Page 13 of The Italian Reckoning (A New York Criminal Empire #3)

SARAH

I didn’t tell anyone that someone tried to kill me two days ago. Had I been in any other state, maybe any other precinct, then I would have thought about it. But here? The last thing I need is for the wrong person to report my reaction back to whoever was behind the attempt.

I bet it was Rocky. That smug fucker slipped out of interrogation with such a cocky smirk on his face, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who pulled the trigger, trying to silence me either because of the investigation or because he’s a dick.

I shake him from my thoughts and once again try to focus on the files spread out across my desk.

I’ve dug up everything I could find on The Painter without drawing any attention to what I was doing.

Despite knowing almost every detail of this case by heart, I’m praying something I missed will jump out at me and all of this will make sense.

A clue or a hint that The Painter had some kind of prodigy trying to recreate his work, or a detail that will suddenly spark the important, long-forgotten memories buried in my damaged mind.

Nothing jumps out at me. Without Gio to speak to and no warrant to force him, this is my only lead, the only way I can keep the case open and help Belle.

I stare until the words blur together and nothing makes sense.

Then, when my eyes close, I rub hard at the bridge of my nose and sigh.

In the darkness, my tired mind latches onto my one surprising source of comfort.

My mysterious biker. He’s saved me twice now, like some kind of leather-clad angel watching over me.

Instinct tells me to be suspicious, but in this one case, I’m choosing to ignore it.

I like him. I like how he makes me feel. How my heart flutters and my body heats up in ways I’ve not felt in a long time. Therapy would tell me that I’m creating an unhealthy bond with a savior figure due to the trauma in my past.

I’d tell therapy to go fuck itself after that parking lot kiss. It plays out perfectly in my mind with the bang of the gun, the shatter of glass, and the sudden warm press of his lips against mine. I melted like putty in his hands and I’d do it all over again.

“Parcel for you.” The thump of the parcel hitting the desk draws me out of my daydream and my cheeks warm as if the desk clerk was somehow privy to my sultry thoughts. I flash them a smile as they leave my office without looking back and quickly open the package with my letter opener.

No sooner have I scoured through three sections of tape when the contents tip out onto my desk from being dislodged, likely during delivery.

All warmth leaves me in a single heartbeat as another makeup palette exactly the same as the one I already received lands on my desk with a thunk.

No .

This can’t be real. This can’t be fucking real.

I stare at it until my eyes blur with tears. Tension tightens around my chest, making my next few breaths ragged, and the icy cold fingers of dread caress the back of my neck, sending countless shivers down my spine.

They have to believe me now. They have to.

“Do you think I’m telling the truth now?

” The makeup palette lands on Brant’s desk with a clatter, jolting him out of whatever he was intently typing up on the computer.

“Look at this! This is a threat. Hell, it’s probably some kind of joke.

The killer is taunting us, Brant. They’re making fun of me because they know you’re not letting me do this properly! ”

Brant eyes the palette, then glances up at me with a frown. “Sarah, what on earth are you talking about?”

“This!” I furiously tap his desk. “I got sent one at home with Saran Wrap a few weeks ago, then a few days ago, someone tried to kill me, and now I get another one. Don’t you see?”

His blank expression doesn’t change.

“It’s The Painter! Or someone incredibly intimate with his methods. It’s the exact same makeup brand he used in Montana and now it’s here. After what happened to Belle, don’t you see?”

“Sarah, you’re not thinking logically.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You know I know this case better than anyone. I know exactly what to look out for.”

“In that case, did The Painter ever send gifts like these before?”

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “No.”

“So why now?”

“Because he’s bored. We’re taking too long to start the chase so he’s taunting me.”

“Or someone you know is gifting you a very popular makeup brand.” Brant sniffs deeply and picks up the palette, examining it, then his eyes lock on mine. “What do you mean someone tried to kill you?”

“I…” Shit. That just slipped out. “A few days ago, someone tried to shoot me.”

“This is New York. Are you sure they were aiming for you?”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

“Then why am I only hearing about it now?”

Again, the words stick in my throat as my reasoning suddenly doesn’t feel justifiable when facing down my captain. My lips part but my mind is running circles around The Painter, and being shot at feels like such a small incident in comparison. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Someone trying to kill one of my detectives absolutely does matter.”

“I’m not even sure it’s linked to this case, I just think— Look. This means something.” I tap his desk again. “We either have that asshole running around New York or we have a copycat, and the bodies will start piling up pretty fast if we don’t give him the attention he craves.”

“Sarah, I’m not putting everyone on high alert for the ghost of a serial killer because someone sent you makeup in the mail.”

I ache to reach across the desk and wrap my hands around Brant’s neck, then shake him until he starts listening to what I’m trying to tell him. “This is a threat .”

