He couldn’t shut and lock the door behind him fast enough.
The soothing warmth from the heating system enveloped him when he stepped inside. Comfort in yet another form. He was home. Carla and the babies were safe. And for the moment, so
was he.
With a wave of relief—however temporary—he let the tension in his body ease. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the coatrack.
“You look happy,” he teased Carla. “What’s the final report?”
Carla’s eyes twinkled. “They were perfect. Judy said they’d only woken up once for their bottles and a diaper change. Now they’re sleeping like little angels.”
“Good.” Anthony looped an arm around his wife’s shoulders and led her toward the living room. “How about a nightcap before bed—to celebrate the success of our first night out?”
“That sounds wonderful.” Carla walked beside him, making a left into their comfortable living room.
They’d barely taken half a dozen steps when a tall masked man dressed in black rose from behind the large armchair, his .22 caliber pistol raised.
“Hello, Anthony.”
Anthony knew that voice only too well, and it elicited the chilling knowledge that there was no way out. No threats. Just death. “Welcome home.”
The man’s finger tightened around the trigger.
“No!” Carla screamed.
She threw herself in front of her husband just as the pistol fired.
The bullet pierced her skull, and with a shattering cry, she crumpled to the floor.
“Carla… no… Carla!” Anthony shouted. He dropped to his knees beside his wife’s lifeless body, grabbing her into his arms and openly weeping. “God forgive me. Oh, God forgive me.”
He looked up in dazed anguish, just as a second shot was fired.
The bullet struck Anthony between the eyes. His head jerked backward, and he fell over his wife, dead.
Upstairs, the babies started to cry.
The gunman shoved his pistol back in his waistband. He knew the mob code like he knew his own name. No women. No children. Omertà.
A woman lay dead before him, the taunting evidence of a fuckup.
He took the steps two at a time.
Tucked in their cribs, the babies were still crying as their parents’ killer entered the nursery and hovered over them.
Not even the nightlight could eradicate the darkness.
CHAPTER 1
Casey Woods’ apartment, fourth floor Forensic Instincts brownstone
Tribeca, New York City
May 2017
The sun had long since made its bright yellow ascent, and the city streets were filled with commuters making their way to work. On the sidewalks, people hurried along, some in business attire talking on their cell phones, and some in athletic gear, striding to the beat of the music they were listening to on their iPhones.
Downstairs, in the professional hub of the brownstone, Forensic Instincts was gearing up for another busy day.