Chapter Two

Present...

“Well, hello hotness, how much for a shot of you?”

“You couldn’t afford me, Travis.” Cora laughed. “Now, how about we set you up with your usual?”

She didn’t wait for a response. It would have been some half-baked, sexist garble she’d one day kill him over anyway. Until then, she’d get him a whiskey sour, take his money, and then pour him into a cab at the end of the night. That had been the routine for the better part of six months and neither of them had deterred from that yet.

On the way to the bar, she gathered several empty glasses and scrubbed down the table for the next person. She took two more orders before regaining her usual place behind the tap.

“Still hanging in there, Freddy?” A frosted beer glass was held under the faucet and filled without a single glance away from the middle-aged man sulking into his warm soda. “Need a refill?”

Freddy blinked watery eyes and shook his head mutely.

She set the foamy mug down on a tray and reached over to touch one of the loosely balled fists on either side of the soft drink.

“She never deserved you, sweetie. You’ll find someone better.”

Freddy made no comment, and Cora didn’t push. She took the beer to its rightful table and returned to find Freddy’s stool vacant. His untouched Coke remained exactly where she’d placed it almost an hour before, ringed by a drying circle of condensation.

Cora sighed and cleared it away.

She knew Freddy wouldn’t be back. Like Travis, he was as predictable as the sunrise, right down to his luck with women. It was a shame really. Freddy was such a sweet guy, a bit shy, but he loved so deeply. And a little too quickly, which tended to scare the women when it happened after one date. Yet it never stopped him from trying again. Something she really admired.

“Serving wench!” Bruce waved her over from the other side of the room. “We need another round here.”

Inwardly, she groaned and wondered if it was too late to duck behind the counter. Outwardly, she smiled and poured a round of shots and a pitcher of beer. It was all placed on a tray and taken to the table by the window, the table crammed full of airhead morons with too much muscle and zero common sense. The lot of them packed in every night after six, shouting and swearing, and bullying anyone occupying their table. Then they’d stay there the entire night, drinking each other into a coma and making a world of noise.

Unfortunately, as much as she would have loved to ban them, they singlehandedly forked over enough money in a single week to cover rent for an entire month. That was a gift horse one did not question.

“Here we are.” She placed the pitcher down in the middle. Then the shots.

A few dove for the drinks the moment they hit the tabletop.

A few, gentlemanly enough, thanked her first.

Then there was Bruce.

“When are you going to stop playing hard to get and come home with me?”

The nauseating request was simultaneously followed by the swatting decent of his palm in the direction of her ass.

Cora dodged it before impact and nimbly skirted to safety. “I don’t date customers, Bruce. You know that.”

Built like a linebacker with arms the size of tree trunks and a head much too small for his massive body, Bruce smirked darkly, flashing a neat row of pearly whites that contrasted harshly with his tan complexion.

“Who said anything about dating, doll face?”

Ignoring the comment entirely, she turned to the rest of the table. “I’ll be back with your glasses.”

She left quickly, putting the length of the whole room between her and the creeps in the corner.

It was nights like that when she seriously contemplated hiring someone on. A second set of hands to handle the tables. But Femme Fatale didn’t get busy enough to cover the cost. She had her regulars and the occasional traveler passing by, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t man herself.

“You should look into hiring some muscle,” said the sultry brunette waiting for Cora at the bar. “It’s not safe for a single lady to run a bar alone.”

Not exactly a regular, but she’d seen the woman enough times to recognize her and her preferred drink—scotch. Neat.

Cora poured it while she mulled over the advice.

“Know anyone?” she teased instead, placing the woman’s drink before her.

The woman snorted. “To handle those juicers?” She barked a brittle laugh scratchy with years of smoking. “Not likely. But...” She took a swig of her drink. “There are security companies who hire ex-military guys for jobs like this. That’s what you need, black ops, ninja assassin killers to put those assholes in their place.”

Cora laughed. “I’ll be sure to put that in the ad.”

