Less than a minute and I'm turning to stroll away, heading back out of the alley. I make it a few steps, no more than ten, before I hear something behind me, the sound of a running engine.

A car is pulling into the alley at the other end.

I toss a quick look that way. It's all black, small… looks like a BMW. I can't make out much of it in the darkness. The lights are blacked out.

It's trying not to be seen.

I hurry my steps as I turn back around, needing to leave.

I make it barely another five, almost to the end of the alley, when another car whips in right in front of me, so close I have to make a quick retreat, a few steps back, to keep it from ramming me. My heart stalls in my chest, stalls at the identical black car with the blacked out lights and tinted windows facing me.

I'm blocked in.

And I know it instantly then.

And I'm pissed.

I'm fucking pissed.

Because I wasn't the only one sneaking around tonight.

Wasn't the only one watching, stalking, waiting for the perfect moment.

I'm pissed I didn't catch it sooner, that I didn't realize I was being followed, too.

I freeze right where I am, slipping my hands into my pockets as I stare down the car, not letting the fact that I'm alarmed show. Never let them see your fear… it's rule number one. And it's not that I'm afraid. No, I'm not.

I don't fear death.

I've already died too many times before.

I'm a cat with nine lives and I'm already on number twelve. I'm living on borrowed time. When death wants to take me, it'll take me.

But I'm so pissed that I'm off my game, pissed that I might not be able to kill whoever is in that car before they can kill me, and that's just unacceptable.

If I die, you can be goddamn sure I'm taking everyone around me out, too.

Everyone that might ever try to go after her.

Three of the car doors open—both front and the rear passenger. Three men step out, stalling right where they stand, shielded by the doors. I don't recognize any of them, not that I expected to. They look like the typical roughnecks who run in our circles, dressed in all black, a leather jacket thrown in here and there. Dark hair, dark features… Italian, obviously, or close enough to pass as one. I don't see any weapons, but that doesn't mean they're not carrying.

Men like that don't leave home without a gun.

The fourth door opens after a moment, another man appearing. The second I lay my eyes on him, a sense of familiarity hits me.

Son of a bitch.

I know him.

He's older than I remember, but I suppose I'm much older now, too. It's been almost two decades since we crossed paths, an entire lifetime, but I would never forget a face that fucked up.

I get it now, why they call him Scar.

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

A grotesque jagged scar runs the whole way down the right side of his face, slicing through his eye. It's discolored, a lighter shade of blue than the other. He's blind in it, has been for as long as I've known him, but it has never gotten in his way. His other senses make up for it. He's a stealthy motherfucker.

He ought to be.

I taught him a lot of what he knows.

He learned how to survive by watching me.

He strolls toward me… saunters, really. The bastard has not an ounce of fear or alarm written on him anywhere. His eyes burrow right through me as he approaches, and he pauses a foot to my right, hesitating, as his gaze trails over me, like he's sizing me up. He's assessing.

He steps past then, walking down the alley behind me. I don't move my body, but I do turn my head, watching as he approaches Joe lying on the asphalt, bleeding from where he hit his head.

"Friend of yours?" I ask.

Lorenzo shakes his head as he kneels down beside the guy. "He's still alive."

He glances at me as he says that, raising his eyebrow.

"For today," I say.

"For today," he repeats, turning back to Joe. Shaking his head again, he stands back up and starts toward me. "It's been a long time, Ignazio."

"It has."

"It's good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same."

He laughs at that.

I'm not surprised.

Most people probably find him charming, even alluring, despite the scar on his face. He can be so charismatic, so manipulative, that they overlook it. But me? I know a predator when I see one. I can spot one a mile away. There's nothing innocent about the guy, nothing harmless about his intentions. He draws you right into his web with every intention of trapping you for life.

For however long, it is, he decides to let you live.

I told Karissa before that I wasn't the most dangerous thing out there, and I hadn't been lying. Because him? The one they're calling Scar?

He might just be the worst of the bunch.

Lorenzo Gambini.

When Genova said he was from the south, he'd meant it.

Florida.

Kissimmee.

"Oh, don't be that way," Lorenzo says, stopping beside me again. "We're friends, are we not?"

"I have no friends."

"None at all?"

"None, and you know that," I say. "There are no friends in this business. There are only people who need you, until the day comes when they don't need you anymore."

He smiles at that. "Ever the cynical one."

"More like realistic."

"It's nice to see you haven't changed," he says, slapping me on the back, hard, making me take a step from the force of it. My hair bristles in response, my hands clenched into fists in my pockets. If he doesn't stop touching me… "But I still think you and I could be friends… or at least the kind of people who need each other for the long haul. You get me?"

I get him.

I get exactly what he's saying.

He can dress it up in pretty words like ‘friends' but I'm not an idiot.

He wants me to do something for him.

I knew it was only a matter of time.

"I'm of no use to you," I say. "I'm not in the business anymore."

He laughs yet again as he motions down the alley. "Looks to me like you're still hard at work. Or, wait, is this personal? More quests for revenge? Pray tell, who killed your wife this time?"

I don't even think about it.

The second I hear those words, I react.

I lunge toward him, but he's quick, like he expected this reaction from me. Hell, he probably did. He takes a step back, holding his hands up defensively, as I grab the front of his shirt, yanking him back toward me. In an instant, guns are cocked, all three guys standing guard whipping them out and aiming. Lorenzo stares at me, looking more amused than anything, while I fight to keep from pummeling him in the face.

"Testy," he says, prying my hands off of him. He straightens his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles from it. He's not dressed like the rest of them. He's dressed like he's nobody. Jeans and a t-shirt. Makes it easier to blend into crowds that way. Casually, Lorenzo motions toward the guys, telling them to lower their guns. They listen to his silent order, no hesitation. "You always did have a bit of a temper, Ignazio."

"Cut the bullshit," I tell him. "Tell me what you want from me."