Page 61 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

Police tape flaps in the breeze as I approach the building. I watch forensics walk into the building, gathering evidence. The entire street has been made a crime scene, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I have well and truly fucked up. I could have saved lives. I could have reported the Crows, filed a case against Salvatore, but I chose to stay silent instead and take off my clothes for a man who makes me feel truly seen.

A hand snakes around my waist, turning me around. I recognize the touch and feel an instant wave of relief.

“What are you doing here?” Salvatore’s voice is low, full of concern.

“You’re supposed to be at the station.”

“They let me go.” Salvatore extends his vision, scanning the scene. “Come,” he says, guiding me further down the street. “We should go somewhere more private.”

“We? I thought I was fired.”

Salvatore ignores my comment for the time being, encouraging me to follow him across the street, where a black car is waiting for him.

He opens the backseat door for me, ushering me in.

I gaze through the blackout windows when he closes the door, seeing now why he was so quick to guide me away from the building. Paparazzi are loitering around the corner, waiting to make news.

Salvatore clambers into the other side of the car, sitting across from me in the backseats. He stares at the seat in front of him, slipping into a world of his own.

“What am I doing here?” I ask as the car merges back onto the road

“Consider yourself un-fired.”

“What?”

“The leader of the Crows is angry.”

“The leader?” I repeat. “How can you be sure there is a new leader?”

“The attackers were just boys. I cornered one last night, ripping off his shirt. The Crow tattoo across his chest was fresh, which means the Crows rebuilt only recently.”

“And who’s the leader?”

Salvatore works his jaw, staring through the window. “The boy shot himself.”

“He’s sworn to secrecy?”

“Yes,” says Salvatore, still refusing to look at me.

I stare at him. For a man who loves to make eye contact at every opportunity, asserting his authority, this is odd.

“What the hell happened at the police station?” A more pressing thought pops into my head. “What about the knife you were carrying?”

“Don’t worry,” he assures me, finally making eye contact. “It’s all been taken care of.”

“How exactly?”

“I know how to cover my tracks. The point is—I’m free and the cops are investigating the situation.”

I read his face, finally starting to understand those pages of literature. “You never told them about the Crows?”

“Reporting organized crime to the police is the worst thing you can do. These days, it wouldn’t surprise me if the police have something to hide themselves. Playing dumb is smart,” says Salvatore.

“And what about when the police conduct strip-searches? These boys have identical tattoos.” I flash Salvatore a sidelong glare. “This could go incredibly south. What if a previous hookup remembers your tattoo, a masseur? All it takes is one person…” The rest of that sentence dies on my tongue as I watch the biggest smile crawl onto Salvatore’s face. “What?”

“Why are you so concerned, Sunshine? Everything is under control.”

“Everything is most certainly not under control. People are dead, Salvatore.”