where I know certain evidence might still be processing.
I casually mention my regular poker nights with Captain Rodriguez and Lieutenant Marshall, dropping their names with just the right mix of familiarity and respect. Carter’s spine straightens almost imperceptibly.
“You know Rodriguez?” he asks.
“Great guy. Terrible poker face.” I laugh like we’re old friends sharing an inside joke.
The detective’s questions become noticeably less pointed, more perfunctory. We work together flawlessly—Maya’s professional credibility, Amelia’s disarming charm, my strategic connections, and Adrian’s careful responses forming an impenetrable defense.
By the time Carter leaves, he’s actually apologizing for taking up our time.
“Smooth,” I mutter once the detective is safely out the door. “But we should lay low for a while.”
Adrian nods, watching Carter’s retreating figure through the window. The tension in the room dissolves as the detective disappears, replaced by the chemistry that connects the four of us—partners in the most intimate art form imaginable.
“Did you see his face when I mentioned Captain Rodriguez?” I say, lounging on Adrian’s leather couch with my arm draped around Amelia. “Man nearly swallowed his tongue.”
Maya perches on Adrian’s lap, sipping her drink. “The coffee was a nice touch. Nothing says,we have nothing tohidelike offering refreshments to the cop investigating your murders.”
“Speaking of hiding...” Amelia traces the rim of her glass. “That hedge fund manager’s wife commissioned a piece. Asked me to capture his essence.” She shares a wicked smile with me. “If only she knew I’d watched him become art of a different kind.”
“Your latest paintings do have a certain visceral quality,” Adrian says, savoring his whiskey. “The red you used inMidnight Symphonycame from a particularly inspiring session.”
“We should celebrate properly. That upscale bistro on Michigan Avenue,” I swirl my whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “The owner likes to corner his female staff after closing. Money and connections keep him untouchable, but...” I let my lips curve into a cruel smile. “I bet he’d add a unique flavor to your spring collection, Adrian.”
Maya shifts against Adrian, her excitement evident in her quickened breath. “I’ve reviewed his work. He lacks depth. Perhaps we could help him find some.”
“A double date, then?” Amelia’s fingers intertwine with mine, her delicate hands against my calloused grip. “I’ve been wanting to try that new technique we discussed.”
