Page 48 of Secondhand Soul

“Yeah, so... Pazcuso apparently picked up that mistress. Liked how much of his competition she was taking out for free, thought he could pay her, give her a list, and turn her loose. His words, not mine. Anyway, Bocella’s old mistress, whoever that might be, is on Pazcuso’s payroll. That’s the rumor. As for you? People know about you. They know he made a very expensive toy, and it turned on his people. He wants it back. As to how he’s getting it back? People don’t know that. They can only speculate. Speculation is dangerous.”

I nod. “So many things are dangerous. Thank you for the call.”

“You okay?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll find out later.”

Later—after Rhea and Manny leave, and I can go talk to Victoria.

Yeah. Right. “Talk.”

Chapter Fourteen: Truth

The door explodes inward, and I gasp, heart racing as it climbs into my throat. My hand is under the pillow, wrapped around the gun, but a much larger, stronger hand is already wrapped around my wrist. Its counterpart is around my throat.

Green eyes that glow like nuclear emeralds shine into mine from inches away, and a body that could crush me drags me up and holds me like a ragdoll.

“Frank Bocella’s mistress killed him. And a lot of other men. His men. Good for her,” Lazarus purrs, but it’s a sinister sound, one of barely controlled rage. His voice is shaking, just like his hands. “I was kinda turned on when I realized it was you. That you were more like me than I thought. A killer, but a human one, one that only killed bad men, evil things. You have a soul, see, and you risked it to put something worse out of this world. And I bet you looked incredible doing it.”

I wheeze and whimper a little, fighting for air, but not fighting hard.

His fingers relax at once, then tighten again as he shakes his head.

“I was falling for you. But then... Then you could barely look at me tonight. And so many pieces didn’t add up neatly, Victoria. They added up, but they made a crooked picture. Like me, all stitched up wrong and not quite right. So...I dug a little. Imagine how I felt when I learned that Frank Bocella’s mistress, the one who killed him, was now working for Pazcuso, and that she’d worked for him for a while, taking money to take out the people on his list.

“Only... Only the rivals. Gangs. Traffickers,” I whisper. “Hitmen who turned.”

“See, I could have dealt with that. Maybe. If you’d told me. But you didn’t,” Lazarus snarls, and the light from his eyes makes his face look demonic.

But I feel like the demon. The Judas.

Betrayed the kindest man in a monster’s form.

“I don’t blame you for thinking I’m stupid. The call, the gun, the black clothes, the prowling through the cemetery... all of it added up, but it didn’t fit quite right.” He raises one hand and shows me the zipper-like scar that connects hand to forearm. “Like me. I wanted to believe it was all a messy string of events. Especially after last night. But when you wouldn’t look at me... Well. It was all part of the ploy, since you’re on Pazcuso’s payroll now. I’m the new target?” Lazarus laughs, and he pulls my hand, still wrapped around the gun, to the hollow under his chin. “Go ahead, honey. Earn your money.”

“I d-don’t want it. I don’t want it!” I shiver, my body shutting down, but my brain trying to wake up. My hand goes limp, and the gun drops.

“Smart. That would just make a mess. I can live with a big hole in my face. I get nicks and cuts all the time at work, and guess what? The tissue is alive enough to regenerate, to pump blood, to make hormones, and to feel hunger. I can ignore all of them, but I’m just a little too alive to be dead, and a little too undead to kill. That’s why they sent you, not a team of men with shotguns, huh, baby?” Lazarus throws me back onto the bed, not caring for the bruises on my shoulder or the pain in my collarbone.

This is the bad Lazarus. This is the one who kills.

I tell myself that this is the real him, and that’s what I was sent to kill.

But no. Not kill. Not put an end to. This is different from any other job, because it’s not putting a bad guy underground; it’s giving a bad guy a powerful weapon.

Also? This isn’t the “bad” Lazarus. I don’t think there is one. He’s just hurting.

I’d be hurting, too, if the person I saved and cared for planned to kill me.

“I didn’t look at you because your parents were there. I’ve never been someone’s girlfri—”

“Don’t you even fucking let that past your lips.” Lazarus’ arm flies back, then drops down.

“You brought me home to the nicest people in the world, and you’re the nicest—”

“Lies!” Lazarus doesn’t strike me, but the wall behind the bed rains down showers of paint and splinters as his fist flies through it.

“This is true! All of it was true, could be true, I wanted it to be true!” I scream back, ignoring the pain of getting to my knees, almost level with him as I kneel on the bed and he stands beside it. Well, level with his pecs, anyway—pecs that are about to burst through the thin black shirt he’s wearing as his chest heaves with something that sounds painfully close to sobs.