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