“After further investigation…has dropped all charges and issued a formal apology. We wish him our sincere condolences as he grieves the loss of his father. At this time, there are no new leads, but the…”
My eyes watered. My chest tightened. I was boiling within my own skin. The room was suddenly too small, too stifling. I couldn’t breathe.
That didn’t look like a grieving person. It wasn’t possible for someone as coldhearted as Renzo Iannelli to grieve. Conniving. Evil. Psychopath. That was all he was. People couldn’t simply take away other people’s loved ones and be able to grieve themselves. I refused to believe the world was that cruel.
I scrambled out into the hallway, my face wet, my hands shaking, my teeth chattering, not caring who I crashed into. Not listening to their reprimanding tones as I scampered back upright and bolted for the door. Not feeling the press of rain against my face as I barged past the front door and climbed over the fence.
I ran and ran toward what used to be my home, what used to be my safe space, what used to be the place Noah, Mom, and Dad came home to. I didn’t make it even halfway across town before I collapsed, my lungs burning and my legs cramping. I shivered, drenched to the bone, and huddled beneath a bus shelter as I waited for the inevitable—for someone to take me back to foster care, where dreams went to die. The rain poured. Thunder snapped above. Lightning flashed through the shadows of my thoughts.
Even if I had reached home, I had no key. At fourteen, I had nothing. No rights, no money, no job, no family, no one to help me, except myself. What I did have in droves was my hate. I would feed it—let it drive me, warm me, and keep me company until I burned with it.
I might have been the reason Noah was out on the streets that day, applying for another job, instead of being safe in a hospital in the middle of a residency program, but Renzo Iannelli was the reason he died. I knew that in my bones. One day, no matter how long it took me, I was going to make him regret it.
Chapter 3
Ainsley – fifteen / Renzo – twenty-eight
Six and a half months later
Breathinghardthroughmynose, I tapped my thumb against my lips and flipped over the piece of paper with deckled edges, obviously torn off a notebook. Another little message from my stalker. This made seven in the seven months since my father’s death. Each one had a one-word header, followed by a scrawled line of text on nondescript paper, always with the same starting words, “You’re the reason…” This one broke tradition with two extra sentences. Two extra sentences that turned a childish joke into a threat. I despised threats.
MURDERER
You’re the reason people grieve. I know what you did. I’ll make sure yoursister knows too.
The page was warped and discolored where it had once been waterlogged, with no other details. No names. No return address on the envelope. Only a postmarked San Francisco zip code. That made the post office easily identifiable with a little patience, meaning this wasn’t sent by a professional. No made man was that sloppy. It was why I’d chosen to ignore this person’s provocation, until now.
“Your thoughts?”
Vincenzo Armone’s dark gaze fell to the note in my outstretched hand, but he made no effort to take it.
“You never seemed to care about the others.”
“They never mattered before.”
Vinny reclined in his wingback chair in front of my desk, hands on the armrests, his trilby hat low on his head, the picture of relaxation. Ironic, since the man didn’t know how to relax. His brain never went on break, always taking in and assessing every situation to determine its importance in the grand scheme. It made him a good friend and an even better consigliere.
“This because it mentions Persetta?”
I nodded. That was exactly what it was. Eight and a half months had passed since my sister went missing, and every lead I found always went cold. If there was a chance this stalker of mine had any information on her whereabouts, I was going to wring it out of them.
“Take it.” I shook the note.
Vinny scrutinized me for a bit longer before heaving a sigh. He snatched the note, read it, sniffed it, scratched at the ink, and even went as far as licking a corner.
“Are you finished?” I rolled my eyes with an irritated huff, and he tossed the letter back at me. “When did you and my cousin switch personalities?”
He shrugged and scratched at the scruffy groove above his top lip. Where I’d grown out a well-trimmed circle beard as a fuck-you to my father’s clean-shaven requirement in the last few months, Vinny followed my lead with a boxed beard. It worked on him, especially with all those hats he always wore.
“As long as you realize this is ridiculous. Those notes are harmless. On cheap paper. Used the postal service, so not someone with means. A woman, I’d wager from the writing. Someone who’s upset but is either a coward or naive. We could have our guy check DNA off the envelope, but it’s definitely not worth—”
“Do it.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Get this analyzed. I want to know who it’s from as soon as possible.”
The letters probably came from some young upstart, building up the courage to confront me with some foolish vendetta. Someone hiding behind petty words, too scared of their own shadow and too foolish to understand how stepping onto my radar was a death sentence.
