Page 37 of Vicious Hearts

8

CILLIAN

This.This is where she lives. Where she sleeps.

My eyes stab through the darkness, then close, my nose inhaling the lingering, intoxicating scent of her in the air.

Relishing it. Luxuriating in it.

Turning, I creep silently across the floor to stand before the picture of myself on the wall. Me, as well as a myriad of other people I know and call family. Neve, Eilish, Castle, Ares. Christ, she’s even got the Drakos matriarch, Ares’ grandmother Dimitra. Though to be fair, that tiny little old Greek grandma might be one of the most fearsome individuals I know.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen this “wall of targets”. Just as it’s not the first time I’ve been inside of Una’s shit-hole of an apartment.

Actually, it’s becoming a problem. I’ve been coming herefartoo often over the last two weeks.

At first, Club Venom was tight-lipped, even tome, when I made my request. After all, I’m hardly the only gangster who pays good money to be a member there, and their policy on tracking guests once they leave the club is crystal clear.

But then I took off my mask of humanity and gave the operating manager a small taste of the blackness swirling in my soul.

No, he’s not dead. There wasn’t even any blood. There very much wasabout to be. But the spineless little shit caved the second I locked his office door and pulled out my knife with the promise of separating him from one or two of his fingers.

That, or he finally realizedexactlywho I was. Either way, he was quickly able to confirm that, yes, a certain Jenny Miller had in fact left Club Venom the other night without turning in her red and gold bracelet at the front door on the way out.

And yes,certainlyhe could track its whereabouts via its chip, which is what led me here, to this shit-hole in Hell’s Kitchen, which is particularly shitty even by Hell’s Kitchen standards.

Where she—notJenny Miller—lives.

The first time I saw her “wall of targets”, my first instinct was to put my entire family on immediate lockdown and suggest to Ares he do the same with his. But then I realized the significance of the circle around my picture, that it’s me in the middle of it all.

I’m first. And the more I look at this wall, the more I’m convinced there’s a hierarchy here.

Mineis the only picture on the wall that has a detailed list of my schedule, the places I go, the model of the car I drive and more listed next to it. The rest are just names and pictures.

She’s being methodical. Or maybe there’s some mental issue at play here. But whatever it is, I’m first, and she doesn’t appear to want, or even be able, to move down her list until I’m taken care of. Which is oddly comforting. Because I’m a hard fucker to kill.

So. The rest are safe so long as she doesn’t get me. And that’s the only reason I haven’t struck first and killed her. I need to trap her and see who she’s working with, or for.

Or at least…that’s what I keeptellingmyself is the reason I haven’t simply eliminated her already when I easily could have.

I step back from the wall, frowning.

Yeah, it’s becoming a problem that I’m here so often.

As if I need any more convincing of that, a fuzzy head rubs against my shin. I glance down, arching a brow at the black and white cat.

“Me again,” I growl quietly.

The cat meows, looking up at me hungrily. He’s also getting far too used to this.

I pull a can of wet cat food from my pocket. The cat licks his lips as I peel the lid back and pour the sloppy contents into his little bowl next to the tiny refrigerator. He immediately digs in like a ravenous beast as I step back, slipping the can into a ziplock bag and putting it back in my jacket pocket.

“Make sure to eat all the evidence.”

As if he needs to be told twice. I scowl when I open the cupboard and glare at the meager contents.

She doesn’t eat nearly enough.

In the bathroom, I poke through the trash, my scowl deepening when I find them: the two snapped burner phones from days ago, still in there. Which means her handler, or whoever is calling the shots here, hasn’t reached out since.

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