3. Theo

"Her body had bruises everywhere, and the forensic pathologist suggested she was likely beaten to death."

I nod, my fingers playing absentmindedly with a pencil. This debriefing is taking longer than I expected, considering I know all the information presented.

The mayor had personally sent me to oversee this case within the NYPD, since the murder was that of a high-profile individual. Even knowing what"s at stake, my mind simply can"t focus on what"s being said.

All I can think of is Pink.

The way she"d come for me. The noises she"d made when I"d fucked her tight little pussy. I almost groan out loud at the memory of her clenching around my cock, her fingers pulling at my hair as I"d sucked a nipple in my mouth. The way I know for sure I"m returning for more.

I shift a little, feeling the blood rushing down to my lower region the more I picture her.

Maybe it's all the pent-up lust from years of abstinence.

When I was younger, I balked at the pressure to be with someone like that. All my peers were going to prostitutes, availing themselves of their services. It was expected of me, too, but I could never go through with it. It was too impersonal…too transactional.

But Pink . . . no one"s ever gotten my attention like Pink did. Yes, this might be transactional too, but the attraction between us is palpable, pulsating in the air. Just being in the same room as her makes my senses prickle with awareness. She exudes such raw sexuality that I want to consume her whole. And I will.

"Mr. Hastings is here as a liaison to the mayor"s office." The presenter"s words wake me from my reverie, and I quickly close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Why don"t you introduce yourself, Mr. Hastings?"

I stand up, putting on my best professional expression.

"Thank you," I say before continuing. "I am Theodore Hastings. I graduated from Quantico some years ago, but I"ve been off field work for a year now." I give some background information about my credentials before I launch into the importance of the case at hand.

"Romina Lastra, nee Agosti, isn"t just any murder victim. Unofficially, her father, Rocco Agosti, is part of the Italian mafia. Our sources have identified several illegal businesses related to the Agosti name. Her husband is touted to be a mobster as well, but we haven"t had many reports linking Valentino Lastra to any illegal activity." I take a deep breath. "It"s all unofficial, of course, but we"re talking about faction disputes here. And since right now the most probable culprit is her husband . . ." I let the words hang, and they seem to catch my meaning.

"We need to be careful in our investigation," one man notes, and I nod.

"Yes. The last thing we want now is to involuntarily cause a mob war. Knowing what"s at stake, I want everyone to focus on this investigation." I turn to address the forensic team. "I"m not saying this to create any bias, rather I want you all to carefully examine the evidence and make sure you are as thorough as possible."

I go through a few more details before dismissing the meeting. When everyone"s left the room, I take out my phone and see a few missed calls from Marcel. Worried it might be something urgent, I dial his number right away.

I"d met Marcel a couple of years ago by chance. We used to live in the same apartment building and I would often see him at the gym. He always kept to himself, and I"d noticed him shutting down every single attempt at flirtation with the opposite sex.

This one time, a girl had intruded too far into his personal space and touched him. I don"t know exactly what had happened in that moment, but it was like watching someone flip a switch. Marcel had collapsed on the floor, his eyes wide and unblinking. He"d been unresponsive, so I"d immediately called an ambulance, going with him to the hospital.

He"d had a panic attack.

That day I"d learned of his aversion to touch and that it seemed to be directly connected to some trauma. I"d never pried, however, seeing how private of a person he was. But from our initial conversation at the hospital, where he"d thanked me for my involvement, a comfortable friendship had arisen.

The first year, we"d interacted mostly as neighbors, but slowly he"d become a little more comfortable talking to me.

"Marcel?" I ask when he answers the phone. "Is there something wrong?" Given his taciturn and aloof nature, it"s exceedingly rare for him to be the one to initiate a call — let alone more.

"No." He pauses. "I was driving by the station and wanted to see if you"re done with your meeting."

"Just finished."

"Great. I"m in the parking lot," he says, and he hangs up. Odd.

After I gather all my materials, I make my way to his car, getting in the passenger"s seat.

"Kind of you to drop by," I add drily after I fasten my seat belt.

"I was in the area." He shrugs. Starting the car, he drives toward our apartment building. "How was the meeting? Any updates on the perpetrator?" He asks, quite possibly the most words he"s ever said at once.

"Not really. The husband"s still the primary suspect, although I want to revisit the evidence," I say almost absentmindedly.

"Do you even have other suspects?"

I turn to look at him. His expression is somber, his eyes on the road.

"You know I can"t say that," I add jokingly, a little curious about his sudden interest in the case.

