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CHAPTER 13

E than carefully pulled himself away from Star’s sleeping form.

She was curled up, tangled in the sheets, her soft breaths even and peaceful. He didn’t want to wake her. She needed the rest, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he could get any sleep himself. His mind was too wired. His instincts hummed with a sense of unfinished business.

Moving silently, he slid on his jeans and padded barefoot downstairs. The house was quiet, the faint glow from the kitchen nightlight casting soft shadows along the hallway. He made his way into his office and powered up his computer system.

As the screens flickered to life, his gaze automatically swept over Guardian’s security feeds. His smartwatch and phone would alert him if anything required immediate attention, but for nearly a decade, his first instinct was to check Guardian’s systems before moving on to other high-risk networks. It was ingrained—his version of stretching before a fight.

The routine took twenty minutes, his fingers flying over the keys as he cycled through potential threats, ran system diagnostics, and scanned for external intrusions. Only then did he settle deeper into his chair, eyes narrowing as he pulled up the surveillance footage from the street where Mrs. Harvey’s deli had been vandalized.

Something about the whole situation gnawed at him.

Mrs. Harvey’s hesitation to call the police. The damage done to the shop. The bruises on her face.

She hadn’t fallen. Someone had hit her.

His grip on the keyboard tightened, a dark edge creeping into his expression. No one—absolutely no one—treated a woman like that and got away with it.

His fingers moved swiftly, filtering through footage, isolating key timestamps. He separated background noise—the routine of life—from the details that mattered. And there, buried in the footage, were two men loitering outside the deli. Ethan zoomed in, enhancing the image as much as he could, but the quality was too pixelated for a clear identification.

He moved outward, scanning nearby traffic cameras, storefront security feeds—anything that might have captured their faces with better clarity. Within minutes, he had them.

The system whirred as it analyzed the images, running a cross-check against criminal databases.

While the software processed the ID match, Ethan turned his attention to another matter—the serial killer.

He fired off an encrypted email from a cloaked Guardian Security address to the mayor’s office, offering assistance on the case. Of course, that required the case number, which meant hacking into the NYPD’s system.

Again.

Old hat.

It took him less than two minutes to access the relevant files. He skimmed through the data, cross-referenced the details, and composed the email before sending it. He then shot a quick message to Jason and courtesy copied Max, informing him that Guardian was now assisting in finding a serial killer and that more information would follow.

With that handled, he dug deeper.

He gathered case notes on all three murders—the two previous ones and the one Star had quite literally stumbled into. His system ran search parameters, sifting through reports, autopsies, and forensic evidence to find patterns. Then, he set up a secondary search, cross-referencing similar homicides in the region to determine whether there were additional victims that hadn’t yet been connected to the serial killer’s file.

The system processed at speeds no government or private security network could match.

A soft chime alerted him. Ethan pivoted his attention back to the ID match on the two individuals from the surveillance footage.

The results flashed across the screen. Low-level scum. Petty records—one for assault, another for robbery—but no known affiliations with any gang or Mafia family. Independent players. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

Could it really be that these two assholes had just decided to randomly harass Mrs. Harvey? His gut said no. No way in hell.

Ethan pulled the raw camera footage and began stitching the angles together, reconstructing a seamless video of the night’s events. The finished product played smoothly, frame by frame, and the entire timeline was laid bare.

He watched as the two men walked down the street, their pace casual but deliberate. They entered Mrs. Harvey’s deli and loitered, pretending to browse while waiting for the last customer to leave. The moment the door shut behind the departing patron, they approached the counter.

Ethan couldn’t make out much from the angle across the street, but the tension in the footage was undeniable. The way Mrs. Harvey’s posture shifted. The way one of the men leaned in, his gestures aggressive. The shorter man put his boot through the display case. Then, as they left, one of the bastards clenched his fist and drove it straight into the deli’s plate glass window.

The spiderwebbed fracture in the glass was the same one Ethan had seen earlier that day.

His jaw locked. His pulse was a slow, steady beat of anger.

Who the hell were they working for?

And what the fuck did they want with Mrs. Harvey?

Ethan’s fingers flexed over the keyboard, his mind already calculating his next move.

Time to dig deeper. The question was, why did they stay? What did they get out of the situation? Mrs. Harvey hadn’t said she was robbed. She’d said she was harassed. Ethan stared at the two men frozen on the screen.

