Chapter 1 - The Burner Phone
“What?” I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Julian’s thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, a smear of red against my pale skin. His touch was burning hot, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. “Don’t answer the door,” he rasped, his voice barely a vibration in the quiet room. “No matter what you hear. No matter who knocks. You do not open it.”
Before I could ask him what he meant, the burner phone in his discarded jacket pocket started vibrating again. The harsh buzzing sounded like a chainsaw in the dead silence of my apartment. I flinched, my eyes darting toward the crumpled charcoal wool on the floor.
“Bring it here,” Julian commanded. He didn't sound like a man who had just lost two pints of blood. He sounded like a general on a battlefield.
I scrambled to grab the jacket, pulling the cheap, plastic phone from the inner pocket. The caller ID was a scrambled sequence of numbers. I pressed the green button and held it to Julian’s ear, too afraid to let him expend the energy to hold it himself.
“Speak,” Julian said.
A voice on the other end exhaled a shaky breath. “Boss. Jesus Christ, you’re alive. The tracker on your watch went dead near 4th and Pike. The Russians hit the safehouse. Three of our guys are down. Enzo is missing. We thought they got you.”
“They tried,” Julian said, his eyes locking onto mine, cold and calculating. “A blade. Amateur work, but it was close. Listen to me, Marco. The leak came from inside. Nobody knew about the route tonight except the inner circle. Scrub the operation. Burn the ledgers.”
“Where are you?” Marco pleaded. “I’ll send the extraction team.”
“No,” Julian snapped. “If there’s a rat, an extraction team is a death sentence. I’m secure for now. I’ll contact you at dawn. Trust no one, Marco. Not even Enzo if he turns up.”
Julian nodded at me, and I pulled the phone away, hitting end. The silence returned, heavier this time, suffocating me. I had just stitched up a mafia boss. The Velvet Lounge was a dive, but I heard the whispers. The Rossi Syndicate ran the docks, the underground casinos, and half the politicians in Seattle. Julian Rossi was a ghost, a myth of a man who inherited an empire and turned it into an impenetrable fortress.
And he was bleeding on my thrift-store mattress.
“You’re Julian Rossi,” I whispered, backing away slowly, the bloody towel still clutched in my hands.
“I am.” His slate-gray eyes tracked my movement, reading the sudden, blinding terror in my posture. “Are you afraid of me, Clara?”
“Shouldn't I be?” I shot back, my voice trembling. “You just told your guy that a hit squad is looking for you. If they find you here...”
“They won't,” he interrupted, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “My watch was destroyed blocks away. The rain washed the blood trail. You are safe. I give you my word.”
“The word of a mobster,” I scoffed, though my legs felt like jelly.
May you like
Julian’s jaw tightened. He leaned his head back against the pillow, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. “The word of a man whose life you just saved. Lock the deadbolt. Turn off all the lights. And try to get some sleep, Clara. Tomorrow, everything changes.”
I didn't sleep. I sat in the armchair by the window, a baseball bat gripped in my hands, watching the shadows of the streetlights dance across Julian Rossi’s sleeping face, wondering how the hell I was going to survive the morning.