The woman clicked her tongue and went back to drinking, wordlessly dismissing Cora. But not before watering the seeds of uncertainty Cora had already been harvesting the last few months since Bruce found his way to her little hole in the wall.

A bouncer wasn’t a bad idea. But one wouldn’t be enough to handle the eight gorillas who pumped iron twelve hours a day. She’d need to hire a small army with tactical gear and rifles. Not possible on her budget.

Resigned, Cora returned to loading the dishwasher and scrubbing down tables. The night was closing in on midnight and only a handful of patrons remained slumped over their drinks, nursing away the week. By two am, Bruce’s party had dwindled down to four and those remaining seemed adamant to ignore her final calls.

“I could fuck your world,” Bruce slurred all the way to the door. “You’d never get a better cock.”

He emphasized his appendage by grabbing it through the rough grain of his jeans. The hard length seemed about three inches shorter than most men. Maybe it only looked so small because his hand was too big. Whatever the cause, it never came close to changing her mind.

“Sleep it off, Bruce.”

Rather than compel him to comply as it usually did, he stopped on the threshold and faced her with watery, bloodshot eyes and lips curled back over clenched teeth. He swayed where he stood, but he seemed bigger, angrier. And for the first time, Cora was scared.

“You think you’re too good for me.” He staggered forward a step, forcing Cora to scramble back, but not before he had her wrist caught in a bruising vice so painful, she cried out. “You think you can do better or something.”

“Bruce, you’re drunk. You need to sleep—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

She had a quick flash of the gun she kept behind the counter, and knew instinctively she’d never make it.

“Bruce...”

“Stupid bitch.” He straightened abruptly, causing his massive bulk to jerk back. The unsteady motion released her from his crushing grip. “Who needs your crusty cunt anyway?”

He turned and ambled out. Cora didn’t wait for him to clear the threshold when she slammed the door closed, putting all her weight behind it. The lock made a loud crack snapping into place. Then there was silence, except the deep, terrifying echo of her own heartbeat thundering between her ears. Its reverberating assault rolled along her limbs in tendrils of ice water, numbing their strength until she was slumped against the wood for support.

“It’s okay.” She shut her eyes and repeated the two comforting words until she could swallow without tasting bile. “You’re fine, for Christ sakes. Get a grip.”

Inhaling the familiar scent of her tiny world, a mixture of beer, sweat, lemon floor cleaner, and lingering perfume, Cora shoved off the door and straightened. She tugged down the hem of her tank over the waistband of her jeans, and her gaze dropped to the clear patch of purple and blue forming on her forearm in the exact shape of a man’s hand. There was a thick outline of fingers extending, curling around the delicate bone. The sight of it was a sickening reminder of just how close she’d come to God knew what. It was a reminder that Bruce could have done anything and she had left herself completely vulnerable.

“Stupid!”

Her uncle and her father would be furious if they ever found out. They would be appalled. Years of training her to never be the victim foiled in a single hour.

Christ.

Disgusted by her own stupidity, Cora threw herself into the task of closing for the night. The floors were swept and mopped. The chairs turned over onto the scrubbed table tops. She even stocked up the beer fridge, something she normally left for the morning. But it wasn’t enough to untangle the knot of anger and fear releasing electrical currents through her nerve endings every time she stopped moving. It was as if by doing housework at three in the morning, her mind forgot about the assault and she could breathe without wanting to kick something.

Ultimately, there was nothing left, except to turn in. She double, then triple checked all the windows and doors. She shut off the lights, and made her way through the kitchen to the backstairs leading up to her tiny apartment above.

That had been the selling point for her when the building had gone up for lease. That and nostalgia. Femme Fatale had been called the Fishing Hole back when she used to sneak in and get wasted with her friends. It was the only place in the city that forgot to check IDs for pretty girls. That was also the reason old man Danny had to close shop two years ago. Cora had been sad to see him go, but it had been the perfect opportunity to get a job after college without having to work for someone else. Granted, being a barkeep had come as a surprise even to her, but she loved doing it. She loved the pace and the people ... most days. Plus, it was a good way to put her business degree to work. She knew she wouldn’t want to do it for the rest of her life, but until something better came along, she enjoyed it.

