Blood in the Driver’s Seat

“No.”

Aria looked at Adrian as if he had just developed a severe head injury in front of her.

Then she smiled.

Not warmly.

Not sweetly.

The kind of smile that belonged in old family portraits above hidden safes and unspoken crimes.

“You’re adorable,” she said. “Move.”

Adrian didn’t.

His security man, who had delivered the news about Daniel Reeves’s car, very wisely became fascinated by the opposite wall.

Mia, standing beside the desk with her tablet clutched against her chest, looked torn between stress and the urge to record the argument for personal entertainment.

Aria stepped closer to Adrian.

“Let me clarify something for you, Mr. De Luca. A guard from my building is missing. Someone broke into my office. They stole my property. And now you think I’m going to sit quietly in a conference room while you investigate without me?”

“Yes.”

The answer came so fast Aria almost respected it.

Almost.

She tilted her head. “That was stupid.”

“It was correct.”

“It was insulting.”

“It was also correct.”

Mia coughed into her hand. It sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Aria didn’t look away from Adrian. “I am going.”

“No.”

“You’re getting repetitive.”

“You’re getting reckless.”

“Again?” Aria placed a hand over her heart. “And here I thought we were developing range.”

Adrian’s expression remained perfectly composed, but there was a new edge in his eyes now—something colder, harder. The kind of focus that reminded her, inconveniently, that beneath the expensive suit and dry remarks, this man was built for violence.

Not flashy violence.

Not emotional violence.

The efficient kind.

The kind that ended with someone on the floor before they understood what had happened.

“Aria,” he said, voice low enough that everyone else in the office immediately pretended not to hear, “if there’s blood in that car, then the scene is active until proven otherwise. Which means I’m not taking you somewhere unsecured just because you dislike being told no.”

Her smile vanished.

For one breath, the room cooled.

Mia shifted uneasily.

Adrian held Aria’s gaze without blinking.

Then Aria folded her arms. “Fine.”

Mia blinked.

Adrian didn’t move.

Aria smiled again—brightly this time, which was always more dangerous. “You go ahead. I’ll stay here and be a perfect, cooperative client.”

Mia made a tiny horrified sound.

Adrian looked at Aria for a long second, clearly waiting for the trap.

Aria widened her eyes in false innocence.

“See?” she said sweetly. “Growth.”

He didn’t believe her.

Smart man.

Unfortunately for him, being smart did not make him fast enough.

Aria turned toward Mia. “Would you get me the blue contract folder from the outer desk? The one from Zurich.”

Mia, who had worked for Aria long enough to recognize an oncoming disaster but not always stop it, hesitated. “Which blue contract folder?”

“The thin one,” Aria said.

Mia frowned. “That doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

“It will once you look.”

Mia sighed and headed for the reception area outside the office.

Adrian’s attention flicked toward the doorway for exactly one second.

That was all Aria needed.

She moved.

Not toward the door.

Toward her desk.

She snatched her handbag, pivoted, and went for the private side exit hidden behind the shelving wall—an emergency access door most people in the company didn’t even know existed.

“Aria—”

Too late.

She hit the panel, slipped through the opening, and slammed it shut behind her.

For a glorious half second, she heard nothing.

Then Adrian’s voice, dangerously calm through the wall—

“Unbelievable.”

Aria grinned and broke into a run.

---

The emergency stairwell spat her out two floors below in a deserted executive lounge reserved for investors and board members with too much money and not enough personality. Aria crossed it in seconds, heels clicking sharply over polished stone, and reached the service elevator at the far end just as the doors began to close.

Perfect.

She slipped inside, pressed the garage level, and leaned back against the mirrored wall with a triumphant breath.

Victory.

Brief, beautiful victory.

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

The elevator stopped one floor down.

The doors opened.

And Adrian De Luca stepped inside.

Aria stared.

He stared back.

The doors slid shut behind him with a soft metallic click.

For one silent second, neither of them spoke.

Then Adrian adjusted his cuff and said, “Did that make you feel better?”

Aria blinked. “How did you—”

“There are four ways out of your executive floor,” he said. “You’d never use the main elevator if you thought I might catch you. The private stairwell was the obvious choice.”

Aria folded her arms. “I hate you.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You weren’t supposed to find me.”

“And yet.”

The elevator hummed downward.

Aria glared at him through the mirrored walls. “You know what your problem is?”

“I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re smug.”

“No, I’m competent.”

“You say that like it’s attractive.”

His gaze shifted to her face.

Then lower.

Then back up again.

“It’s not intended for your benefit.”

Aria’s pulse did something deeply unprofessional.

