Page 285 of Don’t Say Mafia

He clapped me on the shoulder, harder than necessary, because he hated that nickname. “Go get your girl, Thatcher. And hey—if she does realize what’s wrong with you and you end up shot, I’ll be sure to blare Taylor Swift at your funeral, as you have requested.”

I rolled my eyes but of course didn’t argue with him; that was in my funeral wishes.

Jumping out of the ring, I rubbed a towel over my face and let Cruz’s little eviction fantasy roll around in my head.

A leak. Mold. Structural damage.

Those were all way too temporary and way too reversible. If she thought there was even a chance she could go back, she would. She’d cling to that place out of spite alone. If I was going to do this, it needed to be final.

I ran through the list in my head as though I was planning a grocery run instead of arson. Gasoline. Something that would make it catch fast. Maybe a timer so I wouldn’t have to linger. Matches in case the first spark failed. Gloves. A dark hoodie—nothing memorable, nothing that would stick.

I’d swing by the stash at the warehouse on Fifth, load up what I needed, then head to her place.

I didn’t want her inconvenienced . . . I wanted her untethered.

She’d lose the apartment that was the last place that reminded her of him. When the fire took everything, she’d have nowhere to go but to me. She’d hate it, and I was sure she’d try to fight me. But this time, no matter what . . . there’d be no running.

I tossed the towel over my shoulder and nodded at Maddox. “Want to help me with something fun?” I asked as I nodded toward the locker room.

“Always,” he said with a smirk.

“Good boy,” I told him, and I snorted when he scowled.

Shooting a goodbye to Cruz, I turned and walked off, already planning . . .to make her world burn.

CHAPTER 24

EDEN

Sirens cut through the night air, echoing down the block like they did more often than not. Where I lived, there was always noise like that. You learned quickly not to react to every emergency that wasn’t yours.

I turned the corner and stopped dead.

Police cars lined the road in front of me, their lights flooding the street, painting everything in harsh red and blue. A fire truck dominated the curb, a thick hose stretching and snaking across the asphalt. A few yards away, an ambulance idled with its back doors open, EMTs moving briskly in and out. Knots of people were pressed together behind tape, murmuring and pointing at the scene.

It took a second for my brain to catch up that this was all happening in front of my apartment building.

My bag slipped down my arm as I broke into a run, the smell hitting me before anything else did. Smoke hung in the air, curling out of the open stairwell like the building itself was exhaling. I pushed through the edge of the crowd, my heart pounding as I stared at the firefighters moving up and down the stairs. One of them came down carrying something blackened and unrecognizable, cradled carefully in his arms. My stomach twisted violently.

“Hey,” I said as I grabbed the sleeve of another firefighter as he passed. “What happened? Is . . . is everyone okay?”

He slowed, turning toward me, his face streaked with sweat. “Yeah,” he said. “Everyone’s fine. No injuries.”

I nodded in relief at that news. “What happened?”

“I can’t comment on that, ma’am,” he replied. “The fire spread quickly, but we got it under control before it took the rest of the building with it. If this is your building, you got lucky.”

Lucky.

The word rang in my head like a cracked bell, all wrong, because lucky was the last thing I’d ever call myself . . . I immediately began to panic.

I swallowed. “Which apartment?” I whispered.

“What did you say?” he asked, leaning toward me.

I cleared my throat. “Which apartment had the fire?”

He hesitated, studying my face and starting to look concerned. Then he glanced down at his clipboard. “Unit Twelve.”