Upstairs, the original, moldy, dusty, storage space had been converted into a single room loft separated by blocks of clear glass. The only thing remaining from the previous design was the massive windows overlooking the street and the tiny bar lights over the kitchen counters.

The idea had been to extend the bar to the second floor, but common sense—and budgeting—had prevailed at the last second and she settled on an apartment. The decision had wound up working for multiple reasons, like only having to pay one rent and never being late for work.

It was the best of both worlds. A fact her parents failed to see, even while her father was co-signing the loan with her. He’d done so with reluctance and a long speech about the dangers of a woman running a bar.

For the first three months after opening, he’d practically lived in one of the booths, casting deadly glowers at anyone who so much as glanced at her twice. It got to the point where it had scared away customers and she had to beg him to leave. But that was the pros and cons of having overindulgent, overprotective parents.

It helped that she was an only child. Growing up, it was just them doing everything together. Her friends at school never understood how she could pass up a chance to party with them for the chance to stay home and watch The Godfather marathon with her dad, or why she’d rather go shopping with her mom. Unlike their parents, hers hadn’t neglected her for work and too much Botox. She had absolutely no reason to be friends with anyone outside her cozy trio. They were her whole world and she couldn’t ask for better.

There was a text message from Elise when Cora checked her phone for the first time that evening. She opened it and grinned at the same two words she sent Cora every single night — call me.

Grinning, Cora hit talk and mashed the phone between her ear and shoulder.

Elise Harris answered on the third ring.

“Don’t you sleep?” Cora teased, making her way around the foot of the bed to the dresser.

“I was sleeping,” yet her rich and elegant purr of a voice bore not a scratch or rasp to back her statement.

“Then why do you keep asking me to call you so late?”

Cora pulled open the top drawer and rifled inside for a pair of comfortable boy shorts. Followed by a long t-shirt. She carried both into the bathroom.

“Because your idea of a profession terrifies me.” Silk sheets rustled on the other end, indicating her mother really had been sleeping, or at least lying there, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for her phone to ring. Cora put her money on the latter. “Honestly, darling, I’m too young to be so anxious. Cora,” Elise said to someone in the background. “Yes, I’ll tell her.” She returned with a discreet clearing of her throat. “Your father says three am is much too late to have strange men in your home. I have to agree.”

Cora laughed. “I’m fine. Really.” She ignored the thrum of pain from Bruce’s handprint and struggled to maintain her carefree tone as she spoke. “I’m about to take a shower, then get into bed.”

Elise made a quiet humming sound. “We’re still on for tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know.” Cora hissed dramatically through her teeth. “I have to talk to my secretary. I might be having lunch with the Prince of Spain.”

“Cora...”

“He’s a prince, Mom. I can’t stand up a prince.”

Elise’s exasperated sigh had Cora struggling not to break into a fit of giggles. “I don’t know what I did in my past lives to deserve such a sarcastic child.”

“You must have saved a ton of kittens from trees,” Cora decided solemnly. “Maybe you were a nun.”

“Goodnight, evil spawn,” her mother muttered, failing miserably to conceal her own amusement.

“Goodnight, saintly mother.”

Elise broke first. Her riotous laughter was the last thing Cora heard before the phone went dead.

Still grinning, she set her phone on the counter and stripped. Her beer infused clothing hit the hamper before she climbed into the standup stall for a scalding shower. The jets beat against her aching muscles and rinsed the day from her skin. The only thing it didn’t do was erase the violent blossom encircling her arm. If anything, it seemed to have grown in color and size. The sight of it almost made her wish she’d had her gun on her.

It also made her contemplate telling her dad. It wasn’t entirely beneath her to tattle, especially if it meant ridding the world of someone capable of hurting a woman. One word to Giovanni De Marco and Bruce would cease to exist, except she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t in her to put an end to another person’s life through cowardice.

Only next time, she was going to be prepared.

Finished, she shut off the shower and climbed out. She dried and changed into her sleeping gear, and crawled straight into bed with wet hair, too exhausted to bother drying or brushing it. That too could wait until morning.

