Page 151 of The Beautiful Dead

The faint rumble of idling taxi engines.

Drunken laughter spilled into the streets.

Shattered conversations carried on the mist-thickened air.

Domino lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the hunger in his eyes. Then he passed it to me, his attention already shifting back to Salvatore as he continued speaking.

I inhaled deeply, the burn grounding me as I toyed with the small tracker Ghost had given me. Federico’s last rites were already written.

Across the street, we watched the last of Nocturne’s patrons slip into their waiting cars. Watched as Ghost eased into Domino’s SUV, disappearing into the night to wait for the signal.

We weren’t deluded. We knew this was a trap. That Federico wanted us to come, to play into his hands.

But sometimes, you had to dance with the devil in his own kind of madness.

And Domino?

Domino had never been afraid of fire. Neither of us were afraid of getting burned.

The cherry of the cigarette sizzled out in a puddle at my feet.

A funeral pyre for what came next.

We moved, silent as death itself, crossing the street and slipping into the club through the rear staff entrance. The new locks were intact—but the busted security camera above the door told us everything we needed to know.

Federico had been here.

The air inside was thick with betrayal, with the cloying stench of sweat, sex, and old sins. We ascended the stairs two at a time. My pulse beat against my ribs like a war drum.

The office door was ajar. A sliver of light leaked into the dim corridor, accompanied by the soft rustle of papers, the muttered curses of a man searching for something he would never find.

Domino lifted a hand. A signal to wait.

Gun drawn, he stepped closer. His dark gaze flicked back to mine, pinning me in place, voice a whispered command that wrapped around my spine.

“Stay with me.”

I felt his obsession like a noose around my throat.

“Always.”

His lips parted, just slightly. Satisfaction. Possession. Then he nodded, raised his gun, and nudged the door open.

The silence settled like a coffin lid snapping shut.

I followed him in, blade slipping from its sheath, my free hand still toying with the tracker, rolling it between my fingers.

There he was.Federico.

Bent over Domino’s desk, frantically rifling through drawers, his desperation a tangible thing in the stale air.

He froze.

Then, slowly, he straightened. His ill-fitting suit wrinkled around him, his once-polished appearance now tarnished by exhaustion and failure. The lines on his face had deepened. The bags beneath his eyes were carved trenches of anxiety.

But the hatred?

It burned brightly.

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