Gena held her breath. The faint orange glow of the streetlamp at the end of the alley illuminated the man lying in the puddle. He was wearing a bespoke Savile Row suit, but the fabric around his abdomen was soaked in a dark, spreading stain of blood.
The man grunted, rolling onto his side. He pushed his back against the brick wall, his chest heaving. His right hand gripped a black Glock pistol. His eyes darted around the shadows, sharp and wild like a cornered wolf.
The sound of leather shoes splashing in the puddles echoed from the street. Two men were talking in low, urgent voices, moving closer to the alley entrance.
The wounded man tried to raise his pistol, but his arm shook violently from blood loss. The heavy gun dipped toward the pavement.
Gena pressed herself flat against the dumpster. She wanted to stay out of it, but her eyes caught the glint of metal on the man's wrist. It was a limited-edition Patek Philippe watch. A watch that cost more than a house. Whoever this man was, he had serious money and power. He could be the exact weapon she needed against Hubert.
She pressed her back against the freezing metal of the dumpster, her mind violently flashing back to the agonizing pain of the dogs tearing into her flesh. A single, hot tear slid down her cheek, but she immediately wiped it away with the back of her bruised hand. Crying was for the weak. Amelie Pierce was dead, ripped apart in the mud. The woman breathing in this alley was Gena, a ghost resurrected solely for revenge. She needed power to crush Hubert and Ara. She looked at the bleeding billionaire. Gena made a split-second decision. She slid out from behind the dumpster, moving silently across the wet pavement. She dropped to her knees behind the man and clamped her hand hard over his mouth.
The man flinched violently. He swung the heavy grip of the pistol backward, aiming for her skull. Gena jerked her head back, feeling the wind of the metal pass an inch from her nose.
"Don't move if you want to live," Gena whispered directly into his ear.
The man froze. He turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes locking onto hers. He saw a soaking wet girl with cold, dead eyes. He slowly lowered the gun.
Gena grabbed him under the armpit. She gritted her teeth against his heavy weight and dragged him deeper into the narrow gap between the dumpster and the wall. She pulled a large, flattened cardboard box over them, plunging them into total darkness.
Footsteps crunched into the alley. The bright, blinding beams of tactical flashlights swept across the brick walls and the garbage cans.
The light passed over their cardboard shield twice. Gena was pressed flush against the man's chest. She could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat against her collarbone.
A single drop of blood fell from the man's soaked shirt and hit the puddle below with a soft plink.
One of the flashlights stopped moving. The heavy footsteps started walking slowly toward the dumpster.
Gena's stomach tied itself into a knot. Her fingers tightened around the metal car keys in her pocket, preparing to stab for the eyes.
Suddenly, a feral cat shrieked. It launched itself off the top of the dumpster, knocking over a stack of empty glass bottles. The glass shattered loudly across the concrete.
The hitman cursed, startled by the noise. The flashlight beam swung away. "Nothing here, just trash. Let's check the next block," the man muttered. The footsteps faded away.
Gena waited until the street was completely silent before she pushed the wet cardboard off them. She let out a long, shaky breath, her skin covered in cold sweat.
The man leaned his head back against the brick wall. A cynical, lazy smirk touched his pale lips. "Thanks, stray cat," he rasped, his voice deep and gravelly.
Gena ignored his smirk. She reached directly into the inner breast pocket of his ruined suit jacket.
The man's hand shot out and clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. His grip was painfully strong despite his injury. His eyes turned instantly lethal. "What do you think you're doing?"
Gena stared at him, her face completely blank. She yanked her wrist free, reached back in, and pulled out his black leather wallet. She flipped it open and pulled out his New York driver's license.
The name printed on the plastic card hit her like a physical blow to the chest: Claudio Pierce.
Amelie's memories screamed in her head. Claudio was Hubert's uncle. He was the black sheep of the Pierce family, a notorious playboy, and the only person in the entire empire that Hubert genuinely feared.
Gena dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that they broke the skin. She forced the massive wave of shock and vicious joy down into her stomach. Fate hadn't just given her a second chance; it had dropped the perfect weapon right into her lap.
Claudio narrowed his eyes, tracking the micro-expressions on her face. "You know my name," he stated. It wasn't a question.
Gena kept her face perfectly smooth. She tossed the wallet onto his chest. "I know the Pierce family. Didn't expect to find the billionaire playboy bleeding out in a Queens garbage dump."
Claudio chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled his wound. He wasn't offended; he was intrigued by how calm she was.
"I saved your life," Gena said, her voice flat. "You owe me. I need a safe place to stay tonight."
Claudio opened his mouth to agree, but the loud, piercing wail of NYPD sirens erupted from the main street. The gunshots had finally drawn the cops.
Claudio's jaw clenched. "I can't be seen by the cops right now," he muttered, trying to push himself up.
Gena grabbed his arm, wrapping it over her shoulder. She hauled him to his feet. Together, they limped out of the shadows, moving toward the rusty fire escape at the far end of the alley before the red and blue lights could trap them.
