His fingers are nimble as he works the thread through the delicate fabric.

  “The slip stitch. Nearly invisible for silk.” His words whisper across my skin. “Pull too hard, silk scars. The trick is to catch the weft, not the warp. One wrong move, the whole thing unravels.”

  An old ache flares in my chest as I stare at his dark hair, thick brows, the strong nose, and the divot on his chin. His fingers are steady and careful. Those hands were supposed to hold scalpels and perform sutures. They were meant to save stray dogs and cats.

  They were never supposed to kill.

  I cover his hand with mine. He stills, not looking up. His shoulders tremble just once.

  “Kian,” I whisper.

  Silence pulses for a heavy beat.

  “Do you know what the worst thing is?” he murmurs, lifting his head.

  The ache in my chest becomes a searing pain.

  Elias’s eyes glitter with unshed grief. Slowly, he cradles my face, his thumb wiping my tears away.

  His fingers are covered in blood, the gunshot spatter from Shkelzen.

  “If I knew what would happen,” he rasps, voice thick, “I wouldn’t change a thing. Because I got to spend that year with you.”

  My heart pulverizes, and a sob wrenches from my throat.

  He draws me against his chest. I listen to the reassuring thumps of his heart.

  A love song, his love sonnet to me.

  “Kian’s gone,” he whispers. “In his place is a monster. Don’t hope for anything more. You’ll be disappointed.”

  With that, he snaps the thread, his finger trailing over the nearly invisible seam.

  If only hearts could forget, could mend so seamlessly.

  I’m afraid he has stitched his permanent mark onto mine.

  Chapter 38: LEDGER OF GHOSTS

  “Come on, hurry. I don’t have all day.”

  I sit in the dark corner of subbasement level three of Southside Crematory, which is conveniently tucked beside Chicago Memorial. During my hunt for the man in the photo, I discovered the Berishas’ most valuable contribution to The Association, money notwithstanding.

  They’re the trash disposers.

  Under layers of shell companies, they own the primary crematorium handling body disposal for the hospital and for The Association’s evil deeds.

  Two weeks ago, I stitched the softest silk, touched a woman I should stay away from. Today, I’m dealing death. And worse yet, I don’t feel an ounce of remorse.

  There’s no hope for me, Lana.

  I push the thought away and refocus on the man before me, who heads up this fine establishment.

  Carlos Alvarez, the black sheep of the Alvarez family, was disowned decades ago. And I have a feeling I’m about to find out why.

  Sweat drips down his brow despite the cold bite of the room. The stench of embalming agents suffocates the air, and I swallow to curb the acid rushing up my throat. I aim my gun straight at Carlos, who’s quivering behind his office desk.

  Why would the Albanians partner with the Mexicans?

  Probably greed and power, the usual motivators for these assholes.

  “Coast is clear. But the clock is ticking.” Ren, wearing his usual black mask, materializes beside me, his gait steady and silent. “A vat of toxic waste may have spilled in front of the elevators and the stairwell. It’ll take them time to clean up.”

  While an acrid chemical smell wafts through the air, in my mind, roses always try to cut through.

  I nod. “I know you’ve got my back.”

  Ren smirks. “Always.”

  “Did you hear that?” I murmur to Carlos from my spot just out of sight of the cameras. “Of course not, you don’t know sign language. My friend here tells me we have twenty-eight minutes to get acquainted. That’s a lot of minutes.”

  Carlos flinches. “K-Kent, I swear I—”

  “Don’t know anything. Was forced to do it. I’m innocent—Stop. You were the man in the photo. Tell me who ordered the hit on the Lestes and why.”

  “I can’t tell you because I don’t know!”

  “Not acceptable.”

  The asshole blanches. “I-I swear. The Albanian, Seely? Seelas? He handled everything. We made a deal. After this, he was getting me back into The Six’s good graces.”

  Çela.

  Fuck. The old man withheld shit before he died.

  “You’re making me unhappy. You don’t want Elias Kent unhappy.”

