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“Jesus.” Rissa breathes beside me. “Someone really worked him over.”

I force myself to look closer, to catalog each injury with clinical detachment. His knuckles are raw and split. Is that to make it look like he fought back? There’s a wound on his left forearm, deep and jagged. But it’s his chest that shocks me most. Multiple stab and gunshot wounds, precise and deliberate, each one a killing blow.

“Time of death?” I manage to ask, proud that my voice remains steady despite the acid burning in my throat.

The ME glances up from where she’s examining Gio’s hands. “Based on liver temp and decomp, I’d estimate between eighteen and twenty-four hours ago. Could be less. The water exposure makes it tricky. I’d say he was tossed in here sometime late last night.”

Last night Zeke killed him in my house. I remember the way Gio had lunged at me in the dark, the terrible efficiency with which Zeke had ended him. Now, seeing the full extent of what happened after I fled the house, my chest tightens with a mixture of horror and something else—a dark gratitude I don’t want to examine too closely.

“These injuries,” Rissa says, crouching down for a better look. “They’re not random. This was personal.”

She’s right. Every mark on Gio’s body speaks of rage and intent. This wasn’t just a killing—it was a message. And I’m standing here, pretending to investigate a murder I witnessed, protected by the very man who committed it.

I pull on latex gloves and reach for my camera, forcing myself to approach this like any other homicide. The shutter clicks rapidly as I document the scene, capturing close-ups of each wound, each mark of violence inflicted after Zeke snapped his neck.

My hands are steady as I photograph the ligature marks around Gio’s throat, the deep bruising that speaks of strangulation rather than a clean break. Someone went to considerable effort to obscure the true cause of death. The staged injuries tell a different story—one of prolonged suffering rather than the swift end I witnessed.

I make careful notes in my field journal, my pen scratching against paper as I record measurements and observations. The multiple stab wounds show different angles of entry, suggesting either multiple attackers or a very determined single assailant. The gunshot wounds are clustered—three to the chest, one tothe abdomen. Professional. Methodical. Something tells me we won’t find bullets.

“His wallet and phone are missing.” I note aloud, patting down the soaked pockets of his pants. “Could be robbery—”

“But this wasn’t random.” Rissa finishes, her eyes sharp as she surveys the scene. “This has organized crime written all over it.”

She’s right, of course. Every aspect of this scene screams mafia hit, from the execution-style gunshots to the brutal message sent. As I photograph the defensive wounds on his hands—wounds I know were added after death—I wonder how many of Zeke’s men were involved in staging this elaborate cover-up.

I’m crouched by Gio’s body, documenting another wound, when the atmosphere shifts. The busy chatter of the crime scene falls silent, replaced by a heavy tension that makes the hair on my neck stand up. Even before I look up, I know something’s wrong.

Alessandro Costa stands at the top of the riverbank, mere feet from the yellow crime tape marking off the area. His expensive Italian suit looks out of place against the muddy riverbank, but his presence commands attention. Every eye shifts toward him, his face a mask of careful composure that doesn’t quite hide the rage simmering beneath.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I straighten up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are the same dark brown as Gio’s, but where his son’s had often sparked with reckless anger, Alessandro’s holds something far more dangerous—calculated fury.

“Detective Landry,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the crime scene despite its quiet tone as I make my way toward him. The way he says my name ices my veins. “What a fortunate coincidence to find you here.”

I stop mere inches from him, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne mixing with the river’s decay. Though he’s speaking to me, his eyes drift to his son’s body, taking in the violence written across Gio’s flesh.

“Mr. Costa.” I manage, my voice steady despite my accelerated pulse. Glancing around, I spot Eli’s car in the distance, carefully watching the scene unfold. His presence should make me feel better, but uneasiness settles over me like an old foe. “This is an active crime scene. You shouldn’t—”

“Tell King,” he cuts me off, leaning in so close his breath brushes across my ear, “that he will pay for this.” His words are soft, almost gentle, but laden with such menace that my breath catches. “A son for a son. That is our way.”

“Zeke doesn’t have a son,” I whisper.

The look in Costa’s eyes shifts from angry grief to pure evil. There’s a hidden meaning behind that stare and I don’t know what it is.

My fingers twitch toward my weapon, but I force them still. Around us, officers shift uneasily, picking up on the undercurrent of threat in Alessandro’s carefully measured body language. Rissa has gone rigid beside me, her hand already resting on her holster.

Alessandro steps back, straightening his jacket with meticulous care. His eyes meet mine one last time, and in them I see a promise of violence that makes my blood run cold.

My shoulders sagwith exhaustion as Eli unlocks the front door of Zeke’s mansion. After the confrontation with Alessandro at the crime scene, my nerves are frayed, and my mind keepsreplaying his chilling threat. All I want is to hold Leo close, to reassure myself that he’s safe.

The sound of childish laughter echoes from the living room as I step inside, and my heart leaps into my throat. I know that giggle. Relief floods through me—Leo. I’ve missed him and could really use some quality time with him after the day I had.

I round the corner and freeze, the sight catching me off guard.

Zeke—dressed down in a simple black t-shirt and jeans—sits cross-legged on the living room floor. His broad shoulders are relaxed, a genuine smile lighting up his usually stern face as he helps Leo construct an elaborate castle out of Legos.

“And then,” Leo is saying, waving his hands excitedly, “we can put the dragon right here to guard the treasure.”

“Smart thinking,” Zeke replies, his deep voice gentled in a way I’ve never heard before. “Every castle needs a good defense system.”