Luke:
Marco’s Pizza smelled like grease and garlic, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you left. It wasn’t the place for a cop to do business. It sure as hell wasn’t where I was supposed to be sitting at nearly ten at night, waiting for a woman who lived on the wrong side of every law I’d sworn to uphold.
And yet here I was.
I sat in the far corner booth, half-hidden in the shadows, a bottle of beer sweating in front of me. I hadn’t touched more than a sip. Couldn’t risk dulling the edge. Not with her.
Because Alex had a way of making me forget myself. Forget the badge. Forget the lines. Forget what the f**k I was even doing in this city.
I told myself this was about the job. That I was here to issue a warning, nothing more. The Syndicate had been moving too loud,
