Page 42 of Shadow Of Sin

“I met him today. He asked about Sal, like always. And then he said he heard business was good, that there was ‘no more trouble with the neighbors.’ With a smile. That fucking smile, Wolfe. The one that means he’s holding a knife behind his back, ready to impale me with it.”

His jaw tightens, his expression shifting from its typical analytical stillness to something harder. Something that matches the split knuckles.

“Come inside,” he says, glancing up and down the block.

His apartment smells like sweat and dryer sheets and something uniquely him. And my God, I cannot get enough of it.

And while I’m almost about to swoon, very much against my will, he peels off the tank top. I have to grit my teeth to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Abs. Like, holy shit abs. More cuts of muscle. Pecs.

Whaaat?

I tear my eyes away…and it’s fucking hard…as Wolfe grabs a shirt from his bedroom. He walks out a few minutes later with it half on. His hands are bandaged, too. Led Zeppelin. I watch his arms and torso disappear into the fabric and record every single thing I just saw.

And I already know those images will be on loop in my mind tonight, no doubt keeping me awake for hours.

But enough of that. I’m here for business. Period.

“He asked for a person’s calendar this time,” I say, dropping in the chair by his desk. “Not just company data. He wants to know where a specific person is going to be for the next two weeks.”

His thumb starts tapping. “He’s targeting someone.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Who?”

“Vincent Renaldi.”

His fingers stop. Not in a dramatic freeze kind of way. It’s just a pause, half a second where his hands hover over the keys before they start moving again, faster than before.

“You know him,” I say.

“I know the name.”

“And?”

“And I need to look into it before I say anything else.”

“Wolfe—”

“Eva. Give me a day.”

He sits down and starts pulling data. I lean forward in my chair to look at his screen. Our shoulders are about four inches apart. I am extremely aware of those four inches. I am aware that he smells like sweat and soap and that the combination is doing things to my brain that are not helpful right now.

His forearm is right there. The scar. I could reach out and touch it.

I don’t.

“The calendar request changes things,” he says. “Data collection is preparation. Tracking a person’s movements is operational. He’s getting ready to do something specific to someone specific.”

“How long do we have?”

“I don’t know. But the timeline is accelerating.”

We work for two hours. He connects the Ashford and Crane data to the Meridian Capital and Hargrove files. Three jobs, three companies, one network. The pattern is clear now. Dmitri isn’t just gathering leverage. He’s building a target package on specific people inside specific organizations.

To do what, I have no freaking idea. But knowing Dmitri and his reputation, it can’t be good.

I should be focused on the data. I am focused on the data. But I’m also focused on the way Wolfe’s hands fly over the keyboard. Those same hands that were red and raw twenty minutes ago and are now patched up. The same hand that caught my wrist two days ago and held my pulse under his thumb for three seconds.