I know that face. Three hundred pages of compiled data. Kill counts and known associates and a photograph pulled from a surveillance feed eighteen months ago.
Lorenzo Santoro. The Santoro enforcer. The underboss.
Shit.
Of all the families I’ve poked, the Santoros sent their best.
“Strong silent type,” I manage, arms still up, desk digging into my lower back. “Great. Look, I’ve had a shitty few years, so if we could speed this along.”
“Ghost.” One word. His voice is rough, like he doesn’t use it often. Like words sit heavy in his throat.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Ghost.” He takes another step forward. I press harder into the wood, palms still out, pulse hammering in my throat. “The hacker.”
Goddamn it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t.” Another step. Closer now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep his face in view, and my vulnerable position sends a spike of heat down my spine. Near enough that his eyes sharpen in the blue glow of my screens. Dark. Flat. Empty in a way that turns my blood cold. Near enough now to smell him — gun oil and sandalwood underneath, and my skin prickles, the fine hairs on my arms standing on end.
“I’ve been hunting you for eight months. Don’t try to lie to me now.”
A flush crawls up my nape. My raised hands won’t stop shaking.
Focus. He’s here to kill you.
Eight months. He’s been hunting me for eight months, and I never saw him coming.
My chin lifts. Some stupid survival instinct that doesn’t know when to quit.
“Fine.” The word tastes like surrender. “I’m Ghost. Congratulations. You found me. Now what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me, head to toe, with a stare so thorough it peels me apart layer by layer. Disassembled into components. Weighed and measured and found what? Wanting? Useful?
His face gives nothing away. But his gaze lingers. On my face. My throat. The pulse jumping there for him to read like a confession.
Heat coils low in my stomach. My thighs press together.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says. His voice is low. Rough at the edges. The sound vibrates through my chest, and my lungs forget how to work.
“Sorry to disappoint.” The sarcasm rises like a reflex. “Were you hoping for someone taller? More masculine? Less likely to have eaten ramen for the third day in a row?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just a flicker. Gone before I can be sure it happened. His jaw loosens. A fraction. Barely detectable.
“You talk too much.”
“And you don’t talk enough.” My fingers are shaking against nothing. I curl them into fists so he won’t see. “We’ll balance each other out.”
The gun is still pointed at my head. I should be crying. Begging. Doing whatever people do when they’re about to die. Instead I’m running my mouth because that’s how I handle mortal terror now. Typical.
But here’s the thing. I was ready to die. I’ve been ready since the night I traced that first IP address and saw what kind of people took Sofia. I knew the risks. I accepted them.
What I’m not ready to do is die before I save her.
Sofia. Fifteen in my memory, forever fifteen. Stealing my headphones and wearing them around her neck like jewelry. Singing off-key through the apartment until I threw a pillow at her.You love my voice, Izzy. Admit it.
I can’t die yet. Not until I find her.