  Carlos stammers, “I-I can find you something. Records. Bodies moved through that day were documented in the system.” He starts typing, his forehead glinting with sweat.

  The back door swings open. Aleksei enters, whistling a merry tune, his LED mask lit up. The neon saint is even more terrifying and unhinged in this dark space.

  “You seem happy,” I murmur.

  “I never get to go on outings, so it’s playtime.”

  Carlos freezes mid-keystroke.

  “What are you looking at, fucker?” Aleksei says, his voice warped through his distortion machine.

  Carlos jolts, his eyes blow wide. A pained gasp escapes him.

  Behind him, Ren holds up a bloody knife.

  He shrugs. “Too slow. Need to speed things up.”

  I glance at the camera in the corner. If I step out of my blind spot, I’ll be visible.

  “You’re good to go. Video’s looped,” Aleksei says. “Damn fuckers. Closed-circuit system only accessible on site. But that’s why you got me. And you’re welcome.”

  My lips twitch. I stride to the wheezing bastard and hoist him by his collar. “I thought being in The Association gave you power and money. Why are you locked in a sublevel dealing with the dead, Carlos? What did you do?”

  His eyes bulge; his face pales as he strains against my chokehold.

  I whisper, “You Alvarezes wrote the book on torture. So no, that won’t happen here. Instead, I’ll take your hard drives. I’ll plant evidence of your betrayal. Partnering with the Albanians? Stupid move. Then I’ll remove your hands and tongue so you can’t speak or write. All you can do is watch your own kind hunt you down and kill everyone you love. Usual punishment. How’s that, Carlos?”

  He quivers and shakes his head. We all know The Association—or his bloodthirsty family—won’t let him off easily. A quick death at my hand is preferable.

  “Are we clear? Obey, and your death will be swift, with dignity.”

  That’s all we can hope for in my world. I have no remorse or regrets. I’m numb to it all.

  “Kian,” Lana whispers in my head.

  He’s dead. Never coming back.

  Silence falls. Only the hum of the refrigeration unit fills the room.

  “Shit. The hazmat team got done sooner.” Aleksei eyes his laptop. “Time’s up.”

  I jam the barrel of my pistol under Carlos’s throat. “A swift death or the wrath of The Association. Your choice.”

  The man exhales. He types. The printer squeaks behind him.

  Ren hands me the printout. His hand shakes, and he suddenly gasps.

  I frown. He’s clutching his chest.

  “I’m fine. Heartburn.” He motions to the paper.

  It’s a medical waste contract. The schedule starts every Tuesday at 3:28am. Twenty-eight again. This is dated February twenty-eighth, twenty years ago.

  Date of the massacre.

  Two adults. One baby. Their names.

  My pulse blasts through my eardrums. Red veils my vision. I grit my teeth, forcing focus.

  At the bottom, a signature I don’t recognize, scrawled in a distinct violet ink, with a quill stamp next to it.

  “Who’s this?” I point.

  “They call him S-Sable. That’s all I know.” Carlos sways, his face as pale as the paper in my hand.

  Blood loss. Ren was too efficient.

  “I’ve given you everything I know,” he whispers, then clutches my arm. “I’m…I’m sorry for what happened to your family.”

  I freeze, papers crinkling in my fist. My gaze snaps back to him.

  “Your father—different, older—you resemble him. He was a good man. I often wondered what happened to you. I added your death to the system later.” He gasps, red pooling at his lip. “So they wouldn’t look for you.”

  A lump rises in my throat. My dad was a hardworking carpenter who was a custodian at night. He told us hard work outlasted wealth. He taught me to be a good man. One with principle.

  He’d be so disappointed in me. A sledgehammer clocks my chest.

  “How do you know my dad?”

  Carlos shakes his head. “I’m r-ready to pay my penance.” He slumps in his chair, breaths slowing. “Elias Kent—you, of all people, should know there are no such things as coincidences in our world.”

  His eyes roll back, and he goes limp.

  No coincidences in my world.

  I tap his cheek. “Not so easy. What are you saying?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Wake up!” I swat the other cheek. “My parents are hardworking, law-abiding people. They aren’t associated with these monsters. What the fuck are you implying?”

