Page 102 of Ruthless Consequences

“Son of bitch!” I yelled in the middle of the sidewalk after I patted my pockets. I never left my phone anywhere, especially given the sub rosa nature of my business. There was a reason why so many in the underworld trusted me with their secrets. I held my tongue because I valued it. Even though Tigran could snoop all he wanted, I still didn’t like leaving my cellphone. Especially if he answered and someone he didn’t like was on the other end.

Or what if my sister called? It wasn’t something she needed to know about. That I’d just screwed her uncle-in-law.

By the time I reached his penthouse, I’d ditched my coffee and bagel and was out of breath. It wasn’t because of the walk. Being lost in my feels had me off balance.

“Tigran!” I banged on his door. “I know you’re in there. Let me in!”

At first, I thought he’d opened the door, but the door was already open when I’d hit it. It slowly moved and I let myself in. Right away, a chill moved up my spine. I’d been around this life long enough to know when to listen to my gut. It was screaming at me. And besides, my gut couldn’t come up with that smell. It wasn’t rotten, but fresh.

Blood. And lots of it. It was hard to put into words the scent of it when gallons of it had been spilled.

I covered my face with part of my blazer. “Tigran,” I whispered, taking slow steps toward his room, my heart stuck in my throat. If it beat any harder, it would have jumped clear out of my mouth. I could usually detach myself from these situations. And had on many occasions. I knew this man, though. I’d just slept with him. The smell of his cologne and sweat still wafted off my body.

My hand reached out to grasp the doorframe when I came to the bathroom. The scene was a literal bloodbath. I couldn’t even see the tile floor. Tigran lay in the middle of it, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, his face contorted into a frozen mask of pain. Steam wafted in the air, carrying the scent, making it stick to me like perfume created from a massacre.

A knife had split his chest open, and where his heart should have been, there was a void. Except it wasn’t totally empty.

The picture of Rosaria Caffi took its place.

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