Kiss The Killer

Sienna

The gunshot cracked through the night like a whip against my eardrums.

I froze behind the dumpster, my heart hammering so hard I was sure whoever was out there could hear it. The acrid smell of garbage mixed with something metallic in the air. Blood, maybe. I pressed my back against the brick wall of Angelo's Cafe, still clutching my apron in one hand and my phone in the other.

"Where is it?" A voice growled from the alley ahead. Deep. Controlled. Dangerous.

I shouldn't have taken the shortcut. I knew better than to walk through the warehouse district at midnight, but my shift had run late and my bus pass was expired. Again. Three jobs still wasn't enough to cover tuition, rent, and actually eating more than ramen twice a week.

Another voice responded, weaker, gasping. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Wrong answer."

My fingers trembled as I lifted my phone. This was insane. I should run. I should mind my own business like every other person in this godforsaken city. But something made me tap the camera app. Maybe it was the journalism student in me. Maybe it was pure stupidity.

The flash didn't go off. Thank God.

Through the screen, I could make out two figures. One kneeling, one standing. The standing figure raised something that glinted in the streetlight.

"Please," the kneeling man begged. "I have a family."

"So did Marcus."

The second gunshot made me jump. My phone slipped, clattering against a beer bottle. The sound echoed like a church bell in the sudden silence.

Shit.

Footsteps. Fast. Coming toward me.

I shoved my phone into my jacket pocket and ran. My sneakers slapped against wet pavement as I sprinted toward the street lights. Behind me, I could hear him gaining ground. Whoever he was, he was fast.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. I found myself face to face with a ski mask, dark eyes boring into mine through the holes. He was tall, broad, wearing all black. I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Clean. Wrong for a killer.

"The phone," he said quietly. His voice was different now. Younger than I'd expected. Almost... familiar?

"I don't know what you mean." My voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old boy's.

His grip tightened. Not painful, but firm. "Delete the photo."

"What photo?"

He leaned closer. Close enough that I could see his eyes weren't just dark, they were green. Deep forest green with gold flecks. "The one you just took. Delete it. Or you'll be next."

My mouth went dry. "I didn't see anything."

"Smart girl." He released me, stepping back. "Keep it that way."

I watched him disappear into the shadows like smoke. My legs felt like jelly as I stumbled the rest of the way home to my shoebox apartment. I double-locked the door and shoved my desk chair under the handle for good measure.

I didn't sleep. Every sound in the hallway made me jump. Every car door slamming outside made my heart race. By morning, I'd almost convinced myself it had been a nightmare.

Almost.

Professor Martinez looked like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world than teaching Introduction to Investigative Journalism at eight AM. Her gray hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore the same black blazer she'd had on every day since semester started.

"Extra credit assignments," she announced, dropping a stack of papers on her desk. "For those of you failing to meet basic expectations."

My cheeks burned. I was barely scraping by with a C+, and we all knew it.

"Unresolved crimes. Local incidents the police have closed but the public deserves answers about." She fixed me with a stare. "Miss Carter. You look like you need all the help you can get."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Professor."

She slid a folder across my desk. "Warehouse district incident from last night. Man found dead, no witnesses, case closed in record time. Funny how that happens in certain parts of the city."

My blood turned to ice water. The folder felt like it weighed a hundred pounds as I opened it. There, staring back at me, was a crime scene photo of the alley. The exact same alley.

"Something wrong, Miss Carter? You look pale."

I forced my voice to stay steady. "Just tired."

"Well, wake up. This assignment could save your grade. Or you can drop the class and explain to financial aid why you're failing."

Financial aid. My scholarship. The only thing standing between me and dropping out completely.

I spent the rest of class in a daze. When everyone else filed out, I stayed behind, staring at the crime scene photos. The victim was identified as Tommy Ricci, 34, unemployed. No family listed. No witnesses. Case closed.

But I was a witness. I'd seen it happen. I'd seen the killer.

And I had proof.

Back in my apartment, I pulled out my phone with shaking hands. The photo was blurry, mostly shadows and streetlight. But there, in the corner, just barely visible...

A face. Partially obscured by the mask, but clear enough to make out features. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. And those eyes. Those unmistakable green eyes.

I'd seen that face before. Not in a dark alley, but somewhere else. Somewhere normal. Somewhere safe.

I pulled up the university directory on my laptop, scrolling through student photos. My heart sank lower with each page. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the trauma was making me see things.

Then I found him.

Lucian Romano. Business major. Senior.

Romano.

As in Romano crime family. As in the most dangerous, untouchable criminal organization in the city. As in the family that owned half the judges, most of the cops, and had never seen the inside of a courtroom.

And he was sitting three rows behind me in Professor Martinez's class.

I slammed the laptop shut, my hands shaking so hard I could barely type. This was impossible. Lucian Romano was supposed to be some shadowy figure, a ghost story parents told to keep their kids in line. Not a college student taking intro classes.

Not someone who knew exactly where to find me.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

*Hope you're enjoying your research, Siena. Some stories are better left untold.*

I dropped the phone like it was on fire. How did he get my number? How did he know I was investigating?

Another text: *See you in class tomorrow.*