Page 22 of Ruthless Scar
She’s quiet. “I’ve met scarier men than you.”
A lie. She knows it. I know it. The Benedettis are savage, but they’re not me. No one looks at me and thinks they’re safe. No one looks at me and thinks I’m survivable. But she said it anyway. Met my gaze and lied to my face like she was daring me to call her on it.
“Get some rest.” My voice sounds wrong. Too rough. Too raw. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
She stands. For a moment we’re facing each other across my office. The laptop closed between us. The coffee cup empty.
“Goodnight, Lorenzo.”
My name in her mouth. It settles somewhere it shouldn’t.
“Goodnight.”
She leaves. The door closes behind her.
I stand in the empty room. My desk still smells like her. The chair still holds the impression of her body. The cup sits beside the keyboard, lipstick I didn’t know she was wearing marking the rim.
When did she put on lipstick? Was it there all day? How did I catch her coffee order and miss that?
I leave my office. The hallway is dark now. I walk to the east garden instead.
Mama’s garden. Jasmine blooming in the humid air, heavy and sweet. I sit on the bench by the fountain and let the sound of water fill the silence in my head.
Hands on a keyboard. The way she takes her coffee. A woman who looked at me and lied to my face like she was giving me a gift I didn’t deserve.
Tomorrow we’ll work again. Tomorrow I’ll maintain distance. I’ll remember that she’s an asset and nothing more. Tomorrow I’ll stop noticing.
I sit in the dark among Mama’s flowers, and I don’t believe a goddamn word of it.
7
ISABELLA
Eight days. That’s how long I have before they move her. The number burns on every screen in Lorenzo’s office. Four days of working across from him, wearing his shirt. Every time I lift my arm I catch the scent and my body moves toward him on its own.
He knows. His nostrils flare when I adjust the collar. He looks away too fast, like he’s been caught.
“Talk to me,” I mutter to the screen, pulling up utility records, property transfers, shipping manifests. Six potential warehouses. Irregular power usage, shell company ownership, proximity to transport routes. One of them is where they stage girls before the final move. I just don’t know which one yet.
“The data’s not enough.” Lorenzo’s voice from behind me. I didn’t hear him move from the window. But now he’s there. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through the thin cotton of his shirt onto my back.
“I know.” I don’t turn around. “I’m cross-referencing with traffic patterns. If I can isolate which location shows vehicle activity during the port compound’s quiet periods?—”
“How long?”
“Days. Maybe longer.” My fingers tap the desk edge in a restless staccato. “The analysis takes time. And my equipment can barely keep up.”
Silence. He’s right behind me.
“Get up.”
I spin in the chair. “What?”
“Get up. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving to go where? I’m in the middle of something.”
“You’ve been in that chair for sixteen hours.” His voice is flat. Final. “You haven’t eaten. You’re wearing the same clothes you’ve worn for four days. And your equipment is shit.”
