Kiss The Killer

Playing with Fire

Siena

I didn't go to class the next day.

Or the day after that.

By Thursday, my phone was buzzing with missed calls

from Professor Martinez. I let them all go to voicemail,

huddled in my apartment with the curtains drawn and a

baseball bat within arm's reach. The bat was a joke,

really. What was I going to do against someone who'd

killed a man without blinking?

But it made me feel better. Marginally.

The rational part of my brain kept screaming that I

should go to the police. Tell them what I saw. Show

them the photo. Let someone else deal with Lucian

Romano and his family's bloody legacy.

The other part of my brain, the part that had grown up

in this city, knew better. The Romanos didn't just own

businesses and politicians. They owned cops too. Going

to the police might as well be signing my own death

warrant.

I was trapped.

My laptop sat open on the kitchen counter, the cursor

blinking mockingly in an empty document. I'd tried

writing the story seventeen times. Each attempt ended

the same way: deleted, shredded, forgotten. Because

putting it in words made it real. Made me complicit.

Made me a target.

But I was already a target, wasn't I?

Friday morning, my phone rang. Not a number I

recognized, but not the unknown number from before

either. Against my better judgment, I answered.

"Miss Carter?" The voice was crisp, professional.

Female. "This is Dean Walsh's office. You're needed on

campus immediately."

My stomach dropped. "Is something wrong?"

"There's been an incident regarding your extra credit

assignment. Please come to the administration building

within the hour."

The line went dead.

An incident. What kind of incident? Had someone else

died? Had they found out I was connected to Tommy

Ricci's murder somehow?

I grabbed my jacket and ran.

The administration building felt like a mausoleum. My

footsteps echoed off marble floors as I made my way to

the dean's office, every shadow making me jump. The

secretary, a woman with steel-gray hair and

disapproving eyes, barely looked up as I approached.

"Siena Carter," I said. "I was told to come in?"

She gestured toward a closed door. "They're waiting for

you."

They?

I knocked, my knuckles barely making a sound against

the heavy wood.

"Come in."

Dean Walsh sat behind his massive desk like a judge

preparing to deliver a sentence. He was a thin man with

wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of mustache that went

out of style in the seventies. But it wasn't the dean that

made my blood freeze.

It was the man sitting in the chair across from him.

Lucian Romano looked different in daylight. Less

shadow, more substance. His dark hair was perfectly

styled, his expensive suit tailored to fit his broad

shoulders like a second skin. Without the ski mask, I

could see his face clearly: sharp cheekbones, a jaw that

could cut glass, and those impossible green eyes that

seemed to see straight through me.

He was beautiful in the way that dangerous things often

are. Like a blade or a wildfire.

"Miss Carter," Dean Walsh said, gesturing to the empty

chair next to Lucian. "Please, sit."

I remained standing. "What's this about?"

"Your investigation," Lucian said quietly. His voice was

exactly as I remembered it. Smooth as silk, deadly as

poison. "It seems you've been asking the wrong

questions."

"I don't know what you mean."

He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "The Tommy

Ricci story. Professor Martinez mentioned you were

struggling with the assignment."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I'm handling it

fine."

"Are you?" Dean Walsh leaned forward. "Because Mr.

Romano here has offered to help. He's quite

knowledgeable about local crime statistics."

I bet he was.

"That's not necessary," I said, backing toward the door.

"I can manage on my own."

"Actually," Lucian stood, moving with the fluid grace of

a predator, "I insist. Community involvement is so

important, don't you think?"

He was between me and the door now. Close enough

that I could smell his cologne again. The same expensive

scent from that night in the alley.

"I really should go," I said, my voice barely above a

whisper.

"Of course." He stepped aside, but not before his fingers

brushed against my arm. The touch was light, almost

casual, but it sent electricity racing through my veins.

"I'll walk you out."

Dean Walsh was already looking at something else on

his desk, dismissing us both. "Excellent. I'm sure you

two will work well together."

The hallway felt endless as we walked in silence. Other

students passed us, chatting and laughing, completely

oblivious to the fact that they were sharing space with a

killer. How many people had he hurt? How many

families had he destroyed?

How many more would he destroy if I didn't stop him?

"You're thinking very loudly," he said as we reached the

main entrance.

I stopped walking. "What?"

"You have this little crease between your eyebrows when

you're trying to solve a puzzle." He turned to face me,

those green eyes studying my face like I was something

fascinating under a microscope. "It's quite charming,

actually."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended.

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend this is normal. Don't act like we're just

two students working on a project together."

He tilted his head slightly. "What should I act like?"

"Like what you are."

"And what am I, Siena?"

The way he said my name made my skin crawl. Or

maybe it made my skin tingle. I couldn't tell the

difference anymore.

"A murderer."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Amusement?

"That's a serious accusation."

"It's not an accusation. It's a fact."

"Facts require evidence." He stepped closer, lowering his

voice so only I could hear. "Do you have evidence,

Siena?"

My phone felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket.

The photo. The proof. But showing it to him would be

admitting I'd been there. Admitting I'd seen everything.

"I know what I know," I said instead.

"And I know what I know." His hand moved to his jacket

pocket, and for a terrifying moment I thought he was

reaching for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a business

card. Plain white, expensive paper. Just a phone number

printed in elegant script. "When you're ready to hear the

truth, call me."

He walked away without another word, leaving me

standing alone on the steps with the card trembling in

my hand.

That night, I sat at my kitchen table staring at the card

and my phone. The rational part of my brain was

screaming again, louder this time. This was insane.

Lucian Romano was a killer, and I was considering

actually calling him?

But the journalist in me was curious. What truth was he

talking about? What didn't I understand about what I'd

witnessed?

And underneath it all, something else was stirring.

Something I didn't want to name or acknowledge.

He'd called me charming.

I dialed the number before I could talk myself out of it.

He answered on the first ring. "I was wondering how

long it would take."

"Just tell me what you want to tell me," I said.

"Not over the phone. Tomorrow night. Pier 47,

midnight."

"That's where they found—"

"Tommy Ricci's body. Yes, I know." His voice dropped

an octave. "Come alone, Siena. And bring your camera."

The line went dead, leaving me staring at my reflection

in the black screen.

What had I just gotten myself into?