Primal Pursuit

Through the looking glass? Down the rabbit hole? You never thought to wonder if I cared.

I don’t

The door opens, and Nicoli pokes his head in, nodding to me.

I sigh and wind up the textual thrills.

Work it out. Meet me there. 11 p.m.

No panties.

I switch my phone off. No way is she going to turn up tonight. She’s too bruised, too angry, too confused. Andthat’s fine by me. I know she’ll work it out. My rabbit is far from stupid.

“What’s up?” I ask as I follow him to Maximo’s office. Maximo is the Del Rossa muscle. The enforcer, the man who takes care of security. He’s also Nicoli’s brother-in-law.

Nicoli walks into the office, sliding a hand through his hair, and I already know he feels out of place. He no longer comes here to the club without his wife, Mirabella, at night. They rule this place like King and Queen—play here like it’s their own back yard. But him coming here without her says a lot. Something’s up.

“Stark, I’ve got a problem. It’s small, but I need it taken care of asap.” He goes to the desk and picks up a file.

My senses prick up and go on high alert.

Some things are done on our secure in-house computer system, but others, like certain kills, are a step above. Paper. Untraceable.

I take it and flick through it.

“Just him?” I ask.

“The fucker’s got a wife, but rumor on the street is she’d be more than happy with him gone. I wouldn’t usually do it this way, but—” His gaze hits mine, and it’s uncompromising “—he’s not just siphoning from us, he’s trying to make deals by selling off secrets.”

“This guy knows things?”

“Not anything of importance, but…”

He doesn’t need to say another word. The guy with the expiration date looming above him may not be integral to the organization, but when you are part of us, even themost mundane secrets, such as where we buy the goddamn milk for Myth’s staff, matters. It’s about loyalty, and loyalty is everything.

“Consider it done.”

I know there’s more, and I wait a beat.

“I want it to look like a contract killing. But someone else.”

The Del Rossas want to send a message.

I quickly rifle through the paperwork, digging for information. My fingers pause when I recognize who this guy has been dealing with. It’s a small player with dirty tactics and a particularly nasty way of killing.

“I got just the thing for this motherfucker.”

I don’t say anything else. I just close the file and head out the door. The less Nicoli knows, the better. It always is.

I stride across the parking lot of the club and slide into the driver’s seat of my car. The bright orange streetlamps cast a garish glow inside the car, and my thoughts flit through the different components of my new assignment. I know where I need to head next—a small bar just behind a tattoo parlor that seems to always have something going on. I’ve gotten all my ink done there, so it’s a familiar place. Only a few blocks away is an apartment that’s owned by the Dark Sovereign—they own practically everything in this city—and it’s stocked with everything I need for a quick change and rest stop. I also have a beat-up piece of junk car tucked away in the underground parking garage that blends right in with its surroundings because it looks so plain—in case I have to ditch out quickly. Tonight is one of those nights.

I get to the apartment and quickly search through thesecurity feed of the street. Luckily, I spot my target walking into the bar. According to the timestamp, he’s been there for two hours. This job hardly gets my blood pumping. It’s too easy. Too simple.

After saving the feed on my phone, I open the file again to double-check it. The dossier reveals that he takes a shortcut down a long, dark alley when he goes home. I trust the information, yet I’m still going to watch his movements just in case.

I change out of my suit into jeans and a black sweater before heading out to the tattoo parlor while I wait for my target to move. I’m ready for all contingencies—the alley, or if he leaves before I can get to him, I’ll drive to his home and do the job there, ditch the beat-up car at a safe house, and then grab a different car before heading to my actual apartment.

The door dings as I walk into Looking Glass, an old hair salon that got taken over by one of the best and probably most depraved tattoo artists this side of the Canadian border. Jackson Ortega is a master.