A Forgotten Kill (Daniela Vega Book 2)

CHAPTER 1

August 15, 2024, 2:30 a.m.

East Harlem, Manhattan

“Something’s wrong,” Conner muttered to himself. “She’s late.”

As he’d done many times before, Conner waited at the Harlem–125th Street station for Angela Dominguez. Only her train hadn’t come.

Was there a crash? A shooting? A bomb?

He pulled out his cell phone and had started entering the Transit Authority’s website into the search bar when the platform vibrated beneath his feet. He glanced down to see the lights embedded in the floor begin to glow and felt the tension drain from his body. The number 6 train heading uptown had been delayed. Nothing was wrong.

A minute later, his eager eyes scanned the small cluster of passengers making their way onto the platform.

She glanced up at him after he fell into step beside her. When she finally spoke, her words were tinged with a sexy Colombian accent that never failed to heat his blood. “You really don’t have to—”

“It’s the middle of the night,” he cut in. “So yes. I have to walk you home.”

Her shy smile told him she was secretly pleased. It was enough encouragement for him to edge closer to her. Should he take her hand?

Conner had first approached Angela two weeks earlier when he’d seen her get off the train. She’d been leery at first, understandably guarded around a powerfully built man who was easily twice her size. She’d asked why he was out so late, and he’d explained that he worked the swing shift as a bouncer at a nightclub on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

She’d confided that she worked on the opposite side of Manhattan, as part of an office-cleaning crew for a high-rise building on Third Avenue. Like him, her shift ended at two in the morning, and she took public transportation to her apartment in Harlem.

Her beauty had drawn him instantly. Getting to know her had cemented the attraction. His sweet Latina Cinderella scrubbed floors until the wee hours, then rose early to work as a short-order cook in a local diner until the late afternoon. He estimated her age at twenty-five, but her hands already showed the calluses and shiny burn scars from her labor. He longed to take those hands in his own but refrained, unwilling to risk frightening her off.

Instead, they chatted as they strolled along Fifth Avenue from the subway stop in Harlem, which seemed empty compared to the bustling activity of the thoroughfare during business hours.

Without warning, Angela reached out to grasp his arm. He followed her startled gaze to a nearby cluster of honey locust trees lining the sidewalk. A beefy, unkempt man was barreling straight at them, something clutched in his hand.

Conner swept Angela behind him and faced the threat.

A gap-toothed grin spreading across his unshaven face, the man raised a clenched fist and moved his thumb. A silver blade sprang out with a distinctive click Conner recognized.

“Your money,” the man said. “And your jewelry.” He maneuvered the switchblade into fighting position. “Now.”

“Stay where you are,” Conner whispered to Angela over his shoulder. “If you try to run, he’ll go after you. If you’re behind me, I can protect you.”

Assuming she appreciated both the danger of their situation and his experience as a bouncer, he moved forward to confront the mugger.

The element of surprise carried many advantages, and Conner made use of them all. He’d learned to confront bullies with an overwhelming show of force as a small boy and, one way or another, had dealt with violence ever since.

He slammed a meaty fist into the mugger’s forearm, sending the knife flying. He barely registered it clattering to the ground several yards away as he followed up with a series of punishing blows to the man’s head and body.

The mugger stumbled, fell, then scrambled to his feet and took off, hollering obscenities as he fled.

Before he could give chase, a slender set of arms wrapped around Conner’s arm, holding him back.

“Thank you,” Angela whispered.

He turned toward her, and she buried her face in his chest. He gently pulled her into his arms, saying nothing but stroking her silky black hair as she released a shuddering sob.

After a full minute, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started to call 9-1-1. Again, her surprisingly firm grip stayed him.

“Don’t call the cops.”

He raised an inquiring brow.

She lowered her head. “I’m . . . uh . . . I—don’t exactly have my paperwork in order.”

He lifted her chin with his index finger, bringing her soft brown eyes up to meet his. “Your work visa expired?” he said gently. When she merely nodded, he tucked her trembling hand into the crook of his arm and turned toward her apartment building. “Let’s just get you home.”

He stopped after a few feet and bent to pick up the switchblade. “Shouldn’t leave this lying around,” he said to her. “Kids might find it and get hurt.”

Her look of admiration was worth doing battle with a street thug. He pocketed the knife and guided her the rest of the way to her door in silence.

“I want to make sure you get inside okay,” he said after she typed her code into the keypad by the main entrance.

“Want some coffee?” She hesitated. “A beer?”

In his dreams, he’d done a lot more than have a drink with her, but that was just his imagination working overtime. Not reality.

“I’ll just walk you up to your unit.” He kept his voice neutral.

He followed her up to the third floor, where she pushed the door open and turned toward him. Conner could tell she was rattled and didn’t want to enter her apartment alone.

Sure enough, she stepped aside to allow him in first. He brushed past her, careful not to make overt contact as he went inside the modest studio apartment.

“Sit,” she said, indicating two pieces of mismatched furniture made of faded fabric. “I’ll get the coffee on.”