Page 23 of Black Heart

“I won’t lie to you,” I begin. “I can’t simply kill you. I have to send a message.”

When I’m finished stuffing as much licorice into his mouth as I can, I take the plastic bag the candy was in and twist it.

“Ready?” I ask.

Madman shakes his head in denial, his cheeks bulging like a poor, cornered chipmunk.

“Swallow,” I command.

His head bobs as he works to ingest the licorice, his hairmatted with sweat, his face more scarlet than the candy. When I notice the bulge in his throat, I take the bag and tie it tightly around the man’s neck, creating a tourniquet that works nicely with his sweetened suffocation.

“You do get a quick death,” I explain to Madman as the chair bucks beneath him and his garbled cries transform into chokes. “But I never said it wouldn’t be traumatizing.”

9

LAYLA

My cubicle mate, Ethan, is hunched over his computer and typing like a madman when I walk into our office.

“Morning, Layla,” he says without looking up from his screen. “If you hear me talking to myself today, just ignore it. I’m debugging code, not slowly losing my mind. Well, at least that’s what I keep telling myself.”

I smile when I take my seat next to him. “Got it. If I hear any arguments, should I side with you or the other you?”

He grins, his glasses reflecting the scrolling code. “Always side with the me that’s winning. It’s good for morale.”

As I stare at my black screen, my stomach churns. Somewhere in this sea of data hides the secret AI responsible for my current predicament. What else does it know? What else is it capable of?

Sensing my wary study, Ethan finally looks up, his forehead puckering.

“Rough night? You look like you’ve been battling some serious code. Or a dragon. Though I guess in our world, bad code is the dragon.”

I huff in amusement. “Let’s just say I had a night of intense ... Netflix bingeing. You know, the kind where you have to keep reminding yourself that sleep is actually a necessary human function.”

“Ah, the Netflix vortex. Dangerous territory. I once watched an entire series about hacking into government databases. For research purposes, of course.”

“Of course. Purely academic.”

I force myself to wake up my computer and act like this is another normal Wednesday and not another day I’ve managed not to get killed. My furtive glances above my computer to check for any sign of danger might give me away, though.

Despite my nerves, returning to work was intentional. As tempting as it is to disappear and assume a new identity, I don’t have the money for it. I barely have enough to cover my current cost of living. I can’t suddenly quit and run underground, mostly because I wouldn’t know the first way to do that. Instead, I scampered back to my home like a spooked possum since I didn’t know what else to do after my watcher bluntly explained that Mafia people wanted me dead.

Which he then assured me would never happen because he’s deigned himself my stalker. No, sorry,protector.

This very large man has invaded my home, chased me down in a forest, terrified me, yet I keep returning to the time he saved me, and I finally got a good look at him.

Because yes, I’ve done the math.

He was a good two heads taller than me but lean in the most lethal way. Same with my watcher. In the forest, he was dressed entirely in black tactical gear. The thin material covered his arms and enhanced the ridges of muscle under his skin. His hands hung loosely by his sides, but his fingers curved in a way that could strike at any moment. His face was partially obscured by a plain black ball cap, pulled low over hisbrow, with a hood from his shirt covering the rest, but it wasn’t enough to hide the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jawline.

I wasn’t afraid of his scar during the day, like I should’ve been, and what it could represent. The scar somehow adds to his allure, a flawed perfection. In fact, I can’t picture himwithoutit, though there must have been a time when he was flawless.

He’s a predator, and I’m his prey, yet part of me yearns to close the distance, to understand the man behind the scar, the gear, and the tormented stare.

Maybe he’s lying, and no one is after me. It’s been three days—five since I recorded a conversation that’s changed my life—and nothing’s happened. Maybe he’s cornering me for his own sadistic pleasure and said the name “Morelli” as a red herring. As soon as I looked it up, there was only one Morelli family to be concerned about—the most vicious Mafia on the West Coast.

However I want to label it, my new stalker is both the most terrifying and compelling person I’ve ever encountered.

“Want some?”

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