I’m in a murderer’s apartment thinking about how I want to live in his sheets and breathe in the smell of him until I die from the sheer pleasure of it. Tomas Dubrovsky is a killer who smells like sandalwood, musk, and man. I want him, every bit as much as I want to hate him.
After the way he broke my heart, I should be trying to get away as quickly as I can. But I’m not. Because despite everything, I’m curious about him, about everything that led him to this point—about the scars, the guns. How he knows those Italians goons or that the cops are on the Mafia’s payroll.
At some point, I’m going to have to make a statement to the police. Especially after the way Alvin ratted me out to the Italians for hiding in the closet, I know he’ll be just as quick to tell the cops, too. I have to head
