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Chapter Three

Rafael

I wake with a start. Lingering images of that smile, of my fist wrapped around long, golden hair streaked with pink, play behind my eyelids.

I had imagined ocean-blue eyes staring up at me. I had been dreaming of the waitress we followed today. I had dreamed of her on her knees, my cock in her mouth.

I groan, rubbing my face, trying to block it out. My traitorous, hard cock twitches, and I can’t help myself. I stroke it once, twice, three times. An image of the waitress’ blood-red lips wrapped around it makes me moan and buck my hips.

Pull yourself together, man.

I use every ounce of self-control I have to launch myself out of bed and into a cold shower. As I shiver and wash my hair, I wonder what having these depraved dreams about my victim means. These are questions I’d ask a therapist, if I had one.

He’d probably tell me that the line between lust and hatred is thin and that the two often elicit similar physical responses. I read that somewhere once.

I shake these notions away and get ready for the day. My meticulous morning routine is the only thing keeping me sane while thoughts of the waitress bombard me from all angles.

Needing some release, I throw on my workout clothes and head to my rooftop gym. I choose the most difficult circuit in my rotation, pushing myself as hard as I can. I’m hoping to sweat out these fucked up dream flashbacks.

Sweat drips from my hair, burning my eyes. I push harder, distracting myself with the early morning view of the city skyline. The sun is still low in the sky, the clouds awash with pink and orange. A light breeze from the small AC unit on the wall glides over my slick skin, giving me a second of relief.

Enzo walks in as I’m hopping off the treadmill and I nod at him. I towel off my soaking hair, already looking forward to another shower.

“Morning, boss.”

“What do you have for me?”

He plops himself down on a bench and pulls out his phone. “Her name is Lux Davis…”

“What the hell kind of a name is that?”

Enzo stops, glancing up at me. He shrugs and continues scrolling through his phone. “It’s the Latin word for light. I don’t know.”

Of course, it is. The girl who glows golden. The jokes write themselves.

“So,” he continues, his voice laced with boredom, “she’s pretty clean, as far as I can see. Dead parents, grew up in foster care, works three jobs, no living family members.”

“Tell me about the jobs.”

“Let’s see,” he says, scrolling back. “Waitress at Rocky’s Cafe, delivery driver for some distribution warehouse, and bartender at The Velvet Room.”

“No arrests? Nothing illegal? No criminal ties?”

“Honestly, no. I couldn’t find anything,” he admits, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “She’s done some weird shit, though.”

“Like?”

“Got caught up in a potential cult through some guy she was dating, stole a live turkey but was never charged for theft, paid a bunch of money out to save some pigeon she found that was hurt or something, bought a motorcycle and crashed it on the same day…”

“Jesus Christ, this girl’s a mess.”

Enzo laughs as he stands up to follow me to the elevator. “She seems like a lonely, broke girl who gets herself caught up in trouble while trying to survive.”

“So, you’re a criminal profiler now?”

“I’m just calling it like I see it,” he retorts, pushing the elevator button.

A lonely, broke girl. What would she want that would cause her to be willing to poison a kingpin like my father? What would disarm someone like that so that I could get close to them?

“Anything else you need from me?” he asks, holding the elevator doors open. I blink back into reality, realizing I’m in my entryway.

“No, that’s it for now.”

Enzo nods and the doors slide closed. I strip off my clothes as I head back to the shower.

Money? Someone like that could surely be paid off. But that’s too easy.

I turn the heat up this time, stepping into a burning hot stream of water, letting it beat against my skin. The sensation is an intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. I turn down the temperature a bit, adjusting to the feeling.

She obviously has a hard time running her life. She probably needs a personal assistant or something, but that’s not something a girl like that would trust me to handle.

Images and thoughts of the waitress flood my mind again, and my body responds. Goosebumps break out over my arms as I fantasize about having her in the shower with me, soaking wet. I picture the water making her skin slick, her curves even more appealing.

I close my eyes, imagining myself tracing every curve with my tongue, nipping at her skin with my teeth. I hear her moans in my mind, fantasies of her lips parted, gasping for pleasure as I sink into her play on repeat.