"Right," Marcel says, although his tone doesn"t seem too convincing.

"Are you done with finals?" I change the subject. He"s in his first year of law school, even though I can"t imagine how that works for him, with his anti-social tendencies.

"Yeah." That"s all he says, and shaking my head, I drop it. I know I"m not likely to get more from him.

We get to the apartment building and we each go our separate ways.

The moment I open the door, I am assaulted by my little roommates, all crowding at my feet and meowing loudly.

"There, there, did you miss me that much?" Dropping my briefcase, I stoop down to take them into my arms. It"s not that easy to juggle four cats in my arms, but our daily routine is already established, so they know not to squirm.

I take them with me to the couch, and I make sure to equally pet each one. One shelter I volunteer at seems to always have too many cats and too little funds. Somehow, I always end up adopting the cats that have nowhere to go. I"d told myself I would stop, especially since they are awfully competitive about my attention and can get quite mean. But last time, when I"d seen an injured white kitten on the verge of being booted, I couldn"t find it in me to say no — especially since it reminded me of my childhood cat, Spot.

Taking out some cat food, I lay it on the floor and watch, amused as they fight over who eats first.

Thinking of taking a shower, I head to the bathroom. Seeing the house so empty, so bare, I"m struck by how bleak my life is. What do I even do? I wake up, go to work, then back home and sleep again. It"s all a never-ending cycle, a self-imposed routine that I"d drilled into my skull for years now. Maybe my encounter with Pink did more than awaken my dead libido. Maybe I"m finally allowing myself to consider what it would be like to have a warm body to wake up to in the morning, someone to share happiness and concerns.

Not for the first time, I have to wonder what I"m doing with my life. Is it even worth it? This revenge I set out to deliver more than a decade ago?

What will happen when I"m done? The wind will still howl through the hallway and the rooms will still be empty.

I have to admit there is a side of me that yearns for a partnership, for family and for kids . . . but there"s also the other side of me that vowed to see justice made. And somehow, they don"t seem to be mutually compatible.

I can"t ever, in good faith, invite danger into my home, knowingly put my wife and kids at risk.

***

The following day, I head to the mayor"s office for a short meeting on Romina"s case. I"m ushered inside by his secretary, but I"m surprised to see he is not alone. Martin Ashby, renowned billionaire and the financial force behind the mayor, casually turns to me.

"Hastings, long time no see," he exclaims, rising to his feet to shake my hand. I"d run into Martin quite a few times since working with the mayor. You could say he knows everyone who is anyone in the city, and I get the feeling a lot of them owe him favors.

I don"t exactly know how the mayor and Martin met, or the extent of their relationship, but it is unusual to see them together in his office. Such meetings are better relegated for more private quarters.

"Mr. Ashby." I incline my head. He motions me to the settee and the mayor hands me a drink.

"I was just asking Justin to join me on the golf course this weekend. Why don"t you come too?" Martin adds, nodding toward the mayor.

"If I am free." I attempt a smile. Golf is boring. Golf with these people would be even more boring.

"Come on, Hastings. It"s a miracle I bumped into you. It"s been what . . . a year? Yeah, one or two years since I saw you last. Don"t tell me you"re purposefully avoiding me." His tone is joking, but I can see the underlying threat. Martin enjoys keeping tabs on everyone, and that seems to include me too.

"I"ll make an effort," I amend, hoping this answer is better.

"You should drop by my house sometime, meet my daughter. You"re single, right?" he continues and I maintain my expression.

"Indeed," I answer, gritting my teeth. I don"t like where this is going.

"Marvelous. I think you"d like my daughter. Meek little thing, and very sheltered. She"d make the perfect housewife." He praises her attributes, and I have to stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Has anyone told him we"re not in the fifties anymore?

"Yes," he continues, looking me up and down. "I think you two would suit just nice."

"And how old is your daughter?" I try to shift the conversation a little, not wanting him to proclaim me his son-in-law in the next second.

He pauses, narrowing his eyes as if trying to remember. "She just turned nineteen. Ripe for the plucking." He raises an eyebrow at me suggestively and I nearly gag. Nineteen? That"s way too young for me — there"s almost a decade standing between us.

I force a smile and try to steer the conversation in a different direction. The last thing I want is for Martin to offer me his barely legal daughter. But then, looking at his sleazy ass, I guess it"s to be expected he"d try to pimp out his own child. I suddenly feel sorry for the girl and for whatever awaits her.