5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Remington didn't ask who was taking on the task of capturing the Piano Man. Said he didn't care, just wanted it done, so I can't be sure how many will be after him. But out of all the guys who took it on, I have the best shot. I've been doing this the longest and have the best resources. Plus, I know what he looks like. But the best part is that he's after me too. Nothing like being your own bait.

The difference between him and I is that my confidence isn't too much. I'm not cocky. I won't allow myself to think I'm better than him until I know I am. There's a lot I have to learn. I know I don't have the upper hand here, at least not yet. But I will. Which is why I'm waiting in this shitty little diner with the worst cup of coffee I've ever had, burnt eggs and raw bacon on my plate.

When the chime above the door jingles, I know it has to be the guy I'm waiting for. He's right on time, as usual.

"Have you heard from your brother lately?"

It's never good when Xander starts a conversation about my brother. It puts a bad taste in my mouth—a taste worse than the poison this place is disguising as food.

He sits across from me, running a hand through his slightly too-long blond hair. He usually keeps it shorter so it's easier to maintain and always looks neat. It's only ever long like this, enough to graze his eyebrows, when he's been working hard cases and doesn't take time for himself. The bags under his green eyes only support that theory. However, his crisp suit tells me he isn't too busy to go to the dry cleaners.

Xander and I have known each other since high school. Ever since we were young stupid kids who didn't know a damn thing about the world but thought we did. Now, we do the same thing in life—sort of. He's just on the legal side of it. Killing innocent people isn't my thing, and he's very much a good cop. Or FBI agent, I guess. Call him a cop and he gets pissed. But we're both taking bad people off the streets. How we get that done shouldn't really matter.

"Can't say that I have. You know we don't run in the same circles." I reach for my water, but when I see a few white specks floating around in it, I put it back down. If Xander and I didn't have to meet secretly, I'd have gone to my favorite diner. The one that feeds me at least one meal a day because I never cook for myself.

"Twins typically get along." His green eyes shine with humor. He knows I hate my brother but enjoys teasing me about it. Not many people tease me about anything. I'm not one to take a joke. Xan knows that, which is why he does it. I've known him long enough that I let him get away with it—sometimes. I'm in a decent mood today, so I won't give him shit.

"The good twin and evil twin thing is real," I say. "He's very much the evil one."

"He almost made it on the most wanted list." Xan smirks, clasping his hands together and leaning forward on the table. My biggest issue with him is how happy he is all the time. You hardly ever see the guy without a smile on his face.

"Hey, good for him. Maybe I should mail him a trophy." I lean back in the lumpy seat, frowning when I see a roach scurry along the window beside me.

"If you have his address, I'd like it."

I pull my attention from the bug and put it back on Xander, narrowing my eyes.

"I don't. Trust me, if I did, I'd give it to you. The sooner he's off the street, the better."

He nods. "I believe that. Which is the only reason I'm okay giving you information."

"Don't forget I pay you generously."

"That too." He smirks, then clears his throat. "But I don't want money this time, Justin."

I pause with the chipped coffee mug halfway to my mouth. I set it down, before saying, "What exactly do you want then?"

Whatever it is, I won't agree to it. Money is the easiest form of payment. No attachments. No favors. No worrying about keeping things even. I pay him. He gives me info. Done.

"A date," he says simply.

I groan. "You know this never works out with us. Why are you even asking?"

We've done the dating thing. Hell, we did the boyfriend thing. Xander and I? It doesn't work. He's a good-looking guy. A little too pretty for my tastes, but he's far from hideous. Shiny blond hair, bright green eyes. Strong jaw. And his dick-sucking skills are on point, so that's something. He's going to make some guy really happy one day. That man just won't be me. It really has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me. I'm not a commitment type of guy. I don't want ties to anyone. I like my freedom, like being able to do what I want, when I want to. Having someone up my ass, bossing me around, asking me what I'm doing, wanting to know where I am… The thought has me cringing.

"Because I'm desperate."

"You're hardly ugly or a douche. It can't be difficult for you to get a date."