All right, this doesn’t make sense now, but I’ll follow you .

Meticulously, he pieced together video footage of the men leaving the area. His eyes tracked their movements, catching the moment they slid into an old vehicle parked a block away. He zoomed in and captured the license plate. Within seconds, he ran it through the system.

Stolen. Of course.

He traced the car’s route through traffic cameras, following its path as it snaked toward the city. His jaw tightened. Why the hell would someone from Manhattan come all the way to Ditmas Park just to trash one deli’s display case? He lost them when they entered a parking garage.

Fine.

Ethan hacked into the cameras near the garage and waited. It took five minutes before the men reappeared. When they exited, they split up. He frowned and moved closer to the screen. That’s interesting .

One took the subway. Ethan tapped into the transportation authority’s camera system, tracking the man’s movements through multiple stations until he reached a quiet residential neighborhood. The guy entered a small apartment building. Ethan logged the address and instructed his system to start pulling background information on the occupant.

The second man didn’t go home. Instead, he went to a nightclub. Ethan watched as the man strode right past the long line at the entrance. No waiting. No hesitation. The bouncer barely acknowledged him before waving him through the line and inside.

That was a problem.

Ethan’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he searched for the club’s security system. Locating the IP address and working on access took less than three minutes. And that was when he hit another snag.

There were no archived recordings. The club’s system only offered a live view. No footage. No records.

Ethan switched from one available feed to the next, clicking through angles of the main floor, the VIP sections, the bar, hallways, and backrooms. But when he tapped into the office camera—nothing. A black screen.

Son of a bitch.

Whoever owned the place wasn’t just cautious; they were operating in the shadows, and the fact that one of the men who wrecked Mrs. Harvey’s deli had gone straight there told him everything he needed to know.

Ethan changed tactics. He started digging into the club’s ownership records while watching the street cameras outside, waiting for the man to exit.

Then, another alert pulled his attention. He turned to the second monitor, scanning the latest batch of case files his system had flagged as potential matches to the three murders NYPD was investigating. Two of them stood out. Pittsburgh. Almost identical crime scenes.

Ethan pulled every available detail, layering the New York and Pittsburgh cases into a single timeline. The Pennsylvania murders had happened over eight years ago.

Serial killers didn’t usually move locations. They hunted in familiar territory and controlled environments. A shift like that meant a copycat had picked up where the original killer left off, or something had forced the killer to relocate. Ethan leaned back, rubbing his jaw.

He could list every major serial killer in the United States from memory. Of those, only three had ever changed locations. There were always drifters—highway predators who prowled freeways and backroads—but those killers sought chaos. Terror.

True serial killers weren’t looking to instill fear in the public. They killed for the sake of killing. And that meant the guy wasn’t done.

A soft rustle near the stairs caught his attention. Thor padded into the room, his large frame moving with lazy confidence as he flopped onto his dog bed with a deep sigh.

A quiet knock followed. Ethan’s fingers flew over the keyboard, instantly shutting down all visible monitors. He turned in his chair.

Star stood in the doorway, wearing only his T-shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. She leaned against the frame, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

“I didn’t want to come in if you were in the middle of something.”

Ethan held out a hand. “Come here.”

She crossed the room, letting him pull her onto his lap. She nestled against his shoulder, inhaling deeply before sighing softly. “You couldn’t sleep?”

He rubbed slow circles on her arm. “Was already awake. Figured I’d check into what happened to Mrs. Harvey’s deli.”

She yawned, her entire body shuddering as she finished. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing much yet.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You should be asleep.”

She hummed in agreement but didn’t move. “I woke up, and you were gone.” She tipped her head up to look at him. “You shouldn’t do that. Makes a woman feel unappreciated.”

Ethan chuckled, sliding his arms under her as he stood effortlessly. “Trust me, you’re very appreciated.”

She melted against him, her lips curving into a sleepy smile. “You’re strong,” she murmured, her breath warm against his skin.

He carried her back upstairs, placing her gently on the bed before tucking the blanket around her and brushing a kiss over her forehead. “I’m going to head back down,” he whispered.

She snuggled into the pillow, already half-asleep. “Okay.”

Ethan watched her for a beat longer before heading back downstairs.

As soon as he powered his screens back up, his attention snapped to the nightclub’s exit. His search for the second man had finally paid off. The bastard had left through the back alley.