“If it will make you feel better, I’ll have forensics take a look at this, alright? But Sarah?” His tone drops down a notch, softening with the telltale notes of appeasement. “Have you been sleeping? You look a little worn down.”

“Would you ask me that if I were a man?”

Brant’s eyes narrow. “I think you should take some time out.”

“What?”

“When was the last time you had a holiday? Take some time off, Sarah. Go to a spa, get some treatment or something. You need to stop jumping at ghosts. Do you want me to call the station therapist?”

All fire to argue back dies inside me within a few seconds. How can Brant be so blind to something that’s so obvious to me? How can he not see that we’re being taunted and it’s only a matter of time before the next body turns up with the exact same M.O. as Belle?

“Sir—”

“Take a few days off, Sarah,” Brant sighs, returning to his work. “That’s an order.”

“And he looked at me like I’m the problem!

” I rant an hour later to Bobby as he works quickly to secure my coffee.

“And to make matters worse, I had to walk here from the station because my fucking tires were slashed. Who does that? Who slashes the tires of a car parked outside the fucking police station?”

Soft tsking reaches my ears as an elderly woman glares daggers at me then quickly leaves the cafe.

Shit.

“I’m sorry.” Sighing deeply like I’m deflating, I lower my voice and lean against the counter. “It’s been one hell of a day. A week. A whatever.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” Bobby replies, setting the paper cup down in front of me. “I can’t speak much on your work, of course, but is there nothing else you can do to get him to listen to you?”

“No.” My hand closes around the cup and I briefly close my eyes, soaking up the warm radiating from the coffee.

“I feel like I’m going crazy. They won’t listen to me until the next person gets hurt, and then it’ll be all why didn’t you do something sooner ?

How do you make everyone else focus on something that seems insanely obvious to you? ”

“Well, if I were you?” Bobby leans on the other side of the counter and flashes me a smile. “I’d try to focus on why it feels obvious to me. I’d go back to the start and treat it like a new problem just to see if I get the same result the second time.”

“But how do you stop the thoughts from your first time influencing the second—” Wait .

Outside the window, just past the head of one of Bobby’s customers, sits a bike. It’s parked up across the street, and a glimpse of it makes my heart skip a beat.

I know that bike.

And I know the figure sitting on it with red piping around the visor.

That’s my biker.

Without a word, leaving Bobby to call out in surprise at my abandoned coffee, I storm out of the cafe and charge across the street as a mixture of emotions clash together in my chest.

Anger that my day has gone so shitty and it feels like no one believes me. Panic that my days are numbered and I’ll end up with a bullet in my head before long. Frustration that my mystery motorcycle guy refuses to tell me who he is and now he’s parked outside my coffee spot.

I’m tired of being in the dark.

“Hey!”

His head lifts from the phone in his hands and he watches me approach him at breakneck speed.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t say a word.

“I’ve come here every day for over a year and never seen you, and now you’re parked outside like this is some kind of regular spot? That’s bullshit. Who the hell are you and why are you always around?”

Again, he says nothing. His head tilts a fraction to the left and my heart skips a beat. It’s infuriating that all I see is my own reflection in his stupid visor. I’m sick of this. I need answers.

The moment I reach for his helmet to yank it off his head, he catches my wrist and swiftly spins me around while sliding off his bike.

The moment I’m facing away, he lightly shoves me to create distance, but I stand my ground and spin back to face him.

Reaching for his helmet once more, I’m able to grab the sides.

Before I can lift it, he sweeps an arm around my waist and picks me clean up off the ground, setting me on the other side of the bike and creating distance once more.

“Show me who you are! I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you following me like some kind of dark shadow, sick of you not talking or telling me who the hell you are!”

Lunging across his bike, I grab the collar of his leather jacket and pull him toward me until he’s almost bent over the saddle, then I grab at his helmet and tug.

This time, he throws himself forward and slides over his bike into my arms. I’m unable to support us both so we topple to the ground with a grunt, but I refuse to let go of his helmet.

I tug and he twists, he pulls my arms down, and I shove him away and roll over with my hands on his helmet.

He rolls with me and catches my wrists, pinning them both to the ground as he hovers over me.

“ Stop ,” he says gruffly, and the muffled yet rough notes of his voice send an unexpectedly exciting thrill straight through me.

Suddenly, my heart is no longer racing from frustration or anger.

Heat pulses through me in waves and my cheeks flush so rosy that I can see them turn red in the dark reflection of his visor.

“Then tell me who the fuck you are,” I plead breathlessly, my chest heaving.

He doesn’t reply and my frustration swells once again.

Then, with nothing else to do and no other way to express the swelling emotions in my chest, I raise my head from the ground and press my lips to the lipstick stain that still graces his helmet.