Page 10 of Only for Him
I openthe precinct door at 7:11 a.m., exactly one minute after I meant to, which means I’m off my game.
This morning is a thousand miles away from last night, but the feeling lingers.
I don’t dream often, but when I do, they’re always the same.
Hands reaching for me through water. A scream trapped in my throat. Serena, somewhere just out of reach, always walking away. Always barefoot.
And last night… blue eyes in the dark.
Before I can even drop my bag at my desk, a shadow blocks the sun from the windows. It’s Captain Russo, equal parts boss and adoptive father-figure since the day I became a homicide detective.
His tie is already loose, five o’clock shadow clinging to his jaw despite how early it is, and his voice comes at me sideways.
“My office, Cantiano. Now.”
There’s a rhythm to the summons: a demand, a name, and no wasted syllables.
I don’t argue as I follow him through the glass-walled corridor, past the photo array of dead and retired cops and into his office. In true Russo fashion, its walls are plastered in degrees rather than family photos.
The man has lived an efficient life.
He doesn’t sit, but stands behind the desk and gestures for me to close the door. I obey, and he waits until the click.
“Have a seat, G.”
I drop into the battered vinyl chair, posture stiff and at attention as he pulls together a stack of papers.
“Councilman James MacDougal,” he says, finally, and the name lands on the desk like a stone. It’s early, but already I feel a day’s worth of tension and anger flood into my body. Just his name makes me tighten and coil, a painful and unsatisfiable anticipation. My jaw clenches hard enough to cramp.
I nod. “Didn’t show for the gala last night. I know.”
“Well, turns out there’s a reason why.” Russo grunts as he pushes a folder my way. “He’s dead.”
“You serious?” I guess, fighting desperately to keep a grin from spreading across my face.
Fucker probably died in his sleep, or dick-deep in a teenage girl fighting back tears. Both of those options are too good for him.
Russo nods. “Someone made a goddamn mess of him.”
“Where?” My voice is flat, but there’s static in my skull. Or maybe it’s applause. Something flushes down my spine. Something… sweet.
“His penthouse on Billionaire’s Row. Housekeeper found him this morning. Scene is locked down. No forced entry, nothing that would make it an easy case.”
“Why us, Captain?” I shake my head, trying to hide the tendrils of pleasure that are sweeping across my nerves. “Manhattan murders aren’t exactly Bronx jurisdiction.”
He points to the file folder that I’ve yet to open. “See for yourself.”
Slowly, I open the folder. The first photo is what’s left of MacDougal’s face. The skin is gray, the jaw slack. His eyes are open and ringed with bruises, but it’s the throat that draws my focus.
There’s a precise, horizontal slit. And the blood has dried into a black scarf.
I can’t help but remember my own gesture last night outside of the gala.
On the next page, a picture of his corpsesplayed on a mattress, wrists bound, torso scored with a grid of fine puncture wounds. He is naked, and I’m shamefully gratified to see that he’s missing at least one organ—the one usually menacing the world from between his legs.
A single, ecstatic pulse of relief overwhelms me. My head doesn’t hurt, my teeth don’t grind, and my joints relax. For a moment, I feel happy. Genuine, uncomplicated, liberating contentment.
Almost as good as an orgasm.