"It's for Serena's wedding," he admits, and the desperation he just mentioned? It's clear in his tone.

"You're joking." He shakes his head and I scrub a hand down my face. I had no idea his sister was even engaged, never mind getting married. "I knew Reese calling would give me bad juju."

Xander frowns. "Reese, your cousin?"

"Every time that asshole calls me, it's like a domino effect. He sends over bad luck or some shit. Sometimes he can tell the future. I don't know."

Xan looks at me like I've sprouted antlers. "I'm lost."

"He invited me to his wedding and bitched about me not taking a date."

"So—"

"No, you're not coming with me. Just forget it. When is Serena's wedding? I'm kind of busy."

"Tomorrow."

I gape at him. "You're fucking joking."

"Wish I was," he says sheepishly.

I sigh. "Tell me what you got. Then we'll talk."

He holds my gaze for a moment, and says, "The guy is taking out mafia leaders. It's staying out of the media for that reason."

"Because they don't want to cause a panic in the community, while allowing the guy to handle work you can't?" I smirk and take a sip of the coffee that tastes like mud.

He frowns. "Something like that."

"Fucking politics," I mutter, putting down the mug and pushing it away.

"Anyway, we haven't found a pattern with the victims yet. Total of eleven killed so far."

I whistle. "Eleven?"

"All within the last three months. All strangled with piano wire, all with a music note carved into their left palm. That's all we got on the guy, other than the one note he left letting us know he's Russian. Why he felt that was important, I'm not sure. There are never any witnesses, even when other people are home. No DNA left at the crime scenes. They're messy, but he's careful."

Jesus, this guy really is a ghost. The more I learn about him, the more I'm regretting leaving so quickly without getting more out of the guy.

"They're all killed in their homes?"

Xander nods. "Even those with extensive protection. The guy is like the wind."

"So you have absolutely no idea who he is?"

"Not a damn clue. Only thing we came up with is that he bounces around from family to family. The guy isn't prejudiced. Goes after an Italian, then an Irish, back to an Italian, a Russian. He's all over the place."

"But everyone is the head of a family?"

"Some big, some small. Really doesn't care." He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What about location?"

"No pattern. At least nothing we've found. Nothing is random, we know that, but we aren't sure what he's up to. Seems like he throws all their names into a hat and picks one at random."

I tap my fingers on the table as I think this through. People don't do random. There is always a method to their madness. Some sort of plan, or something in common. Seems the only thing in common right now is who he's going after. But why is he doing this at all? How is he picking them?

"You think he'll stay under the radar for a while?" I ask.

"Considering he's killing off people that the community wants dead? I'll say yes." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes. "You going to tell me why you want all this info on him?"

I shoot him a bright smile. "You know I can't do that."

He scoffs but doesn't comment on it. Xan and I do this often, both knowing the risk. He'd be fired and I'd be in jail. But we trust each other, even if we shouldn't. "And payment?"

I run a hand down my face and sigh. "If I'm not working, I'll be there. Just send me the details. If for some reason I don't make it, I'll wire you cash as usual."

He blows out a breath. "So what you're saying is I should ask someone else."

"I'll go if I can," I reiterate. "Work has been interesting lately."

"Right," he says carefully. His gaze dips to my food, his lip turning up in disgust. "You actually eating that?"

I huff out a laugh. "Nah. I like living."

He chuckles as he gets up, tossing a twenty onto the table, and adds, "Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow."

I have a feeling he won't be seeing me tomorrow, but what do I know?

The walk back to my apartment is quick, considering the diner is only a few blocks away. I walk whenever I can, which is why when I moved into my condo, I chose a place that wasn't far from town. As much as I hate spending time with people, I'd rather be in walking distance than drive everywhere.

"Hiya, Justin," Nyla, my mail lady, greets as she passes me on the sidewalk.

"How's it going?"

"Not bad. Glad the weather is good today."

"Hopefully it stays that way."

I pull my keys from my pocket to unlock the box, pull out my stack of mail, and head up to the second floor. There are two condos on each floor, and my neighbor is an old woman who prefers to keep to herself. Now and then she'll ask for help with something, but I hardly ever see her.

