Page 8 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I usually don’t take hate bait from anyone, but this man has pressed one too many buttons in one night.

Now who is seeing red? Visibly flustered, the detective slams a heavy fist down on the table.

“Now, listen you little–”

“Sorry, Detective. Did I hit a little too close to home? Don't like being judged? Don’t do it to others when you know nothing about them.” I pause and lean in a fraction. “From where I’m sitting, you don’t deserve your badge, much less the title of detective,” I calmly tell him. “Now is there a real detective here who can help me or do I need to go see your superior?”

I have no idea if I can even walk out of here given what I’ve already told this man much less call in his superior. Hell, I’m a prime suspect in a murder, right? But the way his face goes pale tells me he doesn’t want his superior in here.

"No need for that." He stands. "Give me a minute. I'm going to make a call and we'll get this sorted out for you."

Mr. Frumpy and Unhappy steps out of the room, and closes the door behind him.

Sorted out? Those two words leave a bad taste in my mouth. Dread sinks in and my palms become sweaty as I mull over how he’s going to sort out anything when I’m telling the man there’s a dead body behind my flower shop.

Deep down the bitter acid burning a hole in my stomach tells me I already know the answer to my questions.

Through the frosted glass I can make out the detective’s silhouette. The phone comes up. His shoulders angle away from me, his free hand cupping the receiver against his chest.

My hand goes to the locket at my throat. I press it flat against my skin and inhale to steady my nerves.

Less than a minute later, the detective comes back, settles into his chair, and slides a business card across the desk.

"We'll look into this, Ms. Vale. Best thing for you right now is to go home, lock your doors. We'll be in touch."

“That’s it? You think I’m lying or something? I’m not.”

“We will be in contact.” His tone is cold, final.

He doesn't take a formal statement, show me photographs or offer me a safe ride home. He doesn't ask a single follow-up question about the weapon, the two tanks on feet, or why my ex-boyfriend is executing men in alleys. He just sits there with his hands folded on his desk and a mouth moving with a script someone else wrote for him.

I pick up the card. My thumb runs over the embossed lettering and a bitter laugh scrapes up my throat because the card stock is expensive. Way too heavy for a city employee.

"Thank you," I grind out, but I swear to the Heavens above those two polite words cost me more than anything I've ever spent in my entire life.

The night air slaps my face when I push through the front doors. I'm three steps onto the sidewalk when I look across the street.

Two men stand under a streetlight, loose-shouldered, hands in pockets, doing their best impression of two guys just hanging around at midnight sucking on cigarettes and shooting the breeze.

They're not even trying to hide the fact they are waiting for me. Why would they? I just handed a dirty cop my name and my face on a silver platter. All they have to do is wait for me to go home.

My stomach drops to the soles of my boots.

"Fantastic. Gold star for civic duty, Cora."

I head left and catch them trailing me from the other side of the street.

I walk until the light turns green and releases four lanes of traffic between us.

Then I run.

My calves burn within the first block. My boots slap against the wet pavement. I should have put on double socks this morning to keep them from slipping, but hindsight and all that. Cold air shreds through my lungs with every heavy inhale. If I survive this, I will never skip cardio again.

I cut through alleys I know from delivery routes. I squeeze between the narrow gaps, brushing against the unforgiving brick walls. Open dumpsters reek of old grease and rotting produce as I haul ass down alleyways.

I lose them somewhere around the third turn. Maybe. At least I think I do.

My breathing is ragged and loud against the brick wall I flatten myself against, the mortar rough and cold through the back of my shirt. My palms scrape against the grit as I press harder into it.