CALEB
What the hell was I thinking?
The question haunts me all the way home from the hospital, and as the elevator doors part and I step out into my penthouse, it’s Juliet I see.
I can’t get her out of my head. She looked so broken, so vulnerable, lying in that hospital bed.
And it’s all my fault.
Someone was threatening her—and I didn’t take it seriously. Now that same somebody has run her off the road—and I wasn’t there to protect her.
I don’t need three guesses to figure out who. The same man who’s been blackmailing me all this time, making me dance to his twisted tune.
Nero Barretti.
But I’m done trying to find a way out of this mess. A man like that, there’s only one language he understands. The same one he’s so fluent in.
Violence.
I drop my keys on the foyer table, stalk into my office, and twist the dial on the safe. It’s not just jewelry and cash I keep in there, and I find what I’m looking for nestled in its case, locked up tight.
My gun.
I grip the handle, cool in my hand. It fits like it was molded to my grip—because it was. It’s always just been a precaution, a backup. Last resort.
But I don’t see any other way.
Nero’s crossed a line, hurting Juliet. He has to pay for what he’s done to her.
So I’m putting an end to this, once and for all.
As I take the elevator back down to the garage, I look at the latest message from Logan, which arrived about twenty minutes ago: No change. Back in Soho.
Good. Logan’s been keeping tabs on Nero, at my request. So far, the man has been all about routine. Lately, he’s been meeting with a woman at an upmarket address in Soho, and it looks like he’s right on schedule. I don’t have a chance of getting past Nero’s usual security at his club, but a private apartment for a romantic rendezvous?
He won’t see me coming.
The benefit of having an investigator for a buddy: Logan’s been thorough in his research. I already know there’s no real bodyguards at the apartment building, and I stroll through the lobby without drawing anything more than a respectful head-nod from the doorman.
It’s a short elevator ride to 3B, Nero’s latest side-piece’s place. I take a deep breath, collecting myself. I have the gun tucked in my waistband, and I caress the grip again, reassuring myself.
A part of my brain knows that this is crazy, storming in to confront a man like Nero. A murderer. But that rational side of me is drowned out by the pure fury in my veins, the terror I felt hearing that Juliet had been in a crash.
The sheer powerlessness I felt, knowing that I couldn’t save her.
The cocktail of emotion is all-consuming now, the most basic instinct I have driving me on this suicide mission.
I need to protect her.
Whatever the cost.
The elevator opens, and maybe luck is on my side tonight, because when I tap on Nero’s door, I hear casual voices inside.
“That was fast,” a woman is saying. “They must have your delivery order ready and waiting—”2
She opens the door, and her eyes widen. “You’re not takeout,” she says, as I shove past her, into the apartment.
“Nero!” I call, gripping the gun. “Where the fuck are you?”