This time, my self-control flies out the window, and I slide my hand over my aching cock without a second thought. I feel vaguely ashamed as I finish up and climb out of the shower.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. Wanting her physically like this is messing with my head.

Suddenly, it hits me.

Love .

Love, like lust and hatred, is one of the strongest human emotions. It disarms people, makes them easy to manipulate. Love weaponizes trust, turning normally level-headed individuals into fools.

If I make her fall in love with me, I can tear her life apart piece by piece—and satisfy this insane physical craving for her at the same time. Granted, she wouldn’t fall in love with me , but she would turn into a fool for her ideal man.

I grab my phone and dial Enzo. He answers immediately, his voice echoing through his car’s Bluetooth.

“Find out what she likes,” I bark out. “Everything. I need to know everything about her…her interests, what she hates, her favorite food—all of it.”

“Give me a few hours.”

I hang up, satisfied, a plan starting to form in my mind. The all-consuming need to see her again rears its ugly head. I stride over to my walk-in closet, carefully choosing today’s look.

A crisp, tailored grey wool suit calls to me. As I get myself ready, a dark thought scratches at me, somewhere in the back of my brain. I’m becoming too obsessed, too intoxicated by her. I know it, and yet, I can’t stop.

I have better shit to do than follow a waitress around all day.

Still, I find myself heading to the parking garage like a possessed man, the desire to see her again controlling my every move. I scroll through the details Enzo emailed me, finding the location of the warehouse she works at.

Glancing at my watch, I realize I can make it there just as she arrives for her morning shift.

I pull out of the parking garage and head south along the river with my single-track mind guiding my path. My wild side, the one that earned me my nickname, howls for her. The Wolf is on the scent.

Find her.

Make her yours.

Destroy her.

The warehouse is a large, sprawling facility on the edge of the city. It runs along the major highway, stretching for several miles. The parking lot entrance is unmanned so I pull in and park at the very back against the chain link fence.

I whip out my phone and look up what this place is about. It’s a central distribution system for online businesses and marketplaces. It takes advantage of the growing gig economy to hire contract drivers out for deliveries. Completely legal, no funny business.

Leaning back against my heated leather seats, I scan the entrance for her beat-up little Toyota. My phone lights up with a series of messages from Enzo. I scroll through, filing the information away in my mind.

Loves: art, music, books. Impressionist movement. Feminist punk music (what the hell is that), Bill Bryson. Big fan of sushi, but mostly eats cheap bodega sandwiches and take-out pizza from Poppy’s Pizzeria. Wants to go to art school.

Hates: animal cruelty (the turkey thing makes sense now)

That’s all I got. You need more?

I quickly type out a message thanking him and glance back at the main gate. Her piece of crap car rolls in at that exact moment, sputtering to a stop across two parking spots. She gets out, slamming the door, her hair flying wildly behind her.

She circles it a few times and kicks it with her boot, cursing at the damn thing. Shaking her head, she stomps toward the main doors and disappears inside. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

A few minutes later, she emerges balancing a stack of packages and mailers. A bored-looking kid follows behind her, pushing a trolley stacked with more boxes. Together, they load up her car, and she gets back inside.

I watch her try to start the car several times, but the engine refuses to turn over. I almost want to get out and help, but then I remind myself who she is and stay put. Finally, she manages to get the clunker going and pulls out of the parking lot.

I trail after her, staying a few cars behind so she doesn’t notice me. Her electrifying smile has been replaced by a permanent frown today. I watch her making her deliveries, feeling like a junkie needing his fix.

I need to see it, need to feel the warm glow of her smile.

Mid-morning, she pulls her car over on a tiny street in Little Italy and ducks into a coffee shop. I pull in right behind her, truly testing the quality of my heavily tinted windows. If she sees me now, my plans will go to shit, but I can’t help it.

I’m so close that I can see every detail of her face as she exits the shop, clutching an extra-large coffee. The heavy makeup from last night is gone. I can see her freckles clearly, those huge sapphire eyes framed by thick lashes.