“He doesn’t look like a psychopath, does he?”

Cora followed the line of Deidra Donavan’s gaze to the bar and the tall, lanky frame keeping it in place. The dim lights shone in his thick helmet of hair. The color was something between an oil slick and an ink spill, and equally greasy. It hooked around his ears and over the collar of his busy silk shirt with its three opened buttons. He seemed to be searching for someone; his eyes kept darting over the room at the sophisticated, and slightly drunk, crowd and then away just as quickly, as if he might accidentally catch someone’s gaze. Long, spidery fingers sat curled around a half full tumbler of scotch that glowed faintly under the sharp illumination. But nothing outwardly said, psychopath. He looked like all the other bar crawlers stuffing up the VIP lounge.

“Is he supposed to?” Cora wondered.

“It would certainly make my job easier.” Deidra shifted in her seat, positioning her graceful limbs more comfortably on the crushed velvet. “He sure dresses like he is.”

Cora had never fully grasped Deidra’s sense of humor, and she’d known the woman for almost a decade. There was always something so morbid about it, some element of weird that always went straight over Cora’s head.

But maybe it was just how assassins talked. Maybe if she’d seen half as many dead people as Deidra did in a week, she’d be morbid and weird, too.

“How am I supposed to properly protect your mother if I can’t accurately pinpoint the crazies?” Deidra went on and lifted her glass of water to her lips.

“You’re doing a lovely job,” Elise assured her kindly from across the coffee table.

There wasn’t a single person on earth Cora knew who would hire an assassin as a bodyguard, except her father. Her mother’s safety—in Giovanni’s eyes—required no less than two people at all times, one man, one woman, so Elise was never unprotected. Kevin would have probably been there on girls’ night with them if Cora hadn’t put her foot down. But she liked Deidra. Despite her eerie calm, and ability to pin a fly at fifty paces with a blade, she was almost like an aunt to Cora. A really scary aunt.

Cora set down her martini glass down, realizing she was the only one actually doing any drinking. Deidra never did when she was on duty, and her mother had been nursing the same flute of champagne for the last hour and a half.

“Why am I drinking alone?”

“You’re not, sweetie?” Elise held up her barely touched drink.

Cora wasn’t buying it.

“Why aren’t you drinking?”

Elise’s mouth opened when a familiar buzzing broke into their conversation. Its insistent ringing had her scrambling for her clutch.

“Is that a phone I hear during girls’ night?” Deidra gasped in feigned horror.

“Says the woman scouting for serial killers,” Elise shot back, grinning.

Deidra lunged at the phone Elise pulled from her Gucci clutch. The older woman nimbly dodged the grasping fingers and brought the device to her ear.

“Hello darling,” she said in her fluid, accented purr. “Just sharing a few drinks with the girls.”

“Few.” Cora snorted into the martini glass she lifted once more to her lips. “I’ve had a few. She’s barely had one.”

Her mother shot her a contrived glower of exasperation before returning to her call.

Deidra reclined her willowy frame back against the settee. Her long legs folded, one over the other, lifting the hem of her trouser so the Betty Boop tattoo on her right ankle nearly poked out.

She wore her usual two piece suit in emasculate white. With her caramel complexion and sheet of ebony hair falling in perfect, straight lines around her slender shoulders, Deidra looked more like an Egyptian queen. Not a woman with a license to killer.

But that was the thing about Deidra, she never looked the way people expected. Men saw her as a toy. Women saw her as a threat. Only the latter was actually true.

“Put it away, woman!” The command was followed by the rattle of ice in Deidra’s empty water glass. The clattering sound came out fairly muted under the slow jazz, but it prompted immediate response from their waiter, who materialized as if from thin air and replaced it with a fresh tumbler and vanished. Deidra carried on as if that was completely normal. “You know the rules.”

Elise held up a single finger painted a glossy scarlet to match her sleeveless Versace dress. The fat diamond on her ring finger caught the low overhead lights and sparked.

