Page 8 of Black Heart
I rise from my chair five hours later, only now registering my full bladder and growling stomach. I relieve both before resuming my online prowl, beginning with Emmitt Dawson and finishing with the attacker.
My blood runs cold once I use my personal facial recognition software on the millisecond when the attacker turns his head and scans Layla’s cubicle before pocketing his gun and taking the elevator. It’s enough to make a 60 percent link to a face in my diligently collected crime files.
When that face stares back at me through the screen, I can’t blink. I stand completely still, holding my breath until the silence becomes unbearable, and I break my rule of never drinking while hunting. I search through my kitchen until I find a dusty bottle of whiskey and take a long sip that burns all the way down my throat.
It lands on my counter with a shatter, my fist clenched around broken shards of glass and blood-soaked cuts burning with whiskey fire.
Frank Morelli.
I’ve caught your trail, motherfucker.
The attacker on the footage is an associate of his. Morelli is shrouded in near-mythical status and has mastered the art of remaining unseen despite leading a vast criminal empire. Unlike other capos, he rarely appears in person at his clubs or establishments. Instead, he uses a complex network of proxies, doubles, and encrypted communication. I’ve been tracking and losing him for years.
He is the man who killed my daughter.
With a shaking, blood-soaked fist and my head bowed over the counter, strands of dark hair falling into my vision, I make a vow not to lose him. Not again.
Cassie deserves her justice.
I start by packing a multitude of weapons in a plain canvas duffel, using a second bag for my electronics, wrapping the expensive equipment and vicious weapons with clothes I’ll need on the go.
I changed my mind. I’m traveling to Greycliff for selfish reasons because my return to that godforsaken city isn’t about saving or protecting Layla.
I confess this to myself as dawn eats the shadows on my floor with cheerful orange and pink teeth.
She’s marked by Morelli. Therefore, the Scythe’s next move is clear.
Haunt her every step.
4
LAYLA
The heavy fog clenches around me like ghostly fingers as I make my way down the winding cliffside road from where I was forced to park.
Rush hour on a Friday morning is never enjoyable, but it’s even worse on a gloomy day like today when visibility is at an all-time low, and everyone comes into the city anyway, taking all the street parking available.
Wispy gray tendrils snake through the trees and swallow the iron lampposts. My breath fogs before me, and the rocky shoreline looms below, obscured by mist and stone.
I quicken my pace, shoes clicking on the damp cobblestones and my makeup fast becoming morning dew. The familiar walk to work has always brought me fresh air and comfort before sitting for hours in a cubicle, but today, nervousness prickles my skin through the fog.
I glance over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of unseen eyes tracking my every movement. And when a murder of crows bursts from the cluster of trees to my left, my harshcry joins theirs, shattering the eerie hush blanketing the atmosphere.
That’s it. I’m taking the road more traveled instead of enjoying my normal solitude through the side streets.
With a quick look both ways, I dart into the empty street, intending to cross to the other side and slip through a short alley before I reach Main Street.
A set of headlights pierces the gloom ahead. I freeze, blinded by the glare. The car’s tires let out a piercing screech as it slides across the wet asphalt. I’m rooted in place like a deer caught in the headlights—though I always assumed that deer couldfuckingmove out of the road if it really wanted to. Panic rises in my throat as the car barrels forward, no longer in control.
A strong arm wraps around my waist, yanking me back onto the sidewalk. My shoulder collides painfully with cold pavement, and we tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The car rights itself and zooms past in a blur, horn blaring.
Gasping for breath, I clench my fingers tightly around the sturdy arm enveloping me like a shield. My rescuer meets my startled gaze, his eyes like metal left out during an unforgiving winter storm and surrounded by a torrent of jet-black lashes. But—hisface.
A symmetrical masterpiece of creation. Angular, sharp,beautiful.His nose, straight and adorned with a faint scattering of freckles bearing testament to hours spent under an unforgiving sun, leads down to stern lips that are slightly parted as he catches his own heavy breaths. His scent is mind-blowing—leather, gunpowder, and underlying it all, a crisp note resembling the sea breeze mingling with forest pine.
Relief floods through me so fast, I fail to immediately register the jagged scar marring the perfection, running like acrooked river from the corner of his jaw and curving under his left brow.
Which, if I were in a better mental state, could signify he’s not my savior but a potential kidnapper.