The Heart of a Killer

“I don’t know. This is where his phone tracked to.”

“That makes no sense. George doesn’t even know about that night.” Gabe paused, looked at Dante. “Does he?”

“I didn’t tell him.” Dante looked at Roman.

“I didn’t, either.” They started moving again.

“Jeff wouldn’t have said anything, either,” Roman added.

“Which means George would have no reason to come here,” Dante said. “If anyone had told George, Ellen would find out. Who would want her to know?”

“None of us,” Roman said.

The closer they drew to the Dumpster, the tighter Dante’s throat became.

When he saw the shoe, he stopped.

No.

“What?” Roman asked, then followed the direction of Dante’s gaze. “Oh, shit.”

They ran the rest of the way, Dante pushing past the Dumpster to land on his knees on the wet asphalt. His hope that it was an old drunk sleeping it off was obliterated by the sight of the blood, the torn shirt and the heart-shaped carving on George’s chest.

Same as Anna’s.

Dante felt for a pulse, but George was already cold. There was nothing. He was dead. He lifted his gaze to Gabe and Roman and shook his head.

“Jesus Christ,” Gabe whispered as he looked down at George’s body.

“I think I might be sick,” Roman said, crouching down next to Dante. “This is just like— What the fuck, Dante?”

Dante couldn’t speak yet, could only stare at the beaten body of his foster father—his father. The tough but loving man who had been a rock in his life, who had given him a home, had shown him that discipline didn’t mean beatings, that love was unconditional, that no matter how many times he’d screwed up, he’d still be loved.

George was dead, killed the same way he and his brothers had killed that guy in the alley that night. And there was a heart carved into George’s chest the same as Anna.

What the hell did it mean?

His head swam with questions. He turned to Roman, who had pulled his radio to call it in.

Dante took another look at George, then pushed off his knees and stood, looking around the alley, searching for something…anything that would give him a clue as to why the fuck this had happened.

“Who did this?” Gabe asked, looking as lost as Dante felt.

“I don’t know. Ellen said he went out earlier, she thought for a short drive. She tried to call him when he didn’t come back, but she didn’t get an answer.”

Roman had already gone to his car and come back with his evidence kit. He’d gloved up and leaned over George’s body, swallowing hard as he checked George’s pockets.

“Yeah, here’s his phone.” He tucked the phone in an evidence bag and slid his fingers into the other pocket of George’s jeans, paused and pulled out a clear plastic bag filled with white powder.

“What the fuck is that?” Dante asked

“My guess is cocaine,” Gabe said. “About an ounce.”

“And you know this how…?” Dante asked.

“Because he works for Paolo Bertucci,” Roman said.

“The mob-guy Bertucci? That family’s still around?”

Gabe didn’t say anything, just turned his attention to the bag. “What’s George doing with coke in his pocket?”

“Good question,” Roman said.

The scream of police sirens interrupted any further discussion. Roman bagged the coke as the uniforms arrived. Dante wished they could hide the drugs, but he knew they couldn’t.

George, with coke? Had he come here to do a deal? It made no sense.

Black-and-whites blocked off both entrances to the alley. In short order, yellow police tape roped off the alley, and crime scene techs began working the area. The medical examiner had arrived and was looking at the body.

And Dante still hadn’t called Ellen. He wouldn’t call her. He’d have to do this in person. Did Ellen know about the drugs?

God, right before the couple’s anniversary. What was he going to say to her?

Another unmarked car pulled up at one end of the alley in front of the tape. Another detective, he imagined. He’d let Roman handle him.

Dante folded his arms and waited while the car door opened. The lights were shining on them, so he couldn’t see the detective coming at them until he—no, make that she—moved in front of the lights.

He caught the flash of badge clipped to her belt, which was attached to a very nice set of hips, the swing of a dark ponytail and the piece attached to her holster. His gaze lifted to rounded breasts in a polo shirt, and some very wide, very shocked amber eyes.

No fucking way.

Anna.

Two

Anna Pallino’s steps faltered when she entered the alley.

First, because she was in this godforsaken alley again, a place she hadn’t set foot in since that night twelve years ago. Now she was back again, and someone was dead in the alley. Again.

Second, Dante Renaldi was back.

Those were enough to justify the stutter in her step.

Roman greeted her.

“What the hell is this?” she asked as she caught sight of Gabe standing next to Dante. “Old-home week? Dante comes back and you three decide to have a reunion here?”

“Not exactly.”