Page 23 of A New Days Don

Karmin’s eyes light up conspiratorially, “How do you know him?”

I contemplate telling her about what went down at the drug bust, passing out, and ending up in Massimo’s condo, but that would lead to a whole other set of questions that I really don’t feel like answering.

“I ended up at his club yesterday,” my cheeks flushing as Karmin’s brown eyes blow wide with surprise.

“You went to a club?!” She all but shouts. Patrons around the small café turn their heads toward us, making my face and body feel like they’re on fire with embarrassment.

“Shh! Would you keep it down?” I mumble. Karmin gives me a sheepish look, but she continues her excited berating.

“How was it?”

“Fine,” I shrug, and she lets out an exasperated noise like she wants more juicy details, “I was there investigating a serial killer. Nothing more, nothing less. It was business, and it was fine.”

Karmin stiffens at the sound of a serial killer on the loose, but doesn’t let the news spread to the crowd. Then, for some wild and completely insane reason, she says, “Well, I ship you two.”

“Pardon me? Ship?” Now it is my turn to have my jaw drop.

“Yeah, as in, if you two were to get together, I would be the first to create some fan art.” She muses, joking… mostly, but what she is joking about, I am not sure.

Chapter 9

Massimo

It has been a week since Mila walked into my club. Since she sealed her own fate by crossing my path for a second time.

She has consumed my every waking thought. I can’t focus on what the hell I returned to this city in the first place with her innocent, broken blue eyes blazing through my memory. She doesn’t get to make a man like me obsessed and walk freely from it—whether she meant to or not.

The green dot on my computer monitor taunts me as it glows and pulses above the LVPD. I try to picture Mila working away in her cubicle at the station. Brows furrowed in concentration as she dissects the information we have given her. I had Anita drop off several boxes of records from the last eight years for all the clubs I own—some keeping more detailed accounts of patrons and employees than others. Surely that will be enough to keep her more than busy as she tries to connect the dots between the serial killer and my clubs.

I began tracking Mila’s phone five days ago. Her patterns are predictable. The woman’s routine is like clockwork. Home, the station, the psych office across from the station, and a martial arts gym that’s a few blocks away from her home.

A perfectly controlled environment designed to keep her sane.

The depravity that lurks deep within my soul preens at the thought of destroying every little bit of her control. Of shredding it before slowly, piece by piece, putting it back together.

My cock stirs at that.

The clock on the wall, hanging above the door to my home office, slowly ticks with each passing second. Almost one in the afternoon.

My woman should be on her way to the martial arts class she takes.

I grab the duffel bag I prepacked for today and head toward the elevator. The elevator arrives quickly, the pleasant ding alerting me to the heavy metal doors that slide open. The ride to the underground garage is quick, as I flip through the apps on my phone to pull up the one currently tracking her and head for my car.

The dot on the map has moved, or is currently moving. It doesn’t take long for me to catch up with her, swerving in and out of traffic until I spot her state-provided cruiser obeying all traffic laws like the good role model she is. I keep my distance as we navigate through the busy streets, and when she parks, I drive past her, noticing her hair has been braided into one thick braid down her head and back. I want nothing more than to feel the silky, entwined fibres in my fingers.

Clenching the steering wheel, I turn into the nearest parking garage and quickly park the car before running to the cement half wall to watch as she sits in the cruiser, her fingers flying as she types out a text or email. When she shuts her car off, she hops out of the car, giving me a full view of her tight spandex that hugs the curve of her ass in a way that is almost indecent.

My eyes dart to all the pedestrians going about their day, clocking each man and woman who turns to face her and filing away each of their faces for later. She shouldn’t be walking around like a delectable buffet for all to see. I thought she was irresistible in her pants and form-fitting V-neck; but dressed like this, she’s devastating. She pauses at the door and looks over her shoulder, giving me a glimpse of cerulean.

Those dark brows furrow as she looks up and down the street. I bet her pulse is thrumming quickly. Her sixth sense knows I am watching her, even from here.

But where is that feeling coming from, Mila?

I-I don’t know. I can hear the way she stammers a mental response.

That’s right, Mila, watch your back.

Not that she will ever have to watch her back from me. Unlike most people in this wretched country, she will always be safe when it comes to me or anyone else in this city, for that matter. If anyone tries to so much as look at her wrong, I will personally ensure they have a one-way ticket to hell.