She parts her rosy lips, taking a sip of coffee, and for the first time today, I feel warm. A huge smile spreads across her face, transforming it into something ethereal and otherworldly. I feel myself echoing her smile.

She laughs and takes another long sip of coffee, doing a little happy dance as she climbs back into her car. Who the hell is this woman?

I watch her drive away but I don’t follow, needing a break from being in her presence. It’s almost overwhelming, the effect she has on me. I take a deep breath and shake my head, trying to shake her off. The sign for Rocky’s Cafe catches my eye down the street.

Perfect .

I slide out of my SUV and slip on a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses as I stroll down the street. When I get to the shop, I see another waitress leaning against the counter, reading a newspaper. The place is deserted.

The man from the other day walks out of a doorway, gesturing to the waitress. She shakes her head and slowly moves to clean the tables.

Hello, Rocky.

Although I’ve never been inside, I know my father liked to come here for lunch sometimes with his associates. The staff never bothered them, the coffee was hot, and the food wasn’t half bad. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Rocky was aware of who they were and knew how to keep his mouth shut.

I duck into the alley between Rocky’s and the bookstore next door and make my way to the back door. It’s wide open, letting the fresh air in. I can hear 70s rock playing on a dinky little radio and a man’s voice singing along—badly.

The sizzle of the grill hits me hard as I slip inside, the smell of greasy bacon infiltrating my nostrils.

“Knock, knock.”

Rocky spins around, dropping his spatula. He’s a heavyset guy in his mid-forties. A dark mustache lines his upper lip and a shirt that says “Kiss the Chef” stretches across his belly. I grin, my devilish mask slipping easily onto my face.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, recovering from the surprise. “Can’t you read the sign? Employees only.”

“I think this,” I retort, twirling my gun around my finger, “gives me some leeway. What do you think?”

Rocky immediately puts his hands up and backs away, panic flashing across his face. “Hey, hey, hey man, listen. We’re a family restaurant…all we got in the register is fives and tens, but take ‘em. Just leave me the hell out of it.”

“I don’t want your money,” I say, slowly walking across the kitchen toward him. He keeps shuffling back until he smashes into the fridge doors. I grin and polish my gun against my suit jacket.

This is the best part of my job. This exact moment. The other guy doesn’t know if he’s about to die, get knocked out, or just have a conversation. The panic, the fear, it makes it all worth it.

I slam my hand against the refrigerator, trapping him. He gasps for breath, his pupils moving wildly. I feel kind of sorry for him, actually. He looks like he’s about to give himself a heart attack so I step back, tucking my gun away.

“The name’s Romano,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’m sure you’re familiar.”

He takes a long wheezing breath, clutching his chest, and nods.

“My father died here yesterday, on top of your table in the back. You know that?”

“Wha ... what?” He looks genuinely confused. “That can’t be…I saw him yesterday, he was fine.”

Uncertainty and fear swirl in his eyes, coloring his cheeks pink. I can see the truth in his statement. Damn, the waitress didn’t tell him someone died in his establishment? Well, that makes this easier.

“Your waitress never reported the death?”

“No, no, Mr. Romano, sir,” he answers instantly, wiping his sweaty palms on his apron. “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

“Don’t you think that goes against policy?”

“To be honest,” he stammers, shrugging his shoulders. “We don’t really have many policies…any policies, really. Except don’t steal.”

“I think you need to institute a new policy then,” I say casually, “and fire employees who don’t comply. Don’t you?”

“You want me to…” he trails off, looking confused. “Wait, you want me to fire Luxy?”

“Sounds fair to me,” I reply, turning to leave, my voice laced with malice. “Thanks for being so understanding, Rocky.”

“But Mr. Romano,” he falters, following me to the door. “She’s such a good girl. And she needs this job, badly. Can’t I just …”

“I’ll be sending some associates over if you don’t do your part,” I toss over my shoulder, rounding the corner. “Trust me, you don’t want to meet them.”

I step out of the alley and into the sunshine. A smile spreads across my face as I saunter back to my car.

Step one of destroying the waitress’ life? Complete.

Just wait till you see what’s next, baby.