And he wasn’t alone. Ethan’s gaze sharpened. The man walking beside him was Enzo DeLuca, the same guy Star had unknowingly recorded at the hardware store.

A connection to the Mafia. His fingers drummed against the desk as the realization settled. This was an old-school Mafia tactic. You pressure the community. Shake down the most respected businesses first. Smash windows, rough people up, make a scene. When the damage is done, you offer protection—at a price.

If a business refused? The violence escalated. And franchises? They weren’t the target.

It was the small, independent businesses they went for. The ones tied to the heart of the community. Ethan’s jaw tightened. Was the syndicate moving into the quiet suburbs? Had they decided Ditmas Park was ripe for the taking?

His gaze flicked to the second monitor, where the serial killer case files sprawled across the screen—five cases, hundreds of photographs, interviews, and forensics. Nothing connecting them. Yet.

He leaned forward, fingers flying over the keyboard.

There was no such thing as a perfect murder.

A perfect assassination? Sure.

But a serial killer always makes mistakes.

“God, you’re up early.” Max’s voice cut through the quiet, startling Ethan. “Good work, though.” A loud yawn followed. “Systems?”

“Secure. No activity from the usual suspects.” Ethan’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I see Kilroy was replaced. Didn’t take long.”

“Nope. His backup, Radar, was ready to step in.”

“I’ve seen him work. He’s good. Who are they giving him as backup?”

“Jewell, for now. Ring and Brando are processing three more operators. Should be ready to take their positions in about three or four weeks.”

Ethan paused, glancing at the screen where Max’s image flickered. The idea of seeing him rather than just hearing his voice was still new.

“Do you want me to back Jewell up?” he asked.

“No. They can handle it. We’ll pick up the slack if they stumble, but they’re capable. We’re here for oversight.”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah.” He turned back to his keyboard, processing the next batch of data.

“Pittsburgh and Manhattan?” Max asked, taking a sip of coffee. The loud sound in Ethan’s earpiece triggered a fresh wave of caffeine envy.

“The murder victim Star found is believed to be part of a serial.”

“Huh.” Max’s cursor appeared on the shared screen as he started working. “Why two locations? Nomad?”

“I don’t think so. Two in Pittsburgh and three in Manhattan.”

“Transient or relocated?”

“My gut says relocation.”

“Then go with your gut,” Max said easily. “Mind if I play?”

“Go for it. I’ve got another scenario playing out, too. The syndicate is moving into Ditmas Park.” Ethan pulled up a separate system.

“Bastards.” Max’s cursor flickered onto the new screen. “Give me a minute to catch up.”

Ethan didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His focus shifted to the case files, setting his sorting program into motion before launching facial recognition on all crowd photos. Tech teams were getting smarter, but it should already be standard practice—photograph the crowd at every murder and arson scene. The narcissistic need for attention was a weakness they could exploit.

“How’s Mrs. Harvey?” Max asked, scanning video footage at double speed.

“She got clocked pretty hard, and they trashed her deli,” Ethan growled as he typed.

“Fuckers.” Max’s tone mirrored his frustration.

“Agreed. I’ve set up the program to cross-reference cases and list similarities, no matter how obscure.” Ethan switched to the system, tracking two perps he’d trailed through Manhattan.

An alarm chimed simultaneously at both their consoles. Their gazes snapped to the status board.

“Oh, look,” Max muttered. “Russia wants to play today.”

“I’ll take it,” Ethan said, fingers already moving.

“Nah, let the old man have his fun. My wife and kids are out for the weekend.”

Ethan paused, glancing at Max. “I’ll get the next one.”

“Sure.” Max shrugged. “I’m gonna mess with your shit, too, once I send these guys packing. Just saying.”

Ethan chuckled. “Go for it. I’m going to make myself some breakfast. I’ll have my comms.”

“Afraid the old man is losing his touch?” Max teased, rapid-fire typing filling the channel as Ethan climbed the stairs.

Ethan laughed outright. “Not at all. He still punches like a heavyweight champ. A little system intrusion shouldn’t faze him.”

Max didn’t answer. He was busy keeping their systems locked down. Ethan paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for Thor, who bounded up to him. He scratched behind the dog’s ears before feeding him then letting him out into the backyard.

Coffee, breakfast, and maybe some dessert of a sexual nature with his woman afterward. He smirked at the thought. His woman. Damn, that felt good to say.