Kiss The Killer

Siena I didn't go to class the next day. Or the day after that. By Thursday, my phone was buzzing with missed calls from Professor Martinez. I let them all go to voicemail, huddled in my apartment with the curtains drawn and a baseball bat within arm's reach. The bat was a joke, really. What was I going to do against someone who'd killed a man without blinking? But it made me feel better. Marginally. The rational part of my brain kept screaming that I should go to the police. Tell them what I saw. Show them the photo. Let someone else deal with Lucian Romano and his family's bloody legacy. The other part of my brain, the part that had grown up in this city, knew better. The Romanos didn't just own businesses and politicians. They owned cops too. Going to the police might as well be signing my own death warrant. I was trapped. My laptop sat open on the kitchen counter, the cursor blinking mockingly in an

Sienna POV Monday morning felt like walking into a lion's den. I slipped into Professor Martinez's classroom five minutes late, hoping to avoid attention. Fat chance. Every head turned as I made my way to my usual seat in the middle row, including the one I'd been dreading to see. Lucian sat in his spot three rows back, looking like he belonged in a boardroom instead of Introduction to Investigative Journalism. His green eyes tracked my movement with the intensity of a predator watching prey. When our gazes met, the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. Or a threat. I forced myself to look away and focus on Professor Martinez, who was already deep into her lecture about source verification. The burner phone felt like a brick in my bag, a constant reminder of the devil's bargain I'd made. "Miss Carter." I jerked upright. "Yes, Professor?" "Since you've decided to rejoin us, perhaps you'd like

SiennaThe van lurched to a stop, and my stomach dropped with it. My wrists burned where the zip ties cut into my skin, and the musty smell of cigarettes and sweat made me want to gag. The three masked men had been silent for the entire ride, but I could feel their eyes on me through the darkness.The back doors swung open with a screech of metal, and rough hands dragged me out. My legs buckled, they'd gone numb from sitting in the same position for what felt like hours."Walk," one of them grunted, shoving me forward.I stumbled across cracked pavement toward a warehouse that looked like it belonged in a horror movie. Broken windows stared down at me like dead eyes, and rust stains streaked down the metal siding like dried blood. My heart hammered so hard I was sure they could hear it.They shoved me through a side door into a dimly lit room that reeked of motor oil and something else I didn't want to identify. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting twisted shadows on the co

POV: SiennaThe university library's third floor was supposed to be the quiet zone, but tonight it buzzed with nervous energy. I clutched my backpack tighter as I walked toward study room 3B, my shoulder still throbbing from last night's bullet graze. The bandage pulled uncomfortably under my jacket, a constant reminder of how deep I was in this mess.Through the glass door, I could see them, a circle of students that looked like any other study group. Textbooks scattered across the table, laptops open, coffee cups everywhere. But I knew better now. Nothing was ever what it seemed in this world.Pedro Vega looked up as I knocked, and his smile was all charm and white teeth. "Sienna! Come in, come in. We're so glad you could join us."The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly I almost believed it myself. But I'd seen the real Pedro, the one who'd threatened me, who'd burned down Angelo's Cafe. This version was just another mask."Thanks for inviting me," I said, forcing my own fake smi

POV: SiennaLucian's penthouse was nothing like I expected. Sitting forty floors above the city, it was all floor-to-ceiling windows and sleek modern furniture that probably cost more than my college tuition. Everything was pristine, sterile almost, like a museum exhibit of how the other half lived.I stood at the living room window, watching the sunrise paint the skyline gold and orange, my reflection ghostlike in the glass. Three days. I'd been here three days, and I still felt like a prisoner in a golden cage."Coffee?" Lucian's voice came from behind me, and I turned to see him holding two steaming mugs. He was already dressed in another expensive suit, every hair in place despite the early hour."Thanks," I said, taking the mug. Our fingers brushed, and I ignored the flutter in my stomach. Stockholm syndrome, I told myself. That's all this was."How did you sleep?" he asked, settling onto the leather couch like he owned the world. Which, in many ways, he did."Fine," I lied. The