That's why his face had seemed familiar.
The story came back in fragments.
He'd killed a mob boss's son.
Over his woman.
Over Sophia.
The father hadn't killed him.
Some people said that was worse.
He'd kept Vicente alive and made him pay for it, on some indentured servitude type shit.
The mother wanted blood.
She'd put a price on his head.
And now here I was.
The same motherfucker's hostage.
I'd run from this life, but somehow I'd ended up right back in it.
This world was too fucking small.
I stood there, holding the photo and studying her face.
What kind of woman made a man destroy everything for her?
What did it mean that I looked like her?
My eyes drifted back to the article.
Five years.
Five years, and he was still carrying newspaper clippings around like holy scripture.
Still keeping her picture tucked away.
Still sleeping alone.
Something in my chest tightened.
Not quite sympathy.
But something close enough to make me uncomfortable.
No wonder he looked at me like he did.
No wonder he hadn't pulled the trigger.
I put the photo back, closed the drawer, and made sure everything was exactly how I'd found it.
Then I headed for the kitchen.
A plan was already forming.
