This place will be good for both of us.
“All the more reason you should feel safe here.”
She flashes me a look filled with a lifetime of skepticism and disillusionment. “You and I both know there is no such thing.”
2
Finley
Fear has a taste. A bitterness that climbs up the back of my throat, each breath a sour, stale gust of humid air that coats my tongue and scratches at the roof of my mouth.
I know what it is to be afraid.
As a child, it was the first emotion I put a name to. An emotion that, for me, will always go hand-in-hand with hunger.
Not hunger, as in, Meh, I could eat.
The kind of hunger that made my stomach cramp from lack of food, painful rolling spasms as the organ turns itself inside out in search of sustenance. The kind of hunger that had me sniffing at every dumpster I passed for signs of a freshly tossed meal, or leftovers from a nearby restaurant. The kind of hunger that made my fingers twitch, my eyes scanning the city streets for potential marks.
But hunger can be satisfied.
Fear, on the other hand, never goes away. Not even now.
I have plenty of money. I own my own apartment. Hell, I own the whole damn building. The most powerful man in New York City is not only my boss, he’s my brother in law. I love my job, especially since much of my time is spent helping women and children escape abusive situations.
Much like how I spent the first decade of my own life.
Fear. It is my old, all too familiar nemesis.
But I am not afraid of Sebastián Cruz. Or any one person in particular.
I have studied martial arts and can take down almost anyone, of any size (a fact that often irritates the men of King’s security detail). I can throw a knife and aim a gun with lethal accuracy. I can hack almost any technology or computer system.
What I fear is not a person or a thing.
It’s the unknown.
Life is complicated. No matter how strong or smart or fast I am, there will always be someone stronger or smarter or faster. There are elements to every environment that are beyond my control, some that are beyond anyone’s control.
Fear of the unknown is what keeps me up at night.
And Sebastián Cruz is definitely an unknown.
I cannot figure him out, which is all the more frustrating because he should be an easy read. Raised in New York. Posh, private schools. Drunk on privilege by the time he hit puberty. The man was an art appraiser for god’s sake. Sebastián should be soft, an intellectual with his head in the clouds.
But he’s taken to Los Muertos like … well, a thug.
A thug who wears his custom suits like he’s walking down a catwalk.
A thug with an Ivy League degree and a black American Express card.
A thug with an artist’s eye and a sculpted body.
I study Sebastián now. Drinking in his rich, chestnut brown hair and pale green eyes. High cheekbones that taper to a generous mouth and strong chin. Broad shoulders and lean hips.
My attention snags on a small reddish stain marring the snowy cuff peeking out from beneath his suit jacket. Blood, I presume. Word is that Sebastián has become just as violent as my boss. “You should probably get better at cleaning up your messes.”