Blood on the Glass

Leandro

The private elevator rises forty-four floors in complete silence.

Carmela stands against the brushed steel wall. She does not lean. Her spine is rigid, her chin high, her dark eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers.

A dark red bloom spreads near the shoulder of her ivory blouse.

The jagged scrape she caught under the collapsed timber at St. Jude reopened when Rodrigo clamped his fingers around her upper arm. A slow seep through four-hundred-dollar Italian silk.

The scent of copper, iron, and expensive gardenia fills the small steel cab.

I make a mental note to bill her father for the ruined silk before I break her brother's wrists with a framing hammer.

The chime sounds. The doors slide open into the penthouse foyer.

I do not touch her as we cross the threshold. I punch the lockdown code into the wall terminal. Heavy magnetic deadbolts slam into the reinforced jambs with a dull, heavy thud.

The vault is sealed.

"Sit," I say.

Carmela walks past the dark walnut dining table and stops by the kitchen island. The black granite countertop is cold under the recessed halogen lights.

"I am fine," she says.

"You are bleeding on my floor."

"Then hand me a towel so I do not ruin your security deposit."

"I own the tower," I say. "There is no deposit. Only blood and maintenance fees."

"Good to know my death won't complicate your tax deductions."

Dry. Razor-sharp.

Even with blood soaking through her sleeve, she refuses to give an inch.

I pull a stainless steel medical kit from the cabinet beneath the sink. I set it on the granite with a loud clatter.

"Sit down, Carmela."

She looks at the kit. Then she looks at me.

She hops onto the counter, perching on the polished black stone with her bare feet dangling. She unbuttons the collar of her blouse, sliding the silk down to bare her left shoulder.

The cut is clean. Superficial. But deep enough to bleed through the fabric.

I step between her knees.

The proximity changes the air in the room. The distance between us shrinks to six inches. Her knees brush the sides of my dark wool trousers.

She does not pull back.

"Your brother was reckless," I say, snapping on a pair of black nitrile gloves. "He grabbed right over the scrape you caught from the St. Jude timber and didn't even notice the blood."

"Rodrigo was too busy sweating," she replies. Her gaze stays level with my throat. "He saves his attention for offshore wire transfers and hired guns."

I uncap the iodine.

"This will sting."

"I know what iodine feels like, Leandro."

I press the soaked gauze directly against the open split in her flesh.

Her thigh muscles tighten against my hips. A sharp hiss escapes through her teeth. But she does not pull her arm away. Her fingers grip the edge of the granite slab until her knuckles turn white.

Pain.

Defiance.

I swab the red away, exposing the pale curve of her shoulder and bicep.

My hands are built to break bones. I have crushed windpipes in alleyways and fired twelve-gauge slugs through engine blocks. Yet dressing this clean laceration on her arm requires a quiet, unnatural precision.

My thumbs brush the warm skin of her arm.

Her skin is warm. Scorching against the black rubber of my gloves.

"You lied to Don Tomas," she says softly.

"I told him what he needed to hear."

"You told him I was indispensable."

"You are."

I reach into my tactical vest and pull out a heavy titanium keycard, paired with an encrypted tactical comm unit. I slide both across the black granite until they bump against her knee.

"Master bypass for the highline armory and freight elevators," I say. "If the grid cuts out, you control the access shafts."

Carmela picks up the titanium card. Her thumb runs over the microchip before she tucks it into her waistband.

"You're giving me the keys to your fortress."

"I am giving you the tools to survive it," I say. "Don Tomas gave us clearance over the northern gate patrols. We control the harbor chokepoints now."

I tie off the medical tape and strip the nitrile gloves from my hands. I toss them into the trash bin.

I do not step back.

I rest both palms flat on the granite counter on either side of her thighs, trapping her against the island.

"You think you saved me today," she murmurs.

Her dark hair falls forward over one shoulder. Her mouth is inches from my collarbone.

"I kept my uncle from putting a bullet in your head," I say. "That counts as saving in my family."

"I don't need a savior, Leandro."

She reaches out. Her uninjured right hand comes up, her small palm pressing flat against the center of my chest.

Her fingers rest flat over the heavy beat under my ribs.

"I need an executioner who listens," she whispers.

"I am listening, little architect."

"Then look at me."

I look.

Her dark eyes are dark in the halogen light. There is no fear in them. No plea for mercy. Only the raw, demanding hunger of a woman who has realized she holds the blade by the hilt.

"Rodrigo is going to strike again," she says. "He knows we have the booster casing. He knows the union lie won't hold past tomorrow night."

"Let him try."

"He won't hit a warehouse," she presses, her fingers curling into the dark fabric of my shirt, pulling me down toward her mouth. "He is going to hit you."

"I know."

My hand comes up. My fingers slide into the thick silk of her hair at the nape of her neck.

I tilt her face up.

Her lips part. Her breath comes fast and shallow, brushing hot against my jaw.

"You belong to me now, Carmela," I say. My voice drops into a dark, rough rasp. "Not as a hostage. Not as a shield."

"Then take what is yours," she says.

She pulls my collar down.

My mouth crashes over hers.

The kiss is violent. Hungry. A collision of teeth, heat, and raw adrenaline.

She tastes of copper and mint. Her good hand digs into my shoulder, nails biting through my shirt into the muscle beneath. She arches off the counter, pressing the length of her body against my chest.

I want everything.

I want her mind. Her blueprints. Her rage.

My other hand slides around her waist, lifting her off the stone counter and pulling her flush against my hips. She wraps her legs around my waist, locking me tight against her core.

A low groan vibrates in my chest.

I back her toward the wide living area, carrying her weight without breaking the kiss. Her mouth opens wider under mine, meeting every thrust of my tongue with fierce, untamed demand.

We cross the edge of the dark wool rug.

Ten feet from the panoramic glass wall, forty-four stories of morning sun and steel spread out behind us.

I push her down onto the low leather sofa.

Carmela looks up at me, her cheeks flushed, her dark hair scattered across the black hide. Her unbuttoned blouse reveals the pale curve of her throat and the rise of her chest.

She reaches for my belt buckle.

Crack.

The sound is not thunder.

It is the supersonic snap of high-caliber lead splitting the air.

A spiderweb of white fractures explodes across the ten-foot reinforced panoramic window.

A millisecond later, the glass detonates inward.

A thousand shards of tempered crystal blast across the room in a glittering, lethal cloud.

I do not think.

I throw my entire body forward, slamming Carmela flat against the floor between the sofa and the heavy oak coffee table.

My wide back takes the brunt of the storm.

Heavy glass fragments slice through the wool of my jacket, biting into my shoulders and neck.

Thump.

A three-hundred-grain tungsten-core bullet punches through the drywall three inches above where Carmela's head was resting half a second ago.

Plaster dust rains down into our hair.

Wind rushes into the room through the gaping hole, a freezing harbor gale howling across the forty-fourth floor.

Carmela is pinned beneath me.

Her eyes are wide, dark, and locked on mine. She does not scream. She does not panic.

She lifts her hand, touching the warm blood dripping from the glass cut on my temple.

"Leandro," she whispers over the roar of the wind.

"Stay down," I growl.

I reach beneath my left armpit, drawing the Glock 20 from its leather holster.

The shot came from the south high-rise district. Twelve hundred yards. High angle.

Rodrigo just made his final move.

I will rip out his throat before the day is out.