Playing with Fire

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 empty document. I'd tried writing the story seventeen times. Each attempt ended the same way: deleted, shredded, forgotten. Because putting it in words made it real. Made me complicit.

Made me a target.

But I was already a target, wasn't I?

Friday morning, my phone rang. Not a number I recognized, but not the unknown number from before either. Against my better judgment, I answered.

"Miss Carter?" The voice was crisp, professional. Female. "This is Dean Walsh's office. You're needed on campus immediately."

My stomach dropped. "Is something wrong?"

"There's been an incident regarding your extra credit assignment. Please come to the administration building within the hour."

The line went dead.

An incident. What kind of incident? Had someone else died? Had they found out I was connected to Tommy Ricci's murder somehow?

I grabbed my jacket and ran.

The administration building felt like a mausoleum. My footsteps echoed off marble floors as I made my way to the dean's office, every shadow making me jump. The secretary, a woman with steel-gray hair and disapproving eyes, barely looked up as I approached.

"Siena Carter," I said. "I was told to come in?"

She gestured toward a closed door. "They're waiting for you."

They?

I knocked, my knuckles barely making a sound against the heavy wood.

"Come in."

Dean Walsh sat behind his massive desk like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence. He was a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of mustache that went out of style in the seventies. But it wasn't the dean that made my blood freeze.

It was the man sitting in the chair across from him.

Lucian Romano looked different in daylight. Less shadow, more substance. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his expensive suit tailored to fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. Without the ski mask, I could see his face clearly: sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and those impossible green eyes that seemed to see straight through me.

He was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often are. Like a blade or a wildfire.

"Miss Carter," Dean Walsh said, gesturing to the empty chair next to Lucian. "Please, sit."

I remained standing. "What's this about?"

"Your investigation," Lucian said quietly. His voice was exactly as I remembered it. Smooth as silk, deadly as poison. "It seems you've been asking the wrong questions."

"I don't know what you mean."

He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "The Tommy Ricci story. Professor Martinez mentioned you were struggling with the assignment."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I'm handling it fine."

"Are you?" Dean Walsh leaned forward. "Because Mr. Romano here has offered to help. He's quite knowledgeable about local crime statistics."

I bet he was.

"That's not necessary," I said, backing toward the door. "I can manage on my own."

"Actually," Lucian stood, moving with the fluid grace of a predator, "I insist. Community involvement is so important, don't you think?"

He was between me and the door now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne again. The same expensive scent from that night in the alley.

"I really should go," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course." He stepped aside, but not before his fingers brushed against my arm. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent electricity racing through my veins. "I'll walk you out."

Dean Walsh was already looking at something else on his desk, dismissing us both. "Excellent. I'm sure you two will work well together."

The hallway felt endless as we walked in silence. Other students passed us, chatting and laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that they were sharing space with a killer. How many people had he hurt? How many families had he destroyed?

How many more would he destroy if I didn't stop him?

"You're thinking very loudly," he said as we reached the main entrance.

I stopped walking. "What?"

"You have this little crease between your eyebrows when you're trying to solve a puzzle." He turned to face me, those green eyes studying my face like I was something fascinating under a microscope. "It's quite charming, actually."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended.

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend this is normal. Don't act like we're just two students working on a project together."

He tilted his head slightly. "What should I act like?"

"Like what you are."

"And what am I, Siena?"

The way he said my name made my skin crawl. Or maybe it made my skin tingle. I couldn't tell the difference anymore.

"A murderer."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Amusement? "That's a serious accusation."

"It's not an accusation. It's a fact."

"Facts require evidence." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Do you have evidence, Siena?"

My phone felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket. The photo. The proof. But showing it to him would be admitting I'd been there. Admitting I'd seen everything.

"I know what I know," I said instead.

"And I know what I know." His hand moved to his jacket pocket, and for a terrifying moment I thought he was reaching for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a business card. Plain white, expensive paper. Just a phone number printed in elegant script. "When you're ready to hear the truth, call me."

He walked away without another word, leaving me standing alone on the steps with the card trembling in my hand.

That night, I sat at my kitchen table staring at the card and my phone. The rational part of my brain was screaming again, louder this time. This was insane. Lucian Romano was a killer, and I was considering actually calling him?

But the journalist in me was curious. What truth was he talking about? What didn't I understand about what I'd witnessed?

And underneath it all, something else was stirring. Something I didn't want to name or acknowledge.

He'd called me charming.

I dialed the number before I could talk myself out of it.

He answered on the first ring. "I was wondering how long it would take."

"Just tell me what you want to tell me," I said.

"Not over the phone. Tomorrow night. Pier 47, midnight."

"That's where they found—"

"Tommy Ricci's body. Yes, I know." His voice dropped an octave. "Come alone, Siena. And bring your camera."

The line went dead, leaving me staring at my reflection in the black screen.

What had I just gotten myself into?