“Of course. I’ll have Deidra drive me straight over. Yes. I will. Love you as well.” The call was disconnected and the phone was returned to the clutch. The top was snapped shut with authority. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I must cut our evening short.”

“No!” Cora protested, setting her drink down quickly on the iron and glass table. “It’s Friday. It’s the one night of the whole week I can convince Uncle Sal to take over the bar for me.”

Elise pursed her lips in genuine guilt. “I know, darling. I’m sorry. But duty calls.”

That was all that was needed to be said. Any argument Cora may have attempted to make immediately vaporized on her tongue. Even Deidra closed her lips. The corners twisted downwards as she pushed to her feet.

Cora rose when her mother did and circled the coffee table to her side. “Be safe.”

Elise opened her arms and Cora stepped into them. The subtle fragrance of Paris drifted off her and filled Cora’s senses in a familiar embrace of its own.

“I’ll call you,” Elise murmured quietly for her ears only. Then, in a louder voice while drawing back, she added, “I’ll make it up to both of you next weekend. I promise.”

“Too right you will,” Deidra chimed in. “Dinner at Le Verne.”

Elise chuckled. “I look forward to it.” She pressed a kiss to Cora’s cheek before stepping back. “Enjoy the rest of your evening and call me when you get home. I mean it.” She glanced at Deidra. “Give me five minutes to take care of our tab, then we’ll head out.”

With a loving squeeze of Cora’s shoulders, Elise stepped back. She gathered her coat and clutch and stalked in the direction of the bar, her movement fluid and inhumanly graceful. The lights danced over her dark mane, making each coil shimmer with every bounce around her delicate shoulders. Heads—men and women alike—turned to follow her with varying degrees of envy, interest, and even lust. But Elise spared no one a glance. Chin high, eyes focused, she was the only person in the room.

Her mother had been a big time model out of England back in the day. She’d graced magazines, billboards, and had even done a few commercials. Her star had been big and bold, and seemingly unstoppable before she met Cora’s father at a party. Their romance had been a five year long wildfire that led to marriage and then Cora. Thirty years later, they were still in their honeymoon phase with a love that only seemed to grow stronger with every passing year.

Cora could only hope for a relationship that strong.

Elise waved the bartender over and motioned to the table where Cora still occupied. The bartender peered over her shoulder, nodded once and accepted the folded bill she handed him.

Cora regained her seat and lifted her glass. She didn’t normally mix her drinks, but she had a powerful urge to order something stronger. The martini family was no longer enough to pacify the anxious knot that had formed in the pit of her stomach.

“It’ll be fine,” Deidra assured her gently, snatching her coat off the back of her chair. “Elise knows what she’s doing, and I’ll keep her safe.”

There weren’t many people who knew the true nature of Cora’s family business. There definitely weren’t many who understood.

But Deidra came from the life.

She understood.

She accepted and embraced the abnormality that was Cora’s family because her family came from a long line of killers, too.

“I know she does, and I know you will.” Cora took a sip of her sweetened drink. “I just dislike her doing it.”

Deidra lifted a single brow over intense, green eyes, and Cora knew exactly what was coming.

“No.”

“It would ease your mind.”

Cora shook her head. “I’ve worked really hard to keep out of all that.”

Deidra laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Darling, no one keeps out of the family business. You know that. I know that. You’re simply prolonging the inevitable.”

Perhaps.

But she wasn’t made for the crime life, despite having been born into it.

Despite her training, she didn’t have the stomach for the violence and the hard necessities that came with being on top.

She couldn’t sit where her father sat and decide the fate of another person’s next breath.

She couldn’t walk into another person’s home, sit at their table, and tell them their husband had been killed in the line of duty, a task that fell on her mother’s shoulders frequently.

It just wasn’t in her.

Deidra had never had conflicting emotions when it came to duty. She came from an elite legacy of hackers and assassins, each one holding a permanent slot on every government’s most wanted list across the globe. They were the best of the best. The kind of people who could rule the world if they truly set their minds to it.

Deidra was no exception.