Once inside, I go through my mail, tossing the junk and putting aside the bills. There's a letter with my name and address handwritten that catches my eye. The handwriting is written neatly in cursive, the thick blue ink slightly smudged. I don't know anyone who would write me a letter, but that's definitely my name and address. There isn't a return address on the front or back. I open it up and pull out a folded lined paper. Like one you'd get from a notebook. The writing on it is the same handwriting and blue ink that was on the envelope.

Dear Justin,

I'm sorry if this letter disturbs your life in any way. I promise that isn't my intention. I just want to look out for my son.

The first three sentences have me wanting to throw up. I put the paper down and look out my window, unsure if I want to finish reading this or not.

It's never been a secret to me, my brother, or anyone in the family that we were adopted. It happened when we were only two months old, and always considered Judy and James Lorenzetti to be our parents. They took us in, they raised us. They loved us and treated us like family. They are our mother and father. As much as a dick Jackson is, we at least always agreed on that. When they died, it wasn't easy on either of us, but Jackson took it especially hard. His darkness took over, and he spiraled. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any way blaming losing them for making him the way he is. Jackson has always had a darkness around him. Dealing with—or not dealing with—the pain of losing our parents just nudged him over to the dark side.

Why now, after all these years, is this woman mailing me a letter? How did she find my address? How did she find out anything? Over the years, my mother asked both Jackson and me numerous times if we wanted to reach out to our real parents. Even though it was a closed adoption, she told us if we wanted to know our bio parents, she'd help us find them. Neither of us wanted that. But curiosity gets the better of me now, and I pick up the letter.

Maybe she's dying and wants to make peace with her decision. I'm not a people-person, but I'm not an asshole either. So I keep reading.

I'd like to explain my side of things. I know you've had a good life and are doing well for yourself. I wish I could have had the chance to meet you and your brother, but that wasn't in the cards for us. I promise, it was for the right reasons. I'm sure that doesn't sound right. What is a good reason to give up a child? Well, I'll tell you.

First, I need to deliver the bad news.

If you've received this letter, it's because I'm dead.

My hands start to tremble, and I put the paper down on the counter to take a breath. I go to the fridge to get a bottle of water and guzzle half.

Why in the world would my mother have a letter sent to me after she's dead?

From my spot near the fridge, I glance at the letter that's lying on the kitchen island.

The only way I'm going to know is if I keep reading. So, that's what I do.

I've kept tabs on you and your brother over the years. It hasn't been easy. Your father and I have had to lay low. We're involved in things that are unsafe. Though, it has never been by choice. We were born into families that made decisions for us, and we were stuck. I'm sure you're aware of what I mean, because my worst fear came true. The exact reason we gave you up is what we found you in. I'm so sorry for that. It isn't the life we wanted for you or your brother. But you've always seemed happy. Your parents seem kind. They kept you safe. You and your brother have grown up to be strong men. Spitting images of your father, who unfortunately passed away due to a heart attack a few years back. He was the love of my life and things haven't been easy without him.

I'm sorry this is how things had to be. I hope you don't ever blame yourself for what your father and I did. It was never you, and it was the hardest decision we ever had to make.

I'm not only writing this letter to clear my conscience. I'm writing this letter as a warning. And I realize now I should have told you sooner, and I am also sorry for that.

But here is your warning:

If they found me, they may be looking for you next.

I wish I could give you more information, but it's too dangerous to put into a letter. I'm sure you're smart enough to understand what I'm saying, and brave enough to handle this situation.

I can't apologize enough for bringing you into such a cruel world. Though, I promise you, son, there are good people out there. There are good things, if only you allow them into your heart. Not everything is dark and cold. There is warmth. There is light.

I hope you find that one day.

All my love…

—Mom xo

I scratch my head, staring at the words, rereading the paper over and over again. I'm speechless. Lost. I drop down onto my couch, the paper still clenched in my hand. There are so many questions. But the biggest one of all is whether or not this has anything to do with the man I'm hunting, who is also conveniently hunting me.