THOMAS COLE'S POV
The shower was as hot as the pipes could handle, but it wasn't enough to scrub the city off me. Or the hotel or the fucking ghost of Enzo's touch.
I stood in my cramped apartment, steam curling around the cracked mirror, staring at the man I had become overnight. My skin was red from the heat, but I still felt cold, a deep, marrow-deep chill that comes from realizing you've walked right into a trap and found it comfortable.
I looked at my phone on the vanity. It was a black mirror reflecting my own failure. No new messages from Nate. No calls from the department. Just the silence of a man who had gone AWOL from his own life.
I thought about the watch Enzo said I'd left behind. It was a rugged, military-grade Breitlingthe one I'd worn through two tours in the Middle East. It had survived sandstorms, shrapnel, and the blood of men I couldn't save. And now it was sitting on the nightstand of a Blackwood enforcer.
