Page 20 of The Italian Reckoning (A New York Criminal Empire #3)

SARAH

F orty-eight hours feels generous with a serial killer on the loose waiting to see his latest victim splashed across the news, but what choice do I have?

The moment I leave Rocky’s protection, I’ll be right back in Matteo’s sights, and his desire to kill me is something I don’t have the capacity to deal with right now.

Another body.

Another girl dead because of me and my inability to remember the simplest details about that killer.

It’s as if I killed her myself and when I close my eyes, her blood drips from my hands like I was the one who ended her life.

Rocky sets out a plan for us to follow, and to his credit, it’s incredibly thorough.

We visit Kara’s abusive father and quickly rule him out of her murder by retracing his steps.

CCTV and eyewitnesses place him at several sports bars while Kara was missing, so he’s definitely not the killer.

CCTV around where her body was found is no help either.

Half of it doesn’t work and what we do find a few streets away is too far away to be of any use, which makes it impossible to trace any path the killer might have taken.

We spend every minute searching while dodging assassins—assassins I don’t see, but I trust Rocky each time he sees something that makes him uneasy.

Our search eventually brings us back to the casino penthouse where I print out copies of everything from the older cases and lay them out on the wall of his study and spread across the floor.

With a bottle of wine between us, Rocky starts digging.

“I’m going to my boss tomorrow,” I warn him, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by autopsy reports. “Your forty-eight hours are almost up.”

“Haven’t you been enjoying the freedom?” Glass in hand, Rocky stands near the wall tracing a red string between two pieces of evidence. “Going where you want, talking to who you want, taking what you want without having to rely on a badge or a piece of paper?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

I stick my tongue out at his back. He’s right.

Some of the people we spoke to answered questions easily, and I know as soon as I showed them my badge, they would have clammed up and not said a word until I had a warrant.

Rocky is able to move with enviable freedom.

But that changes nothing. The Painter deserves to be behind bars and I need to make sure that when we catch him, everything tying him to these murders is watertight. I can’t afford another slip up.

I can’t have another death on my conscience.

“Fuck.” Rocky sighs loudly as his phone blares to life, and after glancing at it, he tosses it next to the bucket of ice keeping the wine cool.

“Your father?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Is he pissed?”

“Undoubtably.” Rocky rolls his shoulders and widens his stance while craning his neck to get a better look at the pictures higher up the wall.

It might be the wine warming my blood or the heat of the room making me feel more relaxed, but Rocky looks…

sexy. He’s as sexy as my mysterious biker—considering they’re the same person—and as long as I don’t look at his face, then I can continue to entertain the fantasy that’s kept me warm at night ever since he first rescued me.

His dark hair stands on end with each time he drags his hand through it, and his muscular shoulders bulge through his T-shirt each time he reaches for something on the wall.

My mouth runs dry and I force my wandering thoughts away from how good our sex in the alley was. It was with Rocky, after all. I can’t like that.

I shouldn’t.

“Tell me about The Painter.” Rocky turns to face me, and I quickly avert my eyes so he doesn’t catch me staring.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me what you know that isn’t on the wall.”

“Everything I know is on the wall,” I point out, glancing up at him. “That’s why it’s there.”

“So break it down for me like I’m an idiot.” He sits in front of me, stretching one long leg out toward me and leaning back on one muscular arm.

I smirk at him as the urge to call him an idiot rises and he points at me by tipping his glass. “Be nice.”

“Fine,” I sigh and flip over a few pages of the reports before me.

“He targets young women, no one younger than eighteen and no one older than twenty-three. He usually kidnaps them when they’re doing something where people won’t miss them.

Nightclubs while drinking, trips to see distant friends, and two victims” —I tap their respective reports— “were snatched while hiking. He keeps them for around five to eight days and tortures them, but he doesn’t kill them.

We were never able to determine what makes him decide how long to keep them.

I think it might have something to do with the girls themselves and their will to live.

Once he’s broken them, he sedates them and paints up their faces. ”

“Disgusting.” Rocky drowns the word in a mouthful of wine.

“Then he carefully wraps their faces in Saran Wrap and watches them suffocate.”

“And they’re awake for this?”

I nod. “The sedative is mixed with a paralytic so he paints them while they’re sedated and then wraps them up when they wake up. So they’re awake and aware while they suffocate.”

“Fuck. That’s dark.”

“Mmhmm.” Leaning over the files, I pick up my glass and drink rapidly.

“And his last victim. What made her his last?”

“We were on to him,” I say between sips. “We had his location locked down and nearly caught him but he…” My stomach twists painfully, and I shake my head. “He got away because I fucked up, and now we have two more bodies so…”

Rocky drinks slowly and nods. “You blame yourself.”

“How can I not? If it wasn’t for me, he would be locked up and Belle and Kara would still be alive.

” I wait for the daunting question of what it was I did that caused the case to crumble, but thankfully, Rocky doesn’t ask.

He simply rises onto his knees, grabs the bottle of wine, and refills my glass.

“We’ll get him,” Rocky says. “Dude doesn’t know who he’s fucking with.”

