Page 1 of Lethal Attraction

Chapter one

Thalia

There’s nothing I love more than a fucking headshot.

Maybe it’s the way skull fragments shatter, scattering into a million little pieces as they separate from the flesh.

Or maybe it’s the way blood paints across anything in its path, leaving a soaked canvas of abstract art in its wake.

Or maybe I just really like the way heads go pop.

Whatever it is, it’s what causes me to level my M243 along the roof’s ledge. My target is a large man named Arthur Stout—and I’m not meaning in appearance. Visually, he’s your typical rounded guy with a saggy neck and a horrible grey comb-over that went out of style in the late nineties. Everywhere he goes, his baggy cheeks pull up into a too-bright smile, and he overstuffs his pockets with the money of the innocent.

He’s big because of his connections—the power he wields over the lower class. He’s a fucking leech, taking from the poor and giving nothing in return as he attempts to secure his spot as mayor of Miami. After compiling his profile, I found far more nefarious things lurking in his background.

Crooked deals to get innocent people locked away for life if they were a threat to his growing figure, money laundering, and the worst of all, trafficking.

Bitterness and disgust with this man swirl in my gut as I stare at him through the scope. I’m usually prone to up-close kills, but being in his vicinity has something much darker arising in me. During special cases like this, I don’t take my normal route and get close to the target. Psychological torture is my forte, but this man deserves to be taken out before he can hurt anyone further.

My past can be attributed to that. My teeth grit as the lessons my mother drilled into me ricochet around my psyche.

“Thalia,” she said, staring down at me with her usual look of displeasure that she masked easily as motherly doting. “No man will take you seriously. Use what you have against them. Your looks are the only thing you have at your disposal.”

As I panted on the sparring mat, my lip busted and gushing blood and my eyes swelling shut from the beating our father forced Atlas to put me through, she had no idea that I was imagining slicing into the artery of her neck. I didn’t speak, but she didn’t need me to.

“One day, you’ll thank me for this. Go and clean yourself up. Next time you’ll know to block your face better.” She sneered, turning her back on me.

If I had not been beaten beyond recognition and exhausted, I would have jumped on her back, wrapped my forearm around her throat, and listened to her choke as I strangled the life out of her.

“Don’t,” Rowan’s voice whispered from behind me before he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t stoop to her level.”

I spat the pooling blood in my mouth onto the mat before wiping the trail left on my chin. “I hate her.”

My oldest brother took me into his arms, rubbing a comforting hand across my shoulders. In this world, it’s the only solace I’ll ever get, so I bunched his shirt into my fists as I melted into his embrace.

“I know you do,” Rowan said softly.

Atlas stood behind my oldest brother, his expression downcast and his knuckles bloodied. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I released Rowan before linking elbows with my sibling, with whom I have the most in common. Atlas can be heartless at times, but he was always protective of me. Both of my brothers were.

I was only glad to hold some emblem of peace in the fucked-up world we were forced into, and I knew that sparing days hurt them just as much as it hurt me.

Those horrid memories have created a flame beneath me from the very beginning. By the time I turned sixteen, I didn’t care about keeping my head. I learned to thrive in the insanity, and it finally felt good to let go of trying to be okay. I wasn’t normal, and I was tired of hiding it.

I knew I wouldn’t be free until Jack, our father, was dealt with. I was frothing at the maw day and night as Rowan concocted his plan to take over the Midwestern branch.

But it wasn’t Jack I was itching to turn into a canvas. I couldn’t care less about him, and Atlas wanted his blood.

I wanted to make our mother suffer. She had destroyed my image and self-esteem for years. She had stood by as our own father tortured us and never said a fucking word.

But Rowan made the decision to keep her prisoner on the compound. His choice wasn’t for completely selfish reasons. Our mother is the daughter of the West Syndicate leader, and basically untouchable unless we want to incite a war among branches. While Rowan’s hold over our branch was still fragile, he didn’t want to bring unnecessary violence to our doorstep by provoking our withering, sorry sack of shit grandfather who never so much as visited us.

I only know his face from photos, and I would prefer to keep it that way. He has no place among the Midwestern branch.

People say time heals all wounds, but I’ve picked at mine like a rabid animal, finding little ways to keep what makes me feel something.

The twinkling chime of my phone pulls my attention as I dig it out of my pocket. The notification for Loxley’s baby shower scrolls across my screen and I curse.