Page 162 of Rosetti Family New York
I slow to a jog, then a walk, staggering to the wall of a bodega. I lean there, feeling the cold bricks through my jacket. I gasp for air, trying to get enough breath to work my fingers. I fumble for my phone, hands shaking, numbed with fear.
I pull it out, hit the first number I can. A muffled, low ring on the other end. The police. I've called the police. They'll come. They'll help.
"Not your smartest move."
I whip around, the phone slipping from my fingers, cracking against the sidewalk.
He's here. The man who killed Maddy. Not ten feet away. Leaning against the building like he's been there the whole time. Like he wasn't just chasing me through the streets. He's older than me. Mid thirties, maybe. A mess of dark curls and a faint shadow of stubble along a sharp jaw. A leather jacket over broad shoulders, over a dark shirt and darker jeans. I can see a glint of metal, the barrel of a gun peeking from his waistband.
The streetlight casts harsh shadows across the planes of his face, catching in his eyes, a startling blue, cold as winter ice but somehow burning with intensity. My pulse, already racing, kicks into overdrive. Fear mingles with something I don't want to name, something that makes my skin flush despite the freezing air.
"The cops won't help," he says, straightening, his voice low and gruff. "Not with this."
He could kill me. He could've done it already. Instead, he's standing there, talking, and I don't get it. I don't get any of this.My breath comes in jagged bursts, painful and shallow. The cold air burns my lungs, but I'm suddenly aware of other sensations too, the faint scent of leather and something spicy coming from him, the breadth of his shoulders as he shifts his weight, and the strange electricity that seems to vibrate in the small space between us.
"Who are you?" I choke out. "Why haven't you—" My voice cracks. "Why haven't you—"
"Haven't I what?" he says, almost amused. "You're faster than you look."
I stare at him. Everything's spinning. My heart's hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it, a wild drum against my ribs. He takes a step closer, and I press back against the wall, trapped between brick and his imposing presence. He moves with a fluid grace that seems impossible for someone so solid, and despite my terror, I can't help but notice how the leather of his jacket stretches across his shoulders, how his gloved hands flex at his sides.
"You killed her." It comes out as a whisper, my words forming thick clouds in the frozen air. "You killed Maddy."
I expect him to deny it. To laugh or say I'm crazy or maybe just shoot me right here. But he only shrugs.
"That was the Callahans," he says, watching me closely. "Not me."
I blink at him, trying to make sense of anything.
"The who?"
He steps closer, looming. I flinch but hold my ground. My knees feel like jelly, but somehow I'm still standing. I catch his scent again, leather and spice with notes of tobacco and something uniquely him. It's intoxicating in a way that makes no sense, not when I should be running for my life.
"The Callahans," he says again, more slowly, as if he's talking to a small child. "They're the ones who killed your friend."
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. I don't know what to say, what to ask. He waits, his gaze never leaving my face. The intensity of his stare makes heat rise to my cheeks, and I hate myself for it. Hate how my body seems to betray me, reacting to him in ways it shouldn't.
"Why are you telling me this?" I finally manage.
"Because you accused me," he says, deadpan. I can hear the steady thrum of traffic in the distance, the jarring contrast to the suffocating stillness around us. My heart still beats like a bass drum.
"So, you're not a killer?"
The words tumble out of me in a rush. I wait for his answer, hardly breathing. My fists clench, waiting for him to respond. When he tilts his head, I notice the strong column of his neck, the pulse beating steadily there. So different from my own racing heartbeat.
He tilts his head and takes a step closer, sizing me up, deliberate.
"I never said that," he says, and I shiver. His eyes don't waver. "But I didn't kill her."
He means it. The sureness in his voice, the way he holds my gaze.
Somehow, I believe him.
My brain is working a million miles a minute. Nothing makes sense. I'm alive, but Maddy's dead. The man moves again, and the streetlight catches his features at a different angle. Despite everything, I can't help but notice how handsome he is, in a dangerous, unsettling way. The kind of handsome that warns rather than welcomes. My stomach tightens with something that isn't just fear.
"Who are you?" I ask again. My voice sounds steadier this time. "How do you know who…?" I can't say the words.
He tilts his head. His eyes are dark and unreadable. "I know a lot of things."
