Page 33 of Ruthless

She keeps her eyes cast down as I open the passenger door, and a beautiful pink stains her cheeks as she slides out of the car. As I twist the excess length of the leash around my fist, my groin throbs with need. With the skyscrapers towering behind her, she seems especially fragile, and my mouth waters from the urge to continue applying pressure until she shatters.

As I tug her along, I glance down at the pearls in my hand and my chest twinges with brief regret over what could’ve been. In another life, I might’ve dressed her in light blue silk rather than this harsh yellow. I would have draped her pretty throat in the South Sea pearls—the finest money could buy—to show the world she’s mine.

Her eyes dart behind me to where the entrance to the Bazaar waits, but I have other plans. As the sun starts to slip behind the horizon, I lead her to the outskirts of the festivities. The surrounding buildings touch the sky, plunging the streets into premature darkness.

Marveling silently at how fragile her wrist feels in my grip, we dodge pedestrians and head for a blocked-off side street. I drag Sara down one where people in full circus costumes gyrate to the reggae music blasting from speakers lined up and down the sidewalk.

Multicolored scarves dance in the wind, and a woman on the corner juggles in exchange for the tips people drop in the hat at her feet. No one would have guessed that there’s a carnival hidden in the heart of the Upper West Side.

When the Grand Bazaar begins, so does the Black Bazaar, the Council’s exclusive underground market. Almost everyone here wears the same blank-faced mask I was given during my initiation, and I slip on my own with a grimace. Whenever I wear this, I battle waves of claustrophobia. The holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth don’t seem to help.

Once the panic passes, I extract a gold embroidered mask from my back pocket and tie it around Sara’s head. Her hair is soft around my fingertips, and I pull back quickly before my mind wanders. The ornamental design marks her as my guest, while my plain version informs vendors of my relationship with the Council.

Anyone without a mask is simply a civilian, a New York City denizen, blissfully unaware of the dark dealings happening right under their nose. A few weeks ago, I bought a grenade launcher, just for kicks, from an old Indian woman reading tarot cards. She had one of her sons deliver it to my townhouse later that night, effectively earning herself a lifelong customer.

As we pass by stalls, shoppers haggle all around us. Codewords are tossed around that probably sound like gibberish to Sara, though she quietly takes in everything. Between the masks and costumed people, she isn’t the most brashly dressed person in attendance. That realization prompts relief to flash across her sweet face.

Sweet?My eyes narrow. What the fuck am I on about now?

Sara fiddles with the edge of her mask as she surveys the chaos with wide eyes. “What is this place?”

I pull her out of the way of a group of men heading in the opposite direction. “You don’t know?”

She shoots me an exasperated look. “I’ve been to the Bazaar before, Dante. This area is…different.”

I whistle as if I’m impressed. “Perceptive. And here I thought you were just a nice pair of tits. I forgot there was a brain in there too.” Her flinch fills me with sick satisfaction along with another, less pleasant emotion that I refuse to name. “Too crass?”

She pretends not to be hurt, though her wavering voice betrays her. “You usually are.”

Sara angles herself away and starts fidgeting with her collar as if she needs to keep her hands busy. Without thinking, I lift my fingers to soothe her, but then I let my hand fall back to my side. The ache from earlier returns, compelling me to retreat so I don’t do something I’ll regret.

A cruel tone laces my words. “Tell you what. Get on your knees and bark for me like a good bitch, and next time I’ll remember my manners.”

Sara lifts her chin, her eyes like blue fire. “Dog’s bite, Dante. Especially the broken ones. Keep tightening this leash, and I might just tear a chunk out of your favorite toy.”

I burst out laughing before I can help it, and what might be a smile teases Sara’s lips before she breaks eye contact and looks at the ground. So much for keeping my distance.

Fighting a grimace, I shift my attention to the crowd. Behind a stall where a teenage boy is selling knock-off purses, a familiar figure catches my eye. Luca nods his head to show that he’s seen me, and a second later, my phone vibrates from the depths of my pocket.

Why’d you bring the girl?

My fingers hesitate on the buttons before I shoot off a rapid-fire reply.

None of your fucking business. Who am I looking for?

Luca responds with an image of a man, his back to me. Blond hair, blue hoodie, no mask.

I jerk my chin at Luca in response and slip my phone back in my pocket.There you are, you son of a bitch.“Let’s go.” I tug on the leash, and Sara stumbles after me. As we maneuver through the crowd, Luca’s question chases after me. WhydidI bring Sara? Just to humiliate her? To prove another point? I’m supposed to be hunting a lead, not playing babysitter, yet here she is.

The crowd presses close, and without thinking, I abandon the leash and reach for her hand. Her fingers eagerly entangle with mine as heat from her skin floods my chest. My mind flashes back to the night of her twenty-first birthday, when her hand in mine provided the only warmth as we flagged down a taxi in the freezing rain.

I want to shake her loose, as if that might erase the past, but the urge dies when I spot my target.

His flaxen blond hair is buzzed military-short, and he wears a blue hoodie he stained from the ketchup dripping off his hot dog. He’s around 5’7 and at least ten years older than me. According to Luca, prior to renting his services to the mafia, he used to be an informant for the NYPD.

Once upon a time, his history as a narc was a secret, but thanks to Luca, the secret is out. It’s only a matter of time until another family discovers his extracurricular activities. Chances are, he has no clue how far the clock has run down. If anyone possesses information about the Ghost, it’ll be him, so I need to interrogate him before someone else silences him permanently.

He’s blissfully unaware that anyone’s following him, and I intend to keep it that way. I have him under constant surveillance while Sara and I pause at vendors.