Page 9 of Deadly Wrath

Then I hear it. Elli Enterprises. His employee. The Commission.

My grip tightens around the glass, the tension locking my jaw. A temp is digging into Commission business.

I set the glass down before I shatter it in my hands. The rage comes fast, curling hot in my chest, and simmering inside me.

“Rat bastards.” The words rip out of me, filled with fury. “Who the fuck has the balls to try and incriminate us?”

Antonio doesn’t react to my outburst. His voice stays even and unbothered. It only pisses me off more.

“Can you come to Chicago, Alessandro?”

My fingers twitch at the name. Alessandro. Only my mother still calls me that, and only when she’s pissed about something.

Antonio keeps talking, mentioning Sebastiano and saying he’ll explain the rest in person. He’s careful not to say too much over the phone, which is smart. If someone’s tracking my moves, they could be listening.

I throw back the rest of the whiskey, the fire in my chest no longer just from the alcohol. “I’ll be there Monday,” I finally say. “Better to catch’em in the act, right in the office.”

The call ends.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face, forcing the anger to settle. It doesn’t. Not really. But I need a clear head for this. When I turn, Kota’s already by the door, waiting, his expression unreadable.

A sinister smile tugs at my lips. “Time to go meet my stalker.”

4

Liv

I twist my red hair into a sloppy bun, pulling the tie off my wrist with my teeth.

I hope this doesn’t give me a crease when I take my hair down for work.

I let out a slew of curses under my breath, annoyed that I even bother to straighten it when the second I step outside, the Chicago humidity makes sure to undo all my work. Normally, it’s a wild mess of curls, but I’m trying to look professional, and now it’s getting in my face at the worst possible time.

Strands are already falling loose, but whatever, I don’t have time to fix it. My palms are starting to sweat under the rungs while I scale this damn fire escape in a pencil skirt. God, why did I think this was a good outfit choice today?

The city’s still half-asleep—just a few distant horns and the occasional overachiever ruining the peace on aMonday morning. Being awake at 5:00 A.M. should be illegal, but this is my life now. Slipping through Cindy’s window has basically become my morning routine, right between brushing my teeth and going to work. I could probably do it in my sleep, backwards, in heels. But it still feels a little sketchier every time, though. I’ve done it so many times, I could probably do it blindfolded.

Still, every time I do it, something in me twists a little. It’s not like I’m breaking into some stranger’s place, we’re in the same damn building, but I can’t just waltz through the front door like a normal person. Not with the risk of someone’s stupid Ring camera catching me mid-creep.

So, I do it the way Clover taught me, sneaky and stealthy. RealMission Impossibleshit, minus the cool gadgets and theme music.

I’m not a monster. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m just doing what I have to.

The smell of lavender and lemon hits my nose instantly. It’s a cozy little apartment, even if the building itself is a dump. The apartment is too warm. Too soft. Too lived in. Her life is laid out in front of me—cozy blankets folded on the couch, books stacked neatly, framed photos of people I don’t know. She probably lived here before the neighborhood turned to shit. Beforeshe had to lock the door twice and keep a bat near her bed. Before she had to worry about people like me.

I pad carefully to the kitchen, dodging the creaky spots in her old wooden floor that I’ve memorized by now, just how Clover taught me. The kettle on the stove is still steaming, which can only mean that she got up to make herself tea. That knot of guilt tightens a little more in my chest. My finger brushes the small vial of thallium sulfate in my pocket. The little vessel is a reminder of what I’ve been doing.

Cindy’s already too sick to work, too weak to stop me from slipping into the office. Yet, here I am, standing in her kitchen.

I shouldn’t need to do this anymore. But I do, don’t I? I’m so close to what I need. Just a few more days, and I’ll have what I came for. Then I can get out of Chicago for good.

Yesterday, I found her curled up on the bathroom floor, clutching her stomach. She was too weak to stand, her gray hair stuck to her forehead from sweating. She could barely stand on her own, leaning all her weight on me as I helped her to bed. She was so out of it, she kept calling me Mia and mumbling something about being a good woman before passing out.

My hand shakes as I unscrew the cap. Just a few drops. It’s clear, tasteless. Not enough to kill, just enough to keep her where I need her.

My fingers hover over the pot, my whole body screaming at me to stop. Walk away. Get out. Leave.

But I don’t. I tip the vial, and a single drop falls. Followed by another, and another.

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