Collateral (Collateral Damage 1)

Because I wouldn’t have admitted that to her no matter the cost.

When I took the knife, the look of shock on her face, I’ll never forget it.

The cut isn’t bad. It wasn’t a sharp knife. I know better than to leave her with something she can do real damage with and Millie had informed me about it going missing the day it did.

But that look on her face. It takes me back to the night in her father’s study. The blood on her clothes. The splatters of it on her face. Marchese had ordered his thugs to break Alex’s legs. Ordered that she be made to watch.

Was the blood reminiscent of that? Of the violence in our world?

Is she safer with me than with her father? Not in her eyes, I’m sure.

I meant what I said, though. I won’t let anyone put a mark on her. But isn’t she right? That I will leave my own mark when it suits me?

Monster.

I think about the way he looked at her at the engagement party.

“What is it that’s going to get you off, Stefan?”

The thought of what that could mean sickens me and I think about how she looks so much like her mother.

But she’s a virgin. Didn’t she tell me as much last night? And he couldn’t be that much a monster.

Other words repeat then.

“Are you going to drown me too?”

I walk into the study, close the door and pick up the phone to call a contact in New York, Matt Lawrence.

Lawrence picks up on the second ring. This is his private line. He’s the investigator who got me the information on Marchese in the first place. Gave me what I needed to force his hand. And that knowledge reminds me again just how much a monster Gabriel Marchese is.

“Stefan. What can I do for you?”

I don’t bother with casual conversation. Lawrence knows when I call him, it’s straight to business. And he knows how much his information will be worth to me. He’s fast and not opposed to using less than savory methods to get what I need.

“I want to know about Gabriel Marchese’s wife’s death. She drowned about ten years ago. It was filed as accidental, but I don’t think it was.”

I hear him hitting some keys. “Maria Marchese. Twenty-nine at the time of her death. Two kids. I’ll have something in about a week.”

“I need it sooner than that.”

He clucks his tongue. “That’s not going to be easy.”

“I don’t pay you because it’s easy.”

Pause. “Okay. This a good number to call you on?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be back to you in a few hours.”

Better.

“I’ll talk to you then,” I say.

There’s a knock on the door and Rafa opens it just as I hang up. His gaze drops instantly to my bandaged hand.

“What happened to you?” he asks, walking straight to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a whiskey. He takes a seat on the couch and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee.

“Grabbed a knife on the wrong end.”

I see one eyebrow rise. Rafa’s a smart guy. He likes to give the illusion of being very laid back. Almost uninterested. But he sees everything and hears everything. People underestimate him. It’s what he wants. But it’s a mistake to underestimate my cousin.

“Clara situated?” I ask, not intending on going into detail about my night.

He smiles. “Complained she’d be bored but yeah, she’s set up.”

“Good.” I had Rafa take her to the house in Syracuse. “Get her what she needs but I don’t want her back here right now.”

“Your fiancée is the jealous type, I take it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Why do you give a fuck? You’re not going soft on me, are you, cousin?”

“Don’t be a dick, Rafa. What did you find out about the brother?”

“He’s in a place called Clear Meadows in New York. And he’s not in good shape.”

“What do you mean?”

He gets up, takes his phone out of his pocket, swipes the screen and turns it toward me.

I look at the image of Gabriel Marchese’s son. His namesake. Gabriela’s brother.

He looks nothing like her, which I already knew from the photo of him as a kid. He resembles his father. Except not.

He’s a big guy, and he’d be good-looking, but for the obvious fact that there’s something not quite right. Something a little off.

Rafa swipes to show me another image. I take the phone, zoom in on the image. Read the shortened version of his name on the sticker stuck to his shirt. He’s laughing and pointing at a giraffe.

“Trip to the zoo,” Rafa says.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Rafa puts the phone away and drinks his whiskey. “Gunshot a couple of years ago to the head. Doctor’s called him lucky. I’m not sure I agree.”

“How long ago exactly?”

He looks at his phone, uses his thumb to swipe through a file. “He was sixteen.”

“Who pulled the trigger?”