She decided to be offended instead.

“Good,” she said coolly. “Because I’m not impressed.”

“You jumped into a service elevator in stilettos to chase a blood trail.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not impressive either.”

Aria stared at him.

Then, because she was Aria and poor decisions loved her like family, she smiled.

“Still taking me with you?”

“No.”

The elevator reached the garage.

The doors opened.

Aria walked out first.

Adrian stayed right behind her.

---

The abandoned car was parked under an overpass near the East River service road, in the kind of forgotten industrial pocket Manhattan tried very hard not to include in tourist brochures.

The sky had darkened since morning, heavy clouds hanging low over the city as if threatening rain. A police barricade blocked one end of the road. De Luca security had taken the other. The black sedan sat in the center of it all with the driver’s door hanging slightly open, a mute piece of evidence under flashing emergency lights.

Aria stepped out of the Aston Martin and took in the scene in one sweep.

Rusting warehouse walls.

A broken streetlamp.

Puddles reflecting steel-gray sky.

The metallic smell of old rain and fresh blood.

Three De Luca men stood near the perimeter. Two more were talking to a detective Aria recognized from one of the city’s more discreet financial crime units. Not NYPD uniforms. Better.

Interesting.

Adrian came around the car and immediately placed a hand at the small of her back, steering her to a stop before she could walk any closer.

Aria went still.

Not because of the order in it.

Because of the contact.

Warm.

Firm.

Brief.

And entirely too noticeable.

She turned her head slowly. “Did you just manhandle me?”

“I prevented you from walking through an unsecured scene.”

“You touched me.”

“Yes.”

Aria lifted a brow. “Bold.”

Adrian removed his hand as if the warmth of her had burned him, expression unreadable. “Stay behind me.”

“Oh, now we’re back to giving commands.”

“Yes.”

“You know, one day I’m going to stop listening.”

“One day?”

Aria opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Then glared at him for noticing.

A tall man in a dark coat approached them from the barricade line. Mid-thirties, sharp-eyed, clean-shaven, with the permanently exhausted expression of someone who had chosen a career in organized crime investigations and regretted every hour of sleep it had stolen from him.

“De Luca,” he said.

Adrian nodded once. “Detective Mercer.”

Mercer’s gaze slid to Aria. Recognition flashed immediately. “Ms. Rossi.”

“Detective.”

He looked between them, one brow lifting slightly. “Didn’t expect the victim to show up in person.”

“I dislike being excluded from events involving my stolen property and missing employees,” Aria replied.

Mercer’s mouth twitched like he appreciated the line but knew better than to encourage it. “Fair enough.”

Adrian’s voice cut through before the conversation could become remotely friendly. “What do we have?”

Mercer’s expression hardened. “Vehicle belongs to Daniel Reeves. Registered clean. No signs of forced entry. Driver’s side door was left open when a patrol unit spotted it at 8:11 this morning. Blood on the seat, steering wheel, and lower console. Not enough to say dead on sight, but enough that I wouldn’t call it a nosebleed.”

Aria’s jaw tightened.

“Any witnesses?” Adrian asked.

“Not yet. Cameras in this area are garbage, and half of them point the wrong way.”

“Body?”

Mercer shook his head. “Nothing in the immediate radius.”

Aria looked at the car.

Black four-door sedan. Mid-range. Clean. Corporate issue, probably from the building’s contracted security fleet. From here she could already see the dark smear staining the driver’s seat through the open door.

Not a little blood.

A lot.

Something cold and ugly settled under her ribs.

Adrian noticed.

He always noticed.

“Stay here,” he said quietly.

Aria looked at him. “Do you hear yourself when you say that?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you keep doing it.”

“Because you keep making it necessary.”

Before she could answer, Mercer cleared his throat. “If the marital bickering is done, I’d like to finish my briefing.”

Silence.

Aria turned her head slowly toward him. “I’m sorry?”

Mercer blinked.

Then realized what he’d said.

Then looked, for the first time, slightly alarmed.

Adrian, damn him, didn’t even flinch.

Aria folded her arms. “Do we look married to you?”

Mercer, to his credit, did not back down. “You argue like you’ve shared property for years.”

Adrian said, perfectly straight-faced, “We haven’t.”

Mercer looked relieved.

Aria looked personally offended.

“Back to the car,” Adrian said before she could launch a homicide.

Mercer nodded and led them closer.

This time Adrian didn’t try to stop Aria from following.

Probably because he’d accepted that trying to physically restrain her in public would only end in embarrassment for everyone involved.

The closer she got, the stronger the metallic smell became.