“Because you’re all so big and scary.” I snort, savoring a mouthful of chilled wine. “Which makes me wonder… Why did you save me from your father’s men? He’s your boss, right? Aren’t you supposed to do what he wants no matter what because of loyalty?”

“My father and I don’t always see eye to eye.” Rocky snorts dryly. “He’s old school. In his eyes, I’m too relaxed and don’t take enough responsibility.”

“Can’t imagine why he’d think that,” I murmur with a roll of my eyes.

“I see the value in connection. He likes to lead by fear. So we butt heads.”

“But you’ve saved me twice. Why?”

“You saved my life at the gala.” Rocky’s handsome face suddenly grows serious. “A lot of shit went down that night and you could have just left me to die.”

“I would never .”

“I’m not saying you would,” he clarifies hurriedly, “but a lot of people were hurt and injured. Somehow, you found me and you saved me even though we’re not friends.

We’re on opposite sides of the law and you didn’t know whether I was friend or foe.

But you saved me.” His gorgeous eyes soften the longer he looks at me and my pulse flutters. “So I owe you.”

“Ah, you’re settling a debt.”

“Sure.” He chuckles. “It’s hardly your vibrant personality that keeps me coming back.”

“Fuck off!” A flurry of papers ends up flying his way when I lightly kick my leg out toward him, and for a moment, things feel easy. Normal.

That feeling continues when Rocky insists we take a break and end up gambling what little money I have in my wallet over a pack of cards he finds stashed in a drawer.

We play simple games like blackjack and rummy, which get incredibly competitive and amusing as the alcohol flows, and then we’re playing snap with two empty bottles of wine between us.

“Rocky?”

“Hmm?” He leans forward with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth while he stares intently at the cards I’m placing down.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“Huh?” He glances up through a few strands of hair that sweep across his forehead.

“You kept the helmet on. You barely spoke. You were just this mysterious biker but the whole time, you were you .”

“Honestly?” Rocky leans up and smirks. “At first it was a bit of a game. I was amused that the cop couldn’t work out who was under the helmet, y’know?

But then the night you were mugged, you were so nice to me.

It was like I was getting to experience who you really were and how you would treat me if you didn’t know all my baggage.

” He shrugs and flips a few cards down onto the pile.

“I liked it when you weren’t yelling at me. ”

Out of every theory I came up with, I never came close to his real answer. I’d reasoned that it was a trick, a manipulation tactic, or maybe even a cruel joke, but I was so wrong. Rocky just liked my being nice to him. Why is that so sad?

“I’m supposed to yell at you,” I point out gently, setting a card down. “I’m a cop. You’re a criminal.”

“That’s like saying I’m a man and you’re a woman.”

“Also true.”

“And glaringly obvious. But does it mean we have to hate each other?”

“Of course we do,” I scoff, trying to mask my uncertainty. “You break the law. In fact, the law doesn’t even exist to you. It’s just a game. Something that isn’t real. And I enforce the law. I keep people safe.”

“So do I.” Rocky’s cards are added to the pile. “I’m keeping you safe.”

“I take care of criminals.”

“So do I.”

“I put all criminals away.”

“Not Cormac. Or Evelyn.”

“If I caught them in a crime, I would.”

Rocky laughs softly, watching my cards like a hawk watches a mouse. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would. Bending the law is how serial killers escape.”

“Or maybe,” Rocky says, placing a card down slowly, “the law is too rigid and serial killers escape because only people outside of the law can take care of them.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Says who?”

“The lawmakers.”

“Fuck the lawmakers,” Rocky murmurs, his voice low. “They’re not keeping you safe. They didn’t save your life. I did.”

“You want me to say thank you?”

I place down a card and suddenly, we both throw ourselves forward with a yell of SNAP !

Hand slaps down on hand with our fingers interlocking, and when I lift my gaze, Rocky is staring directly into my eyes. “My card,” he says breathlessly.

“Fuck off, my hand is there first.”

“My fingers touched first.”

“Those aren’t the rules. It’s palm first.”

“You’re making that up,” he sneers softly. “Bending the rules.”

“I don’t bend the rules. I’m touching. I win.”

“ I’m touching,” Rocky insists. “I win.” He looks me in one eye, then the other. Then his eyes dart down to my lips. “Say something nice about me and I’ll let you win.”

“I don’t take bribes,” I whisper. My skin flushes hot and goosebumps flood down my arms to the lava-hot points where Rocky’s fingers touch mine. My pulse quickens and when he slowly licks his lower lip, my heart jumps.

“Say something nice ,” he challenges again with half-lidded eyes.

“Earn it,” I whisper, my voice quavering and betraying my uncertainty.

Suddenly, I’m flat on my back as Rocky surges forward and knocks me down, sending the cards scattering beneath us. He hovers over me with one arm braced beside me and the other flips a card back and forth between his fingers. “If I put the helmet on, will you say something nice?”

“Maybe,” I gasp. “But that’s a cheap way to earn it.”

Then Rocky leans down and his thick, soft lips cover my own.