She’d hacked into her first bank at the age of twelve, killed her first mark at sixteen. She was fearless, bold, and lethal in a way that both terrified and fascinated Cora.

“Yeah, well,” Cora scowled at her martini glass. “I’m going to prolong it for as long as I can.”

The other woman merely shook her head, knowing that arguing was pointless. Cora hadn’t budged once in twenty-five years. Odds weren’t great she would now.

“So, are you going to tell me who put their hands on you?” She motioned to the bruise carefully concealed beneath the sleeve of Cora’s silk blouse when Cora could do no more than stare. “You didn’t think I’d notice?”

Crawling out of her surprise, Cora lifted her arm and checked for holes in the material. “How...?”

“I’m a trained assassin. I get paid to notice shit.” She took a sip of her water, licked her lips, and set her glass down. “Plus, I saw it earlier when you were in the bathroom, washing your hands. So, who was it?”

Cora shook her head. “It’s nothing. A customer had a little too much to drink. But I handled it.”

Deidra hummed quietly, her intense gaze burning straight through Cora. “Do I need to have a talk with this person about minding their hands?”

The only problem with Deidra’s idea of talking with someone always involved a chair, duct tape, and a sharpened knife. Cora had gone into the other woman’s apartment once to find the place wrapped up in plastic and some naked man taped and gagged in the middle of the living room. It turned out that Deidra had been hired by the man’s wife after beating the shit out of her. Nevertheless, Cora had learned quickly never to let the woman do any of her talking for her.

“I have it covered, but thank you.” The empty martini glass was seamlessly exchanged for a fresh one even before she could swallow the mouthful. “Wow. Service is impressive here.” Needing a slight break from the drinking, she set the glass down and peered at Deidra. “Keep an eye on her, yeah?”

Deidra snorted. “Girl, please, I’m not letting anything near that woman. Oh, there’s my cue. Be good, baby girl.”

Elise had finished with the bartender and was waving one slender arm in the air.

Cora barely had time to say goodbye before Deidra was already pushing through the crowd in her mother’s direction. She watched her dissolve seamlessly into the crowd and disappear from sight. Then it was just her and the realization that she had no life.

Resigned, she gathered up her things, in no mood to be sitting in a bar, drinking alone on a Friday night. She left a generous tip for the waiter, and took to the streets glistening with the rainfall they’d had earlier that evening. The crack of her heels kept her company to the end of the block and the steady rush of traffic, despite the hour sitting at close to midnight.

It was the thing she loved most about her city. It never slept. The people never seemed to go home. They were always out, working or partying. It was a place of constant motion and chaos. A person was never alone, no matter what the hour.

In her case, she knew, without glancing back, that there was at least two people following behind her. She could feel their eyes even if they were smart enough to soften their footfalls. Her senses prickled along the line of her spine, lifting the hairs at the nape of her neck and sending a chill through her. Being a woman was never easy, but being a single woman at night, leaving a club in a secluded section of town was worse.

But she kept her even strides. She kept her back straight and her eyes forward. The blinking light at the end of the block became her finish line, her source of safety. Once she reached Main Street, they would scatter back into the shadows. Only fifteen feet.

“Yo, mammy!” one called, disturbing the night with his mocking catcalls.

Cora didn’t stop. She didn’t slow or quicken her pace. But her fingers tightened just a fraction on her purse strap. Her free hand remained loosely swinging at her side.

“Yo! Yo! Hold up.”

Cora let twenty-five years of training propel her into action the moment the footsteps quickened into a trot. Instinct drove her hand into the open mouth of her purse and reaching for the Ruger .380 concealed inside. The cold metal burned at her touch. Its light weight oddly familiar and comforting.

She spun, weapon lifted and pinned properly between the youth’s bushy eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t.” She braced her stance on the off chance she actually had to shoot. “I’ve been trained as a sniper since the age of seven by two of the best shots in the north. I can take all three of you down before you can even blink.”

The trio skidded to a halt. The one in front raised his hands, palms open.

“Hey, chill. We just wanted to talk.”

“I’m not in a chatty mood, so I suggest you walk away before things get really messy.”