  Images of that day swirl—my dad on the floor begging, gravel digging into my kneecaps as I kneel for him to spare my family.

  Her note. It’s all because of her fucking note.

  Footsteps pound down the stairwell.

  Aleksei yanks me up. “Elias, no time. You can think later.”

  No coincidences. The words slam into my brain like a battering ram.

  “Come on, Elias—we gotta go.” Aleksei thrusts his laptop at me, lifts Carlos over his shoulder, and heads to the incinerator room.

  I shove my turbulent emotions into a box. My feet follow him, but I’m not really here.

  I’m drowning, trapped under a thick slab of ice. Everything happens in snippets.

  The shriek of metal doors. The click of buttons. The hum of the incinerator when it turns on.

  Aleksei and Ren toss the unconscious man inside and close the door. Something sparks. A flame erupts, engulfing everything inside. The sight is a gut punch, cutting off my air supply.

  I’m thrown back to that day in hell.

  Screams, fire, the melted chocolate in my pocket. Laughter. Smell of roses. Beatrice crying, reaching for me.

  My knees aching.

  The horrifying silence.

  My gaze rivets on the roaring fire through the small window.

  The memories continue their assault.

  “Take care of the blood,” Aleksei says to Ren, his voice sounding far away. “I’ll get him out.”

  My lungs strain. Shallow breaths. Dots in my vision.

  “Come on, Elias. Don’t make me worry about you.” Aleksei pushes me out of the room.

  I can’t look away from the blaze.

  I can smell it. I can feel it—the heat melting everything around me. I’m trapped in that day when I was sixteen, when my life ended.

  If only I’d gone home sooner.

  If only…

  A fist meets my cheek. Pain blunts my senses, snapping the endless loop.

  I gasp, finally focusing on Aleksei, who’s now in front of me.

  “I’ve lost everyone I cared about.” He pulls up his mask, revealing the same haunted eyes he had all those years ago. “I have no one left, Elias. You need to get it together.”

  The agony in his voice drags me back to the night we met. His parents’ blood on my hands. The wretched cry from a teenage boy who had lost everything.

  I spared him. I still don’t understand how he can stand beside me instead of hating me.

  “A life for a life,” he rasps.

  He grips my shoulder and shakes me. “Elias. Focus on your revenge. Keep going. Don’t rest or fall apart until you kill the man who did this to you.”

  I nod, my chest heavy. We climb the rear stairwell. He takes back his laptop and taps a few keys.

  “Done. Cameras are live again.” Not looking at me, he pulls off his mask and stuffs it under his jacket. “For the vow.”

  “No mercy,” I reply, my voice thick.

  Aleksei pushes through the doors to the lobby.

  We part ways like strangers.

  My phone buzzes. A text from Aleksei.

  Pawn Alek

  I’m here if you need to talk.

  I stare at the screen and the printout before sliding into the backseat of my car idling at the curb.

  Thundering cracks of flames mix with her sweet voice.

  The voice of my salvation. The voice of the woman who set everything in motion.

  The voice of the one person I could never give up.

  “Maybe you need someone to care about you,” she whispers.

  Clutching my head, a loud scream rips out of my throat.

  The memories batter and twist, relentless.

  Stop. Stop it. Stop. It hurts. Everything fucking hurts.

  A bomb detonates inside my head.

  My mind shatters.

  Chapter 39: INTERLUDE - THE NIGHT OF̣ KNIVES

  Kian

  Past: Chicago, February Twenty-Eighth, Twenty Years Ago

  Omens.

  I had never believed in them until the day my life changed.

  My mom had hailed from a tiny town in Albania, and she was superstitious to the bone.

  She used to say, “Keep your head down. Work hard, so the devil doesn’t come to collect.”

  I’d laugh and tell her I didn’t believe in that stuff. She’d furrow her brow, wag her finger, and say, “Qoftë larg!”

  Don’t jinx it.