Mercer handed Adrian a pair of gloves.

Aria held out her hand expectantly.

Mercer looked at her.

Then at Adrian.

Then, apparently deciding he valued his life, handed her a pair too.

“Good choice,” Aria said.

Adrian put his gloves on and approached the open driver’s side first. Aria moved to the passenger side, crouching slightly to study the interior through the window.

Blood on the seat.

Blood sprayed across the steering wheel in a jagged arc.

A smear on the gearshift.

And—

Her eyes narrowed.

“Adrian.”

He glanced up.

“Passenger footwell.”

He came around the front of the car and looked where she was pointing.

Half-hidden beneath the passenger seat was a silver keycard.

Not Daniel’s standard security badge.

Something else.

Mercer swore under his breath. “No one saw that?”

“Apparently not,” Aria said.

Adrian opened the passenger door carefully and leaned in. He picked up the card with gloved fingers and turned it over.

No company logo.

No visible name.

Just a plain silver access card with a small black wolf embossed into one corner.

Aria went very still.

Adrian’s face did not change.

Mercer noticed neither.

“Private security?” Mercer asked.

Adrian looked at the wolf insignia once more before sliding the card into an evidence bag handed over by one of his men.

“Maybe.”

Aria watched him.

He knew that symbol.

Not maybe.

Definitely.

And if Adrian knew it, then she had just learned something too.

The black wolf wasn’t just a myth whispered in the underworld.

It had branding.

How tasteful.

Mercer circled toward the rear of the car. “There’s more.”

He pointed to the trunk.

One of the forensic techs opened it.

Empty.

But not clean.

The lining had been scratched up near the latch. There were two small blood drops near the left corner, and the faint impression of something heavy having been dragged across the floor mat.

Aria’s expression cooled. “He was transported.”

“Possibly,” Mercer said.

“No,” Adrian said.

Everyone looked at him.

He studied the trunk in silence for a second before speaking. “Not transported. Staged.”

Mercer frowned. “You’re sure?”

“The blood in the front seat is visible immediately. Too visible.” Adrian gestured toward the trunk. “If someone wanted us to think Reeves was taken from here, they’d leave traces in the back and less in the front. This is the opposite. It reads like panic and violence from the driver’s seat… until you notice how little transfer there is outside the car.”

Aria looked at the ground around the sedan.

He was right.

No blood trail leading away.

No drag marks.

No disturbed dirt.

Mercer’s eyes narrowed. “So he was hurt somewhere else and the car was dumped here.”

“Or hurt here and moved cleanly,” Adrian said. “Either way, whoever did it wanted attention on the car.”

Aria stared at the driver’s seat again.

A message.

The thought from earlier returned, colder now.

Someone had broken into her office, taken a drive, and left behind a missing guard with enough blood to rattle everyone involved.

Not random.

Not impulsive.

A performance.

Mercer looked at Aria. “Anything in your office that would connect to Reeves?”

“No.”

Adrian glanced at her.

She ignored it.

Mercer continued, “Any enemies inside the company? Anyone he might’ve been feeding information to?”

Aria almost laughed.

Inside the company?

Probably.

Inside the city?

Definitely.

Inside the underworld?

More than she could count.

But none of those were answers she could give a detective standing beside a bloody sedan under a Manhattan overpass.

“Nothing confirmed,” she said instead.

Mercer didn’t look satisfied, but he let it go.

For now.

A De Luca security man jogged over from the perimeter holding a small clear evidence bag.

“Sir.”

Adrian turned. “What?”

“We found this in the gutter ten feet from the car.”

Inside the bag was a single spent shell casing.

Adrian took it, eyes narrowing.

Mercer stepped closer. “Nine millimeter?”

The guard nodded. “Looks like it.”

Adrian turned the bag slightly, studying the stamped base.

And then Aria saw it.

The smallest change in his expression.

Barely anything.

But enough.

Recognition.

“What is it?” she asked.

Adrian looked at her.

For one second too long.

Then he handed the bag to Mercer. “Nothing yet.”

Lie.

Aria knew it instantly.

Mercer pocketed the evidence bag. “We’ll run it.”

“Do that,” Adrian said.

Aria watched him in silence.

The keycard.

The shell casing.

The almost-imperceptible pause.

Adrian De Luca knew something he wasn’t saying.

And under normal circumstances, Aria would have challenged him immediately.

Unfortunately, normal circumstances were dead in a ditch somewhere behind them.

Because one of the men at the barricade suddenly shouted.

“Sir!”

Everyone turned.

