The Woman with the Scar (Costa Family)

“Wouldn’t know. I used duct tape,” I admitted, shrugging.

“Of course you did,” Salvatore said, tossing all the options into his basket. “Anyway. Her old man owned a laundromat. Unfortunately, not in a great neighborhood, so he was never rolling in it. From the looks of her ma’s address, shit was lean.”

“How’d she end up married to that fuckhead?” I asked, even if a strange part of me wanted to know all the details of her life beforehand. Even though none of it was relevant.

“Gray area. The best I could figure out was that Ezmeray worked at Restaurant 1969. Since she was a kid. Sixteen or so. Figure that’s how she met him. Maybe saw dollar signs after he did the renovations. I don’t know.”

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

Everything inside me said that there was something going on with their marriage. Something a lot seedier than just a pretty young woman marrying a rich older man.

She looked so fucking relieved to see someone wanting to help her, wanting to talk to her.

Whatever the story was, I planned to get to the bottom of it.

At two, apparently.

“Anything else on the family?” I asked, not wanting anyone to think I was hyper-fixating on just the wife.

“The old man died when Ezmeray was in her teens. And she has a younger sister. Think she’s like eighteen? Seems like she works at the family laundromat with the mom. But that’s about it. Aside from the little sister, no one has any social media.”

“Not even Ezmeray?” I asked, surprised.

“Nope.”

That was weird. She was in the right age bracket that social media should have been a somewhat significant part of her life. A way to keep in touch with old friends. And even her family.

“Alright, man. Thanks. If Lorenzo figures out who the fuck is who stabbed Anthony…”

“I’m sure you will be the first to know,” Salvatore said, stopping to muse over the pain medicine. Even though we had access to the good shit when we needed it.

With that, I left the pharmacy to drop home and pick up some workout clothes, figuring it was going to raise some brows if I showed up at the gym in her apartment building without the right gear.

Then, a half an hour ahead of time, I made my way into her building after the doorman got distracted helping someone with her baby carriage.

It was a fancy-ass place. Not quite billionaire impressive, but nice. The kind of place that said you made it in life.

The gym was on the ground floor and was complete with a swimming pool and steam room.

I made my way in, choosing one of the stationary bikes, figuring it would be easy enough for her to sit down on the only other available one and look like she was just getting a workout in, not meeting a strange man.

My gaze was pinned on the clock, watching two in the afternoon pass with still no sign of her.

It wasn’t until a quarter after that the door finally slid open.

And there she was.

In a rose pink workout outfit—skintight leggings and one of those crop top bra things—that was like a fucking kick to the gut.

She’d been gorgeous in the dress, of course, but this outfit showed off every gentle curve of her body from her killer rack to her round ass and long legs.

Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, showing off her great bone structure and those big hazel eyes of hers.

Fucking flawless, that was what she was.

Far too good for that bastard upstairs who treated her like shit.

Her gaze landed on me and I watched as her whole body tensed, knowing what she was doing was wrong, but compelled to keep moving forward regardless.

“Ezmeray,” I greeted as she sat down, watching as her eyes widened.

But her gaze was trained forward toward the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the opposite wall.

Looking at me, yet not. It took some of the intimacy out of the meeting.

“How do you know who I am?” she asked me, voice small, unsure, but a little deeper than I expected, sultry, bedroom-sexy.

“Let’s just say I know your husband. In a business-like way.”

“I knew it,” she said, shaking her head, and the movement sent a sweet honey scent in my direction from her hair. “I knew you were watching us.”

“Good instincts,” I said.

“Thanks for… denting the car. Although, if you are trying to stay under the radar, that was probably not the best choice.”

“Why not?”

“Because now he’s convinced someone is out to get him.”

“Asshole like that, figure a lot of people are out to get him.”

To that, she let out a snort, her gaze sliding away from the mirrors.

“Way I see it, no one could hate him as much as you, though, right?” I asked, and this time, when her gaze found me, it wasn’t just in the mirror. And it was pure fucking misery in her eyes. “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Thought so.”