Page 13

I sit up. My heart is hammering so hard it hurts. My throat is tight, saliva pooling under my tongue as nausea rolls through me. Please, no. I reach blindly for my bag beside the bed, but my hands shake too hard to work properly. They feel numb and foreign. I search my bag, but there’s no stardust.

I crawl to the walk-in closet on my knees, the floor tilting under me like I am about to slide down. I keep a reserve under the floorboards. My fingers are useless, clumsy. I can barely get the box open. When I do, I pour powder onto the lid, lean down and inhale.

Silence. The world stops. My heart beats once. Twice. Slow.

Feeling comes back into my hands.

I lie down on the floor and stay there. I don’t know how long. Eventually I get up, pull myself together and try to face the day.

I have a day run to take care of. And I just fucked up royally. I need to go to Vito Caruso, the boss Caruso, who ordered ten grams of stardust. The same ten grams that were in the box. Except I just snorted about two of them.

Fuck.

I tie my hair back, put on a YSL leather jacket and black cap, and get in the car. It’s raining like hell. Water lashes the windshield hard enough to blur the whole city into gray streaks and red brake lights. Sava drives me to the Pit. The werewolf district. It used to be more of a blue-collar area, but now that’s slowly changing. Luxury developments creep in from the edges, glass towers growing beside old brick warehouses. But Vito Caruso still likes to operate out of industrial buildings, to remember where he came from.

When we get there, security waves me through, and I walk into a hangar the size of a city block. They’ve got everything in here. Contraband, storage crates, gym equipment, weapons, and an octagon where two wolves beat the shit out of each other while others watch and shout. Wolf always stays wolf, no matter how expensive the suit gets.

They walk me up metal stairs to the office. I take my hat off when we get inside.

Vito Caruso sits behind his desk, displaying the full elegance of an Italian wolf. Black hair touched with silver, same with the beard, tattoos spilling from beneath his white cuffs onto large hands, muscle filling out his shirt beneath a grey suit. Age hasn’t softened him.

“Lara,” he says in a deep voice.

“Mr. Caruso,” I respond with excessive politeness. He used to rip people’s heads off. Literally. And I’m already in trouble.

A gold Vacheron Constantin shines on his wrist as he leans back. It probably cost more than most people’s apartments.

They say the devil works hard, but Vito Caruso works harder. He came from a poor Italian family and clawed his way to the top through discipline, brutality and an impressive willingness to murder anyone blocking his path. He united the wolves in Midnight City, then traded street violence for business because real money comes from investments, not robberies.

When I take the product out, his shoulders tense and something like a growl escapes him. The beast sits too close to the surface. Way too close. He doesn’t wait for me to leave and racks a line immediately. He must be running on empty. Wolves don’t use stardust for fun, it keeps the animal in control. But every drug has its downside: when it wears off, everything comes back with double force.

He does the line and relaxes.

“How much?”

“I got you eight.”

The word lands wrong.

“Eight.” A metallic tone. “I ordered ten.”

“I know. Supply is short right now. This is the best quality I could get you on short notice.”

I try to keep this professional, but he stares like he expects me to make up the missing two grams in something other than powder. It’s not a secret Vito likes his girls young. And here I am, alone in his office in a building full of werewolves loyal to him. Then again, he knows that I’m his best source of stardust, and a good dealer is harder to replace than a pretty face to fuck. He holds my gaze like we’ve both reached the same conclusion. His rough hands count the money and push it across the desk. I count it again.

“This is for six.”

“I didn’t get exactly what I wanted either.” His voice is flat, and there is no way for me to argue. We both know there is nothing I can do about it. “Next time, try harder.” he adds.

He dismisses me with one flick of his hand. I collect the cash, swallow my pride, and leave. On the stairs, the sounds from the octagon grow louder. I quickly glance down and see one wolf sitting on another’s chest, pounding his face into pulp while the crowd roars. I put my cap back on and get out as fast as I can.

Sava drives us back to the city center, when my phone lights up.

Voss Institute.

“Hi, Valerie. I just paid the bill. Sorry for the delay.”

“Hi, Miss Voss.” Her voice is tight. “It’s not about that. Could you come by? I’d like to talk to you.”