Born Sinner by Cora Kenborn
Chapter Thirteen
Sam
Edier is watchingme closely again.
He’s had me locked in a cage of scrutiny ever since I returned to New York. He knows I’m distracted, but he’s choosing his moment to question me about it.
He’s so much like his father in that respect. Patience is a virtue in the Grayson family. The senator once told me how he’d tortured a man for five days before he finally broke him. Slow and steady... An extracted tooth here. A slipped confession there.
Edier has been taking notes.
“Finish him,” he orders, turning away from the bruised and bloodied man hanging by his wrists from the meat hook—suspended between life and death.
I take out my gun and pull the trigger, making the Russian my fourth kill in as many days. Murdering the last of my boyhood along with Savio the snitch.
People try to take advantage during a power change. It’s like they think the incoming king has cracks of stupidity in his crown. The moment Edier stepped foot in New York, the Russians started flexing their muscles. A couple of trusted Santiago dealers ended up with their throats slit, so retribution was demanded.
After this week, no one will be questioning Edier’s authority in this town again.
Twenty-six dead.
A Bratva cell in flames.
Even the Italians down on Canal Street have stopped strutting their shit like peacocks on a day outing.
It scares me how easily I’ve slipped into this new life. It’s like a designer suit with bloodstains that’s been tailored just for me.
I find Edier waiting outside the meat warehouse.
“Tell Reece to get rid of the bodies.” His face is still as fuck, no flickers of emotion, but you know what they say about those kinds of waters... “You did well.”
“Do I get a glitter sticker and a lollipop?”
Edier stares at me for a beat before his lips start twitching. “There he is.... Sam the sarcastic pain-in-the-ass. I was beginning to think you’d undergone a personality transplant at that fancy college of yours.”
“Ex-college,” I correct, as he folds a piece of gum into his mouth and pockets the wrapper. He chews slowly. Methodically. A twenty-five-year-old cartel prince with the habits of a high school chick.
“You’re playing with fire.”
“Nice day to get burned.”
His eyebrows lift at my tone. “Seems the joker grew teeth.”
“I’m not handing her over to Santiago,” I warn.
“Who says you have a choice?”
Cursing under my breath, I start walking toward my Bugatti. I’ve been gone for too long. I have a tracking device on her car. I've hacked the college and her apartment security cameras. I know the moment she wakes up and the hour she falls asleep, but it’s still not enough.
I can feel the weight of my gun pressing against my heart. The same gun that made such a pretty mess of that composure.
I start the engine as Edier taps on the window.
“Screw her out of your system, and then I want you back in New York by Friday,” he says tersely. “She’s a Carrera, Sam... I don’t need to spell out all the bullshit that comes with that name.”
I jerk out a nod, tearing at my lower lip in frustration. And obsessions don’t just “leave your system,” Edier. They dig deep with spikes until nothing shakes them lose. They puncture your lungs so you need their fucking air to survive.
Something flashes in his dark eyes. Something close to sympathy.
“Listen, Ella Santiago arrives here next week for a late transfer into NYU, and I want you supervising her protection. If anything happens to the devil’s daughter on my watch, I’ll end up on a meat hook next to Savio. You hear me?”
I jerk out another nod.
“Go.” Taking a step back from the car, he slides his hands into his pockets. “And don’t come back until you’re breathing Santiago fumes again, not Carrera’s.”
* * *
I boomerang straight back to New Brunswick, braking with a screech outside her apartment—parking at an angle and blocking off two spaces.
I checked the trackers on the way here, my mood souring somewhere along the Garden State Freeway. Her place is in darkness, but I know exactly where she is, and she knows she’ll be getting punished for it.
Taking the fire exit stairs, I do what I need to do, and then I’m swinging back into my Bugatti to move it to a more discreet location around the side of the building.
Just as well.
A minute later, Santi Carrera pulls up and stalks inside, leaving three of his men by the door.
Soon after, a blue Ford Prius is parking nearby.
I watch the scene play out in grim silence, knowing I can’t make a goddamn move with her brother and his sicarios in the vicinity. Instead, I satisfy myself with the fact I’ll be adding a fifth kill to my lack of conscience by the end of the night.
I’m starting to forget who I was before Lola. Did I crack jokes like Edier said I did? Act more carefree?
As soon as she exits the car, I’m ramming a fresh magazine into my Glock. Ten minutes later, I’m rear-ending a blue Ford Prius off the road and watching some college prick piss himself with fear.
When I return to her apartment, I’m still buzzing with unrestrained violence, bloody knuckles, and a Lola-shaped hole in my heart that only she can fill.