A black SUV had come tearing down the service road from the north side, fast enough to spray water from the potholes. One of the perimeter guards stepped into its path, weapon drawn, shouting for it to stop.

It didn’t.

“Move!” Adrian barked.

The guard dove aside.

The SUV clipped the barricade, skidded, and slammed sideways into a concrete post with a shriek of metal.

For half a second, no one moved.

Then the rear passenger door flew open.

A man stumbled out with a gun in his hand.

Everything happened at once.

Mercer reached for his weapon.

Two De Luca men moved toward cover.

Aria grabbed the nearest car door and dropped behind it.

And Adrian—

Adrian stepped directly in front of her.

Gun already drawn.

Body angled to shield hers.

The gunman fired once.

Twice.

A third shot cracked through the air and hit the hood of Daniel’s abandoned sedan.

Mercer shouted something Aria didn’t catch.

Adrian fired back.

One shot.

The gunman jerked and crashed to the pavement.

Silence slammed down over the road.

The only sound left was the hiss of the damaged SUV and the ringing in Aria’s ears.

She was still crouched behind the car door, one hand braced against the wet pavement, Adrian’s arm stretched across in front of her like a barrier.

For one disorienting second, neither of them moved.

Then Adrian looked down at her.

“You stayed down.”

Aria stared up at him.

Rain began to fall.

Light at first.

A fine cold mist across the overpass and the blood-streaked car and Adrian’s dark hair.

Then harder.

“I hate that you sound surprised,” she said.

His mouth tightened.

Mercer and the others were already moving toward the fallen gunman, shouting for backup, clearing the SUV, securing the scene.

But Aria barely noticed.

Because Adrian was still in front of her.

Still shielding her.

Still close enough that she could smell rain, gunpowder, and the clean sharp scent of his cologne beneath it all.

His tie was crooked now.

His hair was wet at the temples.

And for the first time since she’d met him, he didn’t look polished.

He looked dangerous.

Beautifully, terrifyingly dangerous.

Aria rose slowly to her feet.

They were close now.

Too close.

Rain slid down her coat sleeves.

A drop clung to Adrian’s jaw.

His gaze moved over her face, checking for fear, shock, injury.

Aria lifted one brow. “What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Her heart kicked.

“What?”

Adrian reached for her before she could think.

His gloved hand caught her wrist and turned it upward.

A thin line of red cut across the side of her palm, probably from when she’d dropped behind the car and scraped against broken metal or gravel. Nothing deep. Barely more than a slice.

Still—

the moment Adrian saw the blood, something in his expression changed.

The cold discipline stayed.

But beneath it, something darker flickered.

Possessive.

Violent.

Terrifyingly controlled.

Aria felt it like a spark across bare skin.

“It’s a scratch,” she said.

Adrian’s thumb hovered just below the cut, not touching the blood, jaw locked so tightly she could see the muscle move.

“Someone fired at you.”

“They missed.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“That seems to be a recurring problem between us.”

His eyes snapped to hers.

And for one heartbeat, in the rain and the wreckage and the chaos of sirens beginning to approach, the air changed.

Not softer.

Not safer.

Just charged.

Aria should have stepped back.

She didn’t.

Adrian should have let go of her hand.

He didn’t.

Then Mercer’s voice shattered the moment.

“De Luca!”

Adrian released her instantly.

The heat of his hand vanished with such abruptness it almost annoyed her.

Mercer was standing over the fallen gunman, face grim. “You need to see this.”

Adrian turned.

Aria followed, ignoring the sting in her palm.

The gunman lay on his back in the rain, one hand flung toward the gutter, blood spreading darkly through his jacket.

His eyes were open.

Empty.

Dead before he hit the ground.

Mercer crouched beside the body and held up the inside of the man’s wrist.

Tattooed there, just below the pulse point, was a symbol Aria knew too well.

A black serpent curled around a crown.

Her breath stopped.

The Syndicate.

Adrian went still beside her.

Mercer looked up. “You know this mark?”

Aria felt Adrian’s attention shift toward her immediately.

Waiting.

Watching.

The rain fell harder.

Sirens screamed closer.

And on the pavement between them and the dead gunman, blood diluted into the gutter and vanished down the drain.

Aria looked at the tattoo.

Then at Adrian.

And said the only safe thing she could.

“No.”

It was a lie.

A dangerous one.

And judging by the way Adrian watched her face in the rain, he knew it.

---

Author Note

Okay this chapter was not peaceful at all 😭

Aria sneaking away lasted about three business minutes, Adrian caught her exactly like I expected, and then the case said “actually let’s get worse.”

Also yes… that final tattoo is a very bad sign 👀

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