“Fair enough.”

The two behind him started backing up. One nudged the first boy, jostling him into action before turning on his heels and scampering into the closest alley. The second one quickly followed, leaving their leader behind.

“I like a girl who can hold her own.” He grinned lopsidedly. “You sure I can’t convince you to stick around? I know a crazy party going on right now.”

“Let me guess, it’s happening in your pants.”

His smirk widened. “If that’s what you want.”

Cora had to resist the urge to shoot him on principle.

“Get out of here.”

“You sure—?”

“When the lady holding the gun gives you a chance to run, your common sense should agree.”

Both the boy and Cora jumped at the intruding deep, masculine voice rumbling from the shadows. The boy spun even as Cora’s gun hand jerked in the general direction.

Something in the thick puddle of black pouring down the side of a building shifted. Its massive bulk flickered in and out of the light with a fluidity that could only be supernatural. She barely made out the end of a long, black coat before it dissolved back into the darkness. She barely caught the glint of a button before it was gone. It was like waves in the night, passing seamlessly over the sand. The scene would have terrified her, if she wasn’t completely enthralled.

“Who the fuck are you?” the boy stumbled closer to Cora.

She didn’t mind it. Whatever was lurking just out of sight would have to take the boy before getting her, which would be just enough time for her to run.

“I’m not nearly as nice as she is,” said the phantom voice. “You should leave. Now.”

The command seemed even more frightening when it was done with a calm as frigid as winter air.

Even Cora shivered.

“Fuck this.”

The boy bolted. He took off with a swiftness that nearly knocked Cora of balance when he clipped her shoulder. It was pure luck her gun didn’t go off, not even when it flew from her grasp and clattered into the shadows with the phantom. Its disappearance left behind a cold welling of dread in its place that sent her back a step.

“Did they hurt you?”

The unexpected question momentarily stunned her into silence; attackers very seldom inquired the well-being of their victims.

“I would like my gun back,” she said instead.

There was a faint scuffle, then a spark of light off metal. But the gun never reappeared. It remained lost in the dark folds.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone. It’s dangerous.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Possibly.” A large, toned hand emerged gripping her gun, handle first. It was extended to her. “Be careful getting home.”

She took it quickly, but didn’t put it away. She held it at her side, finger over the trigger as she backed up.

The voice didn’t stop her. It didn’t speak again either. She could have been completely alone for the silence that returned.

But she could still sense him.

She could feel his eyes following her every movement, the way a wolf tracked an injured animal, a feeling that should have felt threatening, terrifying even, but all it did was increase her heart rate.

Gradually, she put her back to him and resumed her walk to the brightly lit street, minus her earlier confidence. There seemed to be an odd weakness in her knees she couldn’t account for and a sense of unease in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t shake. But it was the unstoppable urge to glance back that she struggled with most. It was a battle of strength she’d never had to wrestle before. She tried to tell herself it was her uncle’s voice badgering her to never turn her back on a possible attacker, but she knew that wasn’t it.

Main Street greeted her with its usual bustle of pedestrians racing to their destinations. It hummed with the rush of traffic and raised voices and bright lights. She joined the rat race and followed the stream down half a block to the designated cab stop. Her gun was carefully slipped back into the safety of her purse before she raised a hand.

It was only when her ride arrived and she was about to slip into the worn and cracked leather of the backseat that she dared herself a glance in the direction she’d come from. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find, an ominous black shadow, maybe. But all she saw was a sea of hurried faces and faded stone structures. Whoever he’d been, he was long gone and she was almost certain she’d never see him again, which, she told herself, was a good thing.

It was a little after midnight when the cabbie pulled up to the two story building. Cora paid and slipped out of the backseat with her coat over one arm and her purse strap dangling from her shoulder. She rummaged for her keys while making a slow path to the bar.

