His limp body dropped into a crumpled pile of dead weight.
Lyla stood frozen, hands over her mouth. Her eyes were wild with terror, darting between me and the guy on the floor at my feet.
“Good to know,” I muttered, turning away from her. “You still have the capacity to be afraid.”
I dragged the corpse into the man’s apartment and kicked the door shut behind me.
When I turned back, she hadn’t moved.
“Go to your apartment,” I said flatly. “Now.”
But she didn’t.
She shook her head, backed up a step, and pointed a shaking finger at me.
“You—you’re a fucking madman,” she spat. Her voice cracked. “You killed him. Just—just murdered him like it was nothing. Like Carlos did. Like all of you goddamn monsters!”
I took one step toward her.
She skittered back—but only a few feet. Then she stopped, trembling. Her hand was pressed against the wall as if she needed it to stay upright.
I exhaled once through my nose and closed the distance between us. My hand caught her by the back of the neck.
Her breath hitched.
Firmly, I pulled her toward me and rested my forehead on hers. Her chest rose and fell in short bursts.
I inhaled deeply.
Her fear was so tangible, I could taste it.
Something feral uncoiled inside me as the primal instinct after a kill roared to the surface—demanding I claim her, fuck her right there until she was moaning against the very door where a dead man lay cooling inches away.
“Run,” I whispered.
Then I let her go.
As though she’d suddenly been released from a spell, she spun and raced up the stairs. The clatter of her footsteps echoed loudly in the narrow stairwell.
I didn’t move.
I just stood there, listening. A few seconds later, her apartment door slammed shut.
Silence settled like ash.
Maybe this was for the best.
She needed to see this side of me.
The cold-blooded killer. The man born and bred to rule the underworld.
Justice wasn’t necessarily pretty. It didn’t always come via court order. Sometimes it came in the shape of a broken neck.
Joel Epstein had a record five inches thick—sealed and buried under bribes, backroom deals, and the kind of favors traded in dark corners of the system. He should’ve already been serving time. Should’ve been labeled a sexual predator. But instead, his charges had been quietly reduced in each case—sexual assault downgraded to misdemeanor battery, victim statements sealed, evidence “misplaced.” Justice hadn’t just looked the other way; it had rolled over.
I’d researched every tenant in this building, and Epstein stood out like a stain—a man who’d left a trail of broken lives behind him. And tonight, he’d gone too far, putting his hands on Lyla, making her afraid.
He’d gotten exactly what he deserved.
