Page 3

2

Is She Flirting With Me?

Hypothetical Question: If you were a ghost, would you haunt your last victim or your worst enemy?

Nate

“What’s your plan now?” I ask, tilting my head as I study her.

“What do you mean?”

“You weren’t planning to just leave the body here, were you? Let someone stumble across it?”

“I…” she hesitates, her brow furrowing. “Crap. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, Princess. I know a guy.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know a guy.”

“Yep. My cleaner.”

“Let me guess,” she says, crossing her arms. “This guy doesn’t exactly mop floors for a living.”

“Not unless the floor’s covered in blood.” I laugh, enjoying the way her expression flickers between scepticism and intrigue.

She exhales sharply, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, but it vanishes when I ask, “What’s next on your agenda? Any more rapists to kill?”

Her body tenses, just slightly, but I catch it—the smallest flinch.

“Six more.”

Six.

The number sends something cold and sharp slicing through my chest. A fury bubbles up, raw and unrelenting, and it’s not directed at her. The thought of what she’s been through, what these men have done, makes my hands clench into fists. A dark, violent part of me wants to find every one of them right now and make them pay in ways I’ve never even considered.

“We’d make a good team,” I say before I can stop myself.

“What?” Her lips part, her voice edged with surprise.

I shrug, trying to keep my tone casual. “If you ever want company… you should call me.”

Her eyes narrow, a teasing spark lighting up behind them. “I’d need your number for that.”

Is she flirting with me? She’s definitely flirting with me. Why is it so fucking hot that she’s flirting with me while we’re standing next to the body of the man we just killed?

“Give me your phone.” I hold out my hand, staring at her expectantly.

She pulls it out of her pocket, her movements slow and deliberate, then hands it to me. My bloodied hands are hardly in any state to touch it, so I wipe them on my jeans first, grinning when she raises an eyebrow.

I punch in my number and send myself a quick text, slipping her phone back into her hand. “There. Now you have no excuse not to.”

She glances at the screen, then back at me. “Guess I’ll see you around, Nate.”

“Count on it, Princess.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. The air feels heavy, charged with something I can’t quite name. She hesitates, like she doesn’t want to leave, and the truth is, I don’t want her to. But eventually, she turns and heads for the door, her footsteps light and purposeful.

Before she disappears, she throws one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes locking with mine for a brief, electric moment. And then she’s gone, leaving me alone with a dead body—and the undeniable urge to see her again.

I fire off a quick text to Kai, telling him where to meet, then busy myself, starting to clear up some of the blood and grime while I wait for him to arrive.

“Christ.” Kai grimaces, stepping into the room and taking in the scene with a pained eye. He hates mess, which makes him the best cleaner.

“What?” I say, feigning innocence as I wipe my hands on my already-ruined jeans. “It’s not that bad.”

Kai scoffs, crouching to inspect the mess. “Not that bad? This will take me hours.”

“Remember that one particularly bad one…”

“Don’t remind me.” He glares up at me, his face twisted in horror. “The smell alone was enough to haunt me for life. I still have nightmares.”

“Shut up.” I grin, leaning casually against the wall. “You love it.”

“Love is a strong word.” Kai straightens, rolling his shoulders with a tired groan.

I scan the scene, assessing the carnage. “How are you getting rid of this one?”

“Same as always. Chop it up, throw it in the Thames.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“Hey, it works! Never had one come back up.”

I got into this business—the murder business—about five years ago. The first time it happened, it wasn’t planned. I lost control in the heat of the moment when I was confronting a monster for one of my clients.

Now, I can’t imagine my life taking any other path. I’ve always had the drive to help victims of trafficking and abuse. My sister was kidnapped and sold when she was only nine years old. Ever since then, I knew I would want to make a career out of helping the survivors. The ones that got out. And now I get to get justice for the ones that didn’t.

After my loss of control, Kai was the only one I could think of to ask for help. The only person I trusted enough to call. And, of course, he came through. Kai is nothing if not practical. He didn’t hesitate. Helped me clean up the mess, scoured hours of security footage to make sure it looked like I’d never been anywhere near the scene.

We've been a team ever since.

Carina

My hands tremble as I slide into my car—a pink Fiat 500. Of course.

I just killed someone.

Not just anyone. Him .

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, but my mind still. I've never taken a life before. I've fantasised about it—countless times. Planned it down to the last detail.

Well. Except for the cleanup.

But until now, it was just that: a fantasy. A dark dream waiting to be realised.

Now, it’s real.

Despite the tremors wracking my body, I feel calm. Centred.

Blood soaks my dress, the fabric sticking to my skin, warm and wet—a vivid reminder of what I've done. I'll have to burn it, of course. A shame. I liked this dress.

Though, to be fair, I bought it for this purpose.

Maybe pink wasn't the most practical choice for murder. But pink makes me feel alive. It's mine .

After I started therapy, I dyed my hair pink. Doctor Morgan called it reclaiming my identity, taking back control in a world that had stolen everything from me. It stuck. Pink became a part of me—bright, unapologetic.

If she could see me now... God. I don't know if she'd be proud or horrified. Probably horrified.

Then again, she might still dance on his grave.

But Enzo?

He'd be proud.

Enzo taught me how to grip a knife with purpose and trust again—not in a romantic or even a brotherly way, but something deeper.

Loyalty. A bond forged in blood but stronger than it.

After I escaped the men who owned me—body, mind, and soul—I fled to Italy. I had no plan. No real sense of survival. I just knew one thing: I had to disappear. Not just hide. Erase every remnant of the girl they broke.

At first, I was terrified, alone in a foreign country with nothing but stolen cash and a hunger for revenge. But money only gets you so far when your name is still out there, when your past lingers like a shadow waiting to yank you back.

It started with whispers. Back-alley conversations, hushed exchanges in crowded markets.

A name came up more than once.

Russo .

A man who could make problems vanish. Not just hide them. Erase them.

I started asking quiet questions, always careful not to draw too much attention. Of course, this was dangerous. Anyone powerful enough to erase a person was steeped in blood and crime.

But what choice did I have?

Eventually, my questions led me to him.

Enzo Russo.

The first time I saw him, he sat like a king on a throne, surrounded by men who would kill for him without a second thought. This kind of loyalty isn't asked for but earned in blood.

I should have been afraid.

Instead, I saw something in him—or maybe he saw something in me.

After he agreed to help me, he became my mentor. At first, I didn't know why. I wasn't strong or fearless. I was just a girl running on empty, dragging ghosts behind her. But Enzo saw through that.

Something about me made him drop the act. He let down his walls and showed me the softer version of himself—the man beneath the reputation.

And somehow, he had a way of breaking through mine, too.

"You've got the look of someone who's running from something," he'd said, voice quieter than I expected. "You don't have to tell me, but if you ever want to stop running, I can teach you how to fight."

His words were a lifeline. I didn't trust him—not yet—but I took it.

Under Enzo's watchful eye, I learned how to defend myself—to reclaim my power. The first time he handed me a knife, I froze.

It wasn't just cold steel. It was a choice.

"It's not just a weapon," he told me, curling my fingers around the handle. "It's a promise. To yourself. That no one will ever hurt you again."

Now, gripping the steering wheel, blood drying on my dress, his words echo through me. Steady me.

I miss him.

But it was time to come home.

The drive back is a blur, the past threatening to pull me under its current.

I let it go.

When I pull into the driveway, my pulse is steady, my hands no longer shaking. All I feel is a deep, unshakable satisfaction.

This is my path.

I know it with every fibre of my being.

It terrifies me.

But it feels so right.