Page 12

Men who earn their living hurting others don’t pay for children’s surgeries out of simple kindness. They do it for leverage. And it doesn’t take a psychic to tell who he’s trying to trap in a web.

“I’m going home.” I peel myself out of the chair, grab my bag, and brush past Jenna, who stares at me with big, placating eyes.

“This isn’t all that bad, ya know?” Her singsong voice chases me as I march off. “A kid gets taken care of with no strings attached. That’s a good thing, Lu.”

I pause at the door and shake my head. “Oh, there are strings attached, Jen. I just don’t know what they are yet.”

In my apartment, Matteo’s photo peers down from the mantle. He’s smiling like he knows a secret I don’t.

I’ve searched Marco’s name twice in two nights. The internet confirms his rise to kickboxing stardom, the doping scandal that ruined his reputation, and his disappearance from that world.

His social media went dark two years ago. But deeper in the results, I find an older video featuring a younger Marco with sweat-slicked hair. He’s sporting a wide-toothed grin as he thanks his team after a fight. He waves at someone ringside who waves back, and I freeze the frame.

I zoom in on a man with a diamond necklace in the shape of two letters, and with every enlarged pixel, the jewelry seems to gleam in the light.

B.C.

My pulse stutters, and my feet carry me automatically toward my bedroom. Matteo’s notebook sits where it always does, hidden behind old textbooks. I yank it out with shaking fingers and flip to the page with the torn corner. It’s burned into my memory.

Supplier contact. High-level trafficking. Athletic medical background. Kickboxing trainer.

The room shrinks around me. I look from the notebook to the screen and back again.

Matteo’s last words to me were those initials. B.C. My patient was once trained by a man named Bruno Caruso, who literally wears those initials around his neck.

I retrieve the manila folder that Matteo kept with the notebook, one I rarely sift through. The file contains large blown-up photos of people that I neither know nor can identify. However, tonight’s query reveals two snapshots of the same Bruno Caruso. He stands in groups with other people in the pictures, looking larger than life, like he’s someone to be respected.

I sink into my couch, air leaving my lungs in a rush.

I’ve never been much of a believer in fate or any kind of mumbo-jumbo that signifies that life is predestined or things happen for a reason. But right now, it’s hard to make sense of what has just happened without linking some kind of aligned kismet. How do I freaking explain running into two people yesterday that seem to have some sort of connection with the one thing that’s kept me up all night for the past three years?

Not a coincidence. A filthy, violent thread that connects my brother’s death with the dangerous man who paid my patient’s hospital bill.

My hands tremble in my lap. Matteo died because he wouldn’t stop tugging at threads like this one.

Marco Santori might be the key to finding out why someone killed him…and who.

I pace in my room for half the night, then toss and turn for the other half until the sun rises. All the while, my mind tears itself to indecisive pieces.

My precise, clear reasoning indicates that I should stay away. Marco’s a ruthless criminal and a symbol of what ripped my family apart.

Except, Marco also just paid forty-three thousand dollars to save a child he didn’t know.

My mind churns as I throw on a mix of clothes and rush out for my next shift. Marco Santori could be the key to finally loosening this knot in my chest. I can use him to dig into Bruno Caruso. That means I’d have to go along, let whatever string he thinks he’s attached to me with his charity pull us close, and then I’ll have my chance.

It’s a simple plan that makes simple sense, but that logic still doesn’t explain why my pulse jumps when I think about looking into those mesmerizing brown eyes again.

He’s a dangerous man, and I’d be playing a dangerous game, but I can’t deny my excitement.

After my shift, I rip out the tie that holds my hair in a straight ponytail and head for the staff parking garage.

I always park on the east side of the hospital. The lot fills by noon, and the garage has better lighting after dark. That hasn’t meant much to me until today.

Marco Santori’s leaning against my little black Honda Civic like it belongs to him.

I almost don’t recognize him in his casual dark jeans and that black leather jacket. His once Targaryen-like hair is now a shade of brown that matches the dark stubble on his chin.

As his predatory and unreadable coffee-colored eyes track me, all of my senses light up at once, and a deep buzz thrums just under my skin.