  Her words had echoed as I parked my bike and headed into the antique shop—the same one I was caught shoplifting from the year before and kneeled for two hours as punishment.

  It was February twenty-eighth, and it should be freezing cold in Chicago, but instead, it was the opposite.

  Sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting off patches of dirty snow. The world was still an endless wash of gray, but it was warm. Too warm.

  And yet, nature hid. No birds. No wind. Just the world—trapped in silence.

  Mom would call it an omen, a harbinger of something.

  I told myself, the devil could come collect me after that day, because it was Elise’s birthday.

  The tiny doorbell rang as I stepped inside. The same clerk was behind the counter. He narrowed his eyes, adjusted his glasses, his lips twisting into a sneer.

  “You again, pretty boy? Wanna kneel again until your knees are raw? Didn’t get enough last time?”

  “No, sir.” I raised my hands. “I’ve got cash this time.”

  I pulled out the wad of crumpled bills from my jeans pocket. Guilt pinched my chest knowing these were all the savings I made from the sweatshop, plus the small stash I found under the bed.

  It was reckless—spending all this money on something that wouldn’t feed little Beatrice or fill our stomachs.

  But I deserved to be selfish for once, didn’t I?

  I’d been working hard, taking care of my younger siblings while Mom and Dad worked double shifts. I’d scrimped and saved.

  I was a “good man,” as Dad would say.

  I deserved to do something for myself.

  That “something” being the green pendant hanging on the mannequin near the door—the same one I tried to steal the day I met her. Elise later marveled at it and said it matched the color of my eyes.

  Her beloved music box was locked up tight inside a glass case. I didn’t know much about jewelry or fancy stuff, but from the way those gems sparkled, I could tell there was no way I could ever afford to buy it for her. But this little green pendant—lab grown, maybe—I just might have enough.

  “I want that necklace,” I had told the clerk.

  He eyed me, then my rolled-up, sweat-creased bills.

  The clerk checked each one—fives, tens—all fruits of my labor, blood, sweat, and tears. He examined them like I ran a print shop. I snorted. If I could counterfeit, I’d never have to steal.

  I swallowed my impatience as he counted. Finally, he shrugged, lifted the necklace from the mannequin, and dangled it on his fingertip.

  Bubbles prickled in my chest. I imagined Elise’s eyes lighting up when she saw it.

  “Does it come with a box? One with a bow on top?”

  The clerk sneered. “This is a clearance item. Whoever the chick is, I’m sure she’ll be happy. After all, her standards can’t be high—picking a guy like you.”

  Heat surged in my chest, but I bit my tongue.

  I snatched the necklace, stuffed it into my pocket, and climbed back onto my bike.

  The clerk’s words bothered me more than I would admit. It was the same thing I’d been telling myself. Whenever Elise came to my rundown apartment, or when we squeezed onto that tattered twin-sized bed on the floor. Or when we’d share a slice of pizza—deep dish, my favorite—because I couldn’t afford two. She’d always hug me with gratitude, and that joy carved something deep inside my heart.

  It ate at me because she deserved more. A lot more than I could give.

  At school, I’d look her up online—photos of her looking breathtaking at some ball at a place called The Orchid. She looked like a fairy tale princess. Her brothers, her father, all dressed in tuxes, fancy shoes, and expensive watches.

  What could I ever give to the Anderson princess except a promise I couldn’t keep?

  And now, time was running out. She would head back to New York after the quarter.

  My heart clenched. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t imagine a world without her, without the scent of her roses, her joyful laughter, her warmth beside me. I couldn’t imagine a future where I couldn’t buy her the dream house she wanted—with the music room, the library, and the indoor garden with windows big enough to see the stars.

  The depressing thoughts kept me company as I entered the iron gates of Hollow Gardens. I patted my pockets, making sure the pendant and Geraldine’s truffles didn’t fall out.

  We were supposed to meet here to celebrate her sweet sixteen.

  The wind picked up out of nowhere. Smothering clouds—gray like nightmares—pressed down upon us. Looked like it’d snow again soon. I shivered and hurried to our elm tree.