He pauses, sucking in a breath.
“I think,” he says slowly, “you should let me run a deeper background check on Cross.”
I stare at him for a beat too long, then scoff. “Yeah? No shit.”
He doesn’t flinch, but his posture shifts, and I turn away before the urge to knock his teeth in wins.
“Do it,” I mutter, my voice like gravel. “But don’t leave a trace. If he catches wind of it, I’ll be peeling your skin off before breakfast.”
Luca nods. “Understood.”
As soon as he turns to leave, my twisted thoughts begin to spiral.
If Julian Cross has been playing me from the start, if he’s got blood on his hands tied to Braga or anyone else…
He won’t need to worry about the bullet in his shoulder.
He’ll bebeggingfor it by the time I’m done.
I shouldn’t care.
I keep telling myself that, over and over.
But the longer I stare at the closed bedroom door, the more I realize I’m not walking away from this.
Not until Iunderstandhim.
Julian Cross: Professional liar. Smooth-talking son of a bitch.
And maybe the only man alive who doesn’t flinch when I raise my voice. The only one who gets under my skin just by breathing near me.
HeknewBraga.
He admitted it. Said he worked for him as a P.I, said he bailed because Braga was too controlling.
But the man I talked to in that basement painted a different picture.
And I’ve learned to trust two things in life: blood, and what comes out of a man’s mouthright beforeI cut off his fingers.
So now I’m standing outside the door to my own goddamn bedroom, trying to decide if I’m going to play this like an interrogation or a seduction.
Both have their uses. Both get results.
I open the door.
Julian’s pacing by the window, shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled up. He glances over when I walk in, eyes tired but alert.
“I thought you said you didn’t need my help.”
I shrug, letting the door close behind me. “I changed my mind.”
“You never change your mind,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Should I be worried?”
“If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t see it coming.”
He scoffs.
“What do youwant,Nico?”