Lawyers Guns And Money: Chapter 1

When Zvonimir Bakula walked into my mother's flower shop, In Full Bloom, I tried not to stare.

Yes, he was attractive. He was a little shorter than my five-foot-five, built entirely of lean muscle. He wore fine clothing in all black, making his pale skin and platinum blond hair stand out. He had full pink lips and pretty, if hard, brown eyes framed by the whitest eyelashes I had ever seen. That wasn't why I stared, though.

I stared at him because his turtleneck collar had slipped, revealing the red, stitched up gash across his throat.

I had read about it in the newspaper. A beautiful, rich Croatian couple, Zvonimir and Anamarija Bakula, were brutally attacked, not long after some friends of theirs had been killed. Zvonimir had survived, but just barely; the knife had just missed his carotid artery, and he'd been in a coma, hooked up to an IV, for three weeks. Anamarija had not been so lucky; her throat had been cut so deep, her head nearly fell off when the medical examiner lifted her into his truck.

Some said it was a mob hit. (These were probably the same people who believed the FBI was behind the Kennedy assassination.) Others thought maybe it was someone who'd had an altercation with Zvonimir; apparently, there were a lot of people on that list. Still others thought it was a serial killer or just some random lunatic. All anyone knew for certain was that a beautiful young woman was dead, a killer was on the loose, and the police were getting nowhere. And it pissed me off.

Admittedly, Zvonimir sounded like a bit of a prick. A rich boy who had pushed a few people down. But that didn't mean he deserved to get his throat cut or lose his wife, who he clearly loved more than life itself. More importantly, a murderer was walking the streets. What if he really was a serial killer or decided to become one? How many people would have to die before this bastard was caught?

"What are you looking at?" Zvonimir growled at me in a Slavic accent. It might have been sexy had it not been so malicious. His upper lip was curled, his teeth bared; he had sharp canines, like a vampire.

"N-n-nothing," I stammered. Stupid me. I shouldn't have been staring. He was probably self conscious about the scar, or hated the reminder of what happened to him.

Zvonimir stared at me for what felt like an eternity. It felt like he was staring into my soul. Then he turned on his heels and walked away. "That is what I thought."

Yikes.