Chapter 1 - The Blood-Stained ID
The scent of copper and expensive cologne still clung to Cora’s skin hours after she scrubbed herself raw. Across town, in a penthouse overlooking the glittering grid of Manhattan, Julian Voss flipped a small plastic card between his gloved fingers. It was a hospital identification badge, splattered with a tiny droplet of dried blood at the corner.
Cora Whitaker. Registered Nurse. St. Jude’s Memorial.
"She’s a nobody, boss," Tomas said, stepping into the dim light of the study. "Father is an addict. Mother passed six years ago. She has no ties to the Falcone family. Leaving her alive was a risk, but she doesn't know who you are."
Julian’s dark eyes fixed on the photograph. The girl’s eyes in the picture were tired, but beneath the fatigue was an unmistakable, fierce resilience. When he had pulled her into the shadows during the gunfight and forced his lips onto hers, he had expected her to scream or freeze. Instead, he had felt the quick, precise rhythm of her pulse against his collarbone—calm, calculating, measuring his breathing even as bullets tore through the drywall.
"She knows my face, Tomas," Julian said softly, his voice like grinding stones. "And Felix sent her. Find out what debt her father owes. Buy it."
"And the girl?" Tomas asked.
May you like
Julian set the ID badge down on his mahogany desk right beside a silver bullet. "Bring her to me before the Falcones realize why I kissed her."
Three miles away, the lock on Cora’s apartment door splintered with a deafening crack.
