Page 79 of Black Heart

“The girl!” the man gasps out as if overjoyed that he can provide the answer without difficulty. “She went through the exit door to the stairs. That’s all I know. I fucking swear. Please, guy…”

I press the blade to his throat, the steel kissing his skin. “If you touched her...”

The man’s eyes widen in terror, pupils constricting to pinpricks.

“No, no, I didn’t!” he babbles. “I just grabbed her arm, that’s all. I swear on my mother’s grave!”

“Swear on your own grave,” I say with enough malice to split our shared air in half. “You’ll be in it soon enough.”

I slash the knife across his throat, crafting a scarlet smile from ear to ear.

Blood gushes, splattering the cubicle walls in abstract arcs. His body convulses, his useless, crooked fingers scrabbling at his neck.

I watch dispassionately as the light fades from his eyes.

I feel nothing. No remorse. No satisfaction. Just a cold, empty void where my spirit used to be.

I leave the corpse sprawled on the office floor, blood puddling around him, then stride down the hallway to the stairwell door and yank it open, the metal clanging against concrete. The stairs are somewhat lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering and buzzing like dying fireflies.

I pause, head cocked, listening for any sign of Layla.

Peering over the railing, I gauge which direction I should go. Up to the VIP room to confront Morelli directly? Or down to the server room to protect Layla?

The basement or the rooftop. Of course it has to be opposite ends of the building.

I weigh the possibilities. Layla is brilliant but guileless, driven by a misplaced sense of justice. She doesn’t understand the true depths of human depravity, the lengths men like Morelli will go to protect their interests.

If she tries to take on Morelli alone ... if she’s cornered by any member of a crime family, idiot brute or otherwise, she may not be so lucky next time.

I clutch the banister to the point that it whines in distress, torn between two conflicting desires. The primal, vengeful part of me yearns to charge up these stairs and continue to add crimson pieces to my museum of art, the most prized being the blood of the man who murdered my baby girl.

But downstairs contains another precious gift. Layla.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, drawing my attention. I frown when I pull it out and read the screen.

It’s a text from Layla, which is impossible because she purposely left her phone at home, but I read it anyway.

Hi so this is Ethan. I found Layla’s phone on the floor and plugged it in to charge. Layla told me to come back and tell you Morelli’s at Pulse somewhere. She’s there too and I’m worried about her. I don’t have your number but saw that the only contact in this phone other than me is Jerk and I assume that’s you, Kaden? I’m sorry please don’t kill me.

I suck on a tooth while scrolling through the message. The kid’s terror is palpable even through a screen. Layla certainly knows how to pick her accomplices. This one’s about as threatening as a marshmallow. My thumbs tap on the screen, composing a terse reply.

I’m already here. And Ethan? Breathe. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have had time to send that text. Stay at the house to remain safe. And feed Reaper.

I pocket the phone and take a step, but it buzzes again almost immediately. Sighing, I fish it back out.

Ethan: Feed Reaper? Is that some kind of assassin code? Like, am I supposed to lure someone named Reaper with snacks so you can ... you know what, I don’t want to know. I’ll just stay here and definitely NOT google “how to feed the Grim Reaper” or “do supernatural entities prefer wet or dry food.” Nope. Not me. I’m just a simple coder who’s suddenly very interested in learning SQL injection. For completely innocent reasons.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling slowly. This kid might give me an aneurysm before Morelli ever gets the chance. With a swift, annoyed motion, I type out one last message.

It’s my cat, you idiot. Dry food. Top shelf.

Shaking my head, I silence the phone and shove it deep into my pocket. Enough distractions.

I’m at war with myself, the Scythe and Kaden battling for dominance within the fortress I’ve made of my mind. The Scythe demands blood, craves the visceral satisfaction of watching Morelli choke on his own stomach acid as I gut him.

But Kaden, the broken man beneath the mask, the father who failed to protect his little girl, needs something else entirely. He needs to shield the woman who’s come to mean more to him than vengeance itself. The one who’s slowly, painfully, stitching his shattered heart back together with her quicksilver smiles and unbreakable spirit.

I take the stairs two at a time, my boots scarcely making a sound on the concrete steps.

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