The street loomed dark and empty in both directions once the cabbie abandoned her beneath the dull patch of yellow spilling from the lamp. The silence left behind with his departure prickled the night with all the other sounds usually absent in the security of sunlight. Someone not familiar with the city noises would have only heard the buzz of electricity from the neon sign across the street, the rustle of a discarded newspaper getting swept along the gutters, the clatter of metal from a cat knocking over a trash bin in a nearby alley. A native heard the rest, the scuffle of movement as the homeless guy two buildings over settled in with a cheap bottle of vodka, the rattle of chains from a group of street thugs a street over, the cackle of working girls trying to make a living in the seclusion of darkness. Cora heard it all from beneath the jingle of her keys as she let herself in.

A different silence followed her into the bar. It was one of sanctuary and calm. It was filled with the creak of floorboards and the crack of her own heels pounding off the walls as she made her way upstairs.

Her purse and coat were hooked on the pegs surrounding the massive, oval mirror hanging on the wall just inside the entrance. Her pumps were kicked underneath its bench. Bare foot, she padded straight into the bathroom for a hot shower and freedom from the pencil skirt restraining her movement. She washed off her makeup and twisted her dark hair into a braid over one shoulder. The heavy mass wasn’t as dark as her father’s inky locks, or as thick as her mother’s, but Cora had always loved her hair.

The strands hung in full, natural curls to her waist and framed the oval contour of her face. The darkness brought out the pallor in her complexion, the speckles of green in her eyes, and emphasized the fullness of her mouth. It was as if her hair alone had the power to pull the rest of her together and create the person the outside world saw when they looked at her. It drew attention away from the much too closeness of her eyes, the wide set of her nostrils, and all the other imperfections only she seemed to be able to see thanks to the twelve years of going to a school filled with gorgeous assholes.

In their elite circles, Cora had been the shy, standoffish girl that refused to play with the other kids. But they hadn’t understood she’d done it for their own safety, and hers. Being the daughter of Giovanni De Marco either meant making all the wrong friends, no friends, or friends who only wanted something. It was easier not to have any friends at all, a decision that had left a dent in her social skills and self-esteem. It just wasn’t enough to make her lose sleep over it.

Teeth brushed, lotion properly lathered all over, she pulled on her habitual t-shirt and boy shorts, and climbed into bed.

But morning never came. It felt like she’d just closed her eyes when they cracked open to the same murky darkness and the same hollow silence. But the air was different. The weight of it hung in a thick, hot tension that formed a paste at the back of her throat.

Someone was in her apartment.

She could feel them.

Sense them.

Their cologne, a spicy tangle of man, rain, and night, filled the space.

Her space.

The intrusion spurred her into a paralyzing wave of consciousness that pinned her to the pillow, kept her prisoner beneath the covers. She could scarcely breathe in fear of giving away that she was awake, even as her hand inched forward across the short expanse of cold mattress to the nightstand drawer and the steely promise of her .45.

Behind her, a board creaked beneath the weight of her invader’s boot. Their smell amplified with that single forward step, seemingly solidifying around the bed. Around her.

She couldn’t breathe.

Cold sweat beaded along her upper lip. It slickened her spine, fusing her t-shirt to damp skin. But the worst was the volume of her heart rate, the sheer ferocity of it clapping in tempo with her rising terror. She could taste it on her tongue, a bitter bile of vomit that made it impossible not to gag.

But she gritted her teeth and reached.

It happened before she could suck in a breath. One second she was staring at the sharp corner of her mahogany nightstand, the next the bed was violently jostled. The mattress caved beneath a massive weight, sending her tumbling backwards across it, straight into the arms waiting to catch her.

Cora screamed. It lasted barely a second before the cold, plastic edges of the gas mask clapped over her mouth, over her nose, stifling the sound.

“Easy, sweetheart. Breathe.”

That was all she could do. That and fight against the bands of steel crushing her into submission. But it was met with the efforts of battling a bear. All her attempts succeeded to do was increase her inhalation of the gas pouring through the tube, straight into her face.

“There’s a good girl,” the voice murmured, a gruff, gravely drawl straight into the shell of her ear. “Just breathe.”

The last thing Cora saw before the world went dark was the alarm on her nightstand flicking from four fifty-nine to fives.