Page 3 of Devil's Thirst

The best thing I can do in response is shine even brighter until normal looks dull and dingy.

I look out the cab window at the brilliant lights splashing color across Manhattan and smile. Nothing about this city is normal, and that’s what makes it epic. Maybe one day the fears will no longer haunt me, and I’ll be epic, too.

CHAPTER 2

SANTE

She lookspeaceful when she sleeps. It would hardly take any effort at all to hold a pillow over her face until she’s resting in a permanent slumber.

I should do it.

She deserves it for planting herself in my memories like a weed that roots itself into the tiniest sidewalk crack. I could concrete over that damn crack every single day, and she’d still find a way to sprout new life.

Four fucking years. I’ve been completely remade from the inside out over the past four years, but the one tiny piece of my past self that I can’t seem to eviscerate is the memory ofher. Amelie Brooks. Cloying and incessant, she’s clung to me like the ink beneath my skin.

She was the only reason I came back to New York. I wanted to prove that the image was a mirage—the same way a kid imagines Santa in all his kind-hearted glory when reality is closer to a haggard retiree who’s overly fond of coaxing children to sit on his lap.

It’s amazing what a good pair of rose-colored glasses can do.

Now that I’ve crushed those fucking glasses beneath the steel toe of my boot, I can see things more clearly. I planned to takeone last look at Amelie, realize how wrong I’d been about her, then get my pathetic ass back home to Sicily and my new life.

That was two weeks ago.

Two weeks of watching and processing the fact that taking off the glasses didn’t change a damn thing.

I’ve had to accept the unfortunate truth that I’m fucking obsessed with Amelie Brooks. Her proximity has only intensified my curiosity. My craving.

So, yeah. My plans are fucked.

I’ll still be putting an end to the matter, but not in the way I’d hoped. That’s fine. I can adapt. Better to be realistic than turn a blind eye to what’s right in front of me. I will never be able to scrape this woman from my mind. Forgetting my past would be a whole lot easier without bringing a piece of it with me, but that’s obviously not an option. The only way to move forward is to make her mine and end the torment. Once I have her, the rest will melt away.

It won’t be easy, though.

She’s not as pliant as I recalled her being that one and only time we met over four years ago. The forested depths of her evergreen eyes are as haunted today as they were back then. It’s her defenses that have changed. She used smiles as camouflage when she was younger, whereas now, her outer layer is cool-tempered steel, able to deflect rather than simply hide.

I could sense when we met that she’d been hurt. The pain was impossible to miss when I saw the same thing in my reflection every time I looked in the mirror, no matter how much I hated to admit it. I was fascinated with the way she smiled through her heartbreak, but it was her irrepressible anguish that sank barbed hooks deep inside me and wouldn’t let go.

When I came back two weeks ago and first saw her dance, I knew it hadn’t been a fluke. She was just as beautifully broken today as she was back then, sealing her fate. My fascination withher grew exponentially in a handful of days until I couldn’t deny my obsession.

Tonight is no different.

I nearly laughed out loud when she stood in that spotlight and tried to intimidate me into putting my cigarette out. I can’t remember the last time someone tried to bully me, especially a woman. Amelie is an endless wellspring of mystery and surprises I can’t wait to unearth.

I lean down and inhale a lungful of the floral scent surrounding her. “Get ready, tiny dancer, because I’m here to stay.” A whispered promise I hope finds its way into her dreams. Maybe it’ll make reality a bit easier to bear if she has a sense of what’s coming. Life for Amelie Brooks is about to change.

I let myself out of her apartment, making sure to lock up—I can’t be letting any old psychopath inside. Not that I’m overly worried. She lives in a nice place, making the next phase of my plan so much more palatable.

Once I’ve left the building, I call the only person who knows the truth about what the hell I’m doing back in Manhattan. Tommy’s my cousin, but he’s more like a brother, and he’s the only person on this earth I’d trust with my life.

While it’s the middle of the night here, I’m not worried about waking him because he’s still back in Sicily. He’ll be midway through his morning routine—first a thorough cleaning of his rifle, then an hour of methodically selected strength and cardio exercises, followed by a breakfast of six scrambled eggs, one slightly green banana, and a slice of sourdough toast with a conservative scraping of real butter. No juice or coffee. Just water. Three cubes of ice. Every day, no deviations.

Some people might see his need for routine and predictability as a flaw, but I appreciate his consistency. With him, no guesswork is required. It’s so fucking refreshing in a world where everyone has ulterior motives.

“Time for you to come over,” I say when he answers my call.

Silence.

“Is this move going to be permanent?” he finally asks.

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