Page 32 of Hollow

“No,” I answer, “but I will be.”

He nods, accepting this. “We’ve got your back. Both of us.”

I glance ahead at Damiano, who’s paused to wait for us at the next turn. His eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable, but there’s a steadiness in his gaze that feels like a promise.

“I know,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I believe it.

Chapter 11

Flint

Working a shift at The Vault after burying a body is a special kind of fucked up.

My hands are raw from digging, muscles aching in places I forgot existed, but here I am polishing glasses like it’s just another night, like I didn’t help bury a body this morning.

The Vault’s still quiet. It’s only 8 PM, too early for the real action, with only a handful of the usual suspects nursing overpriced drinks at the bar—rich assholes in designer clothes pretending they’re edgy because they hang out in a converted bank that hosts kink parties on weekends. Pathetic.

Mari leans against the bar next to me, her blue hair catching the light. “You look like shit,” she says cheerfully. “Wild night with the gardener?”

I nearly drop the glass I’m polishing. “What?”

“Oh, come on. The whole island knows you twohook up every few months when you get drunk enough to forget why you hate each other.” She nudges my shoulder. “And you definitely left the Waters party together last night.”

Fuck. “We didn’t leave together.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” She grins, clearly not believing me. “But maybe wash the dirt from under your fingernails next time you want to be convincing.”

I glance down. She’s right. Despite me scrubbing my hands raw in the shower, I still have dirt embedded around my cuticles and under my nails.

Grave dirt.

I shove my hands into my pockets.

“I was helping him with something this morning,” I mutter. “Landscaping shit.”

“Uh-huh.” Mari smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

I’m saved from answering by the front door swinging open. The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

Viktor Bastian fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light from outside—six-feet-four of pure muscle and bad attitude, dressed all in black with a security earpiece permanently attached to his head. His face is set in stone, but there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Worry.

Shit.

Mari whispers, “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of hell today.”

“Go check inventory,” I tell her, staying casual. “I’ll deal with this.”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Smart girl.

Viktor makes a beeline for the bar, ignoring the other patrons who instinctively move out of his way. The guy has that effect on people. Even the stupid rich think twice about messing with him.

“Bishop,” he says in that gravelly voice that’s sent more than a few troublemakers running. “We need to talk.”

“Always a pleasure, Viktor,” I say, setting down the glass and grabbing a bottle of the expensive bourbon he likes. “Drink?”

He shakes his head. “Liam’s missing.”

I pour myself a shot instead, focusing on keeping my hand steady. “Missing how? Like, went home with someone and didn’t call home, or actually missing?”

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