Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 1 - Chapitre 10

The fluorescent lights in the lobby buzzed at a frequency designed by someone who hated comfort. I'd replaced three bulbs last month, and the new ones had already settled into that same tired hum, casting everything in a shade of pale that made healthy skin look cadaverous. Pickles was draped across the office chair like a furry comma, his orange tail flicking in whatever dream-cycle he'd entered around midnight. My coffee had gone cold two hours ago, and I'd been using the mug as a paperweight for the inventory spreadsheet I'd been ignoring since eleven. Then the door slammed open, and five men walked in carrying a sixth. The first thing I registered was the blood. Not the dramatic arterial spray they show in films—more of a steady, dark saturation through what had been a white dress shirt, now pressed against a shoulder wound by hands that were themselves covered in it. The man being carried was conscious, which told me either he had a remarkable tolerance for pain or the wound wa

"That's what people say when they want to believe their money can solve everything. It can't." I cut the suture thread and reached for the next one. "Some things are just off the market. Like my integrity. And my cat. Pickles is not for sale." Gino's chest moved with a suppressed laugh this time. I could see it in the way his shoulders shifted, the way his jaw tightened. Antonio's eyes flicked toward him again, but the look was softer this time. Almost fond. "Your cat," Antonio repeated. "Orange tabby. About fourteen pounds. Currently asleep on my office chair, which means he's having a better night than either of us." I finished the second suture and started on the third. "He's the reason I took this job, actually. The clinic came with living quarters, and I needed somewhere that tolerated pets. The student loans made traditional housing complicated." "You talk a lot." "I talk when I'm working. It's a habit. Some people find it unprofessional." I tied off the final suture and re

"The car is outside," Scar-chin said. "Good." Antonio's voice had regained some of its earlier strength. "We're leaving." I followed them to the front door, more out of professional obligation than anything else. The night air hit my face as they filed out, cold and sharp after the sterile warmth of the clinic. A black sedan idled at the curb, its windows tinted so dark they might as well have been painted. Antonio paused at the door and turned back to me. The streetlight caught his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features. He looked less pale now, the transfusion having restored some color to his skin, but there was still something fragile about him—a vulnerability beneath the muscle and the ink and the authority. "I'll remember this," he said. "That's what I'm afraid of." His mouth curved into that almost-smile again, and then he was gone, folding into the sedan with a grace that shouldn't have been possible for someone who'd just had a bullet removed without anesth

The results loaded in 0.47 seconds. There were a lot of them. The first image was from a charity gala—black tie, flashbulbs, a woman in sequins on his arm. He was in a suit, dark charcoal, cut close enough to show the breadth of his shoulders, and his amber eyes caught the camera with the kind of direct stare that made photographers weep with joy and made me think, unbidden, of how that gaze had tracked my hands while I worked. I scrolled past the gala photos. Past the business profiles. Past the newspaper articles with headlines like "Cagliari Acquitted in Racketeering Case" and "Mistrial Declared: Jury Tampering Allegations Rock Cagliari Trial." The pattern was consistent—investigations, indictments, trials, and then nothing. No convictions. Not a single one. Either the man was exceptionally lucky, exceptionally careful, or exceptionally good at ensuring witnesses changed their minds. I found his legitimate business interests cataloged in a financial profile: construction firms,

"Kate." Lindsey's face appeared around the frame, her expression caught between delight and forensic triumph. "You're blushing." "I am not." "You absolutely are. Your whole face is pink. Your ears are pink. Even your—" She pointed. "That bit right there. Pink." "It's warm in here." "It's sixty-eight degrees. You have the AC on. You're never warm." She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with the decisive click of someone who intended to stay. "That was him, wasn't it? The patient. The criminal patient. He called, and now you're standing here blushing like you just got off the phone with—" "Lindsey—" "Was that him?" I reached for my cold coffee. Took a sip. Set it down. "I'm not discussing patient—" "He's not a patient. He's a person. People aren't patients. And you're blushing, which means he's not just a person, he's a person you like." She leaned against the door, arms crossed, her smile widening. "Oh my God, Kate. You like the criminal." "I don't—" "Your