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“I realize that,” I said, taking a slow, deep breath, even though I knew it wasn’t going to do a damn thing about the pounding of my pulse in my chest and throat, or the way my lungs felt constricted, or the flip-flopping of my belly. Or the raised-hair sensation that was my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in and telling me to run.
“And yet… here you are,” he said, not sounding overly alarmed. And why would he? He was a member of the mafia. A trained killer. A man who could easily overpower a woman if he wanted to.
“I needed to talk to you,” I said, feeling cowardly because I still couldn’t force myself to turn to face him.
“And who are you?” he asked, taking the choice to keep remaining anonymous away.
Trying to lift my chin so I looked more confident than I felt, I turned.
And there he was.
Massimo Grassi.
The hitman for the New Jersey mafia.
I’d managed to find one picture of him online because, apparently, these mafia guys had some sort of strict rule about not having any social media. But the picture had been from his high school days.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, the guy had likely been born attractive, so he was a good-looking eighteen-year-old.
But there was just something about a man’s thirties that made them so much more attractive. Their faces chiseled out. Their jaws got sharper. Their eyes were wiser.
His thirties had turned Massimo Grassi into a man who belonged in catalogs. Or in movies. Not hidden away from the world where the majority of womankind did not get to look at him.
He was tall. I wasn’t great at guessing that sort of thing, but I would say six-two or six-three and a thin sort of fit underneath his charcoal gray, fitted suit. No tie, just a crisp white shirt underneath.
His face had all that great chiseledness I’d mentioned, covered by something more than a five o’clock shadow, but less than a full beard. His hair was well-cut and black.
And the eyes.
God, the eyes.
See, the high school picture had been in black and white. And I figured the difference in his eyes had just been a shadow.
But, no.
No.
He had two completely different colored eyes.
One was a light brown.
The other was a grayish-blue.
And both of them were looking at me like they’d seen a ghost.
“Fuck,” he hissed, jerking backward.
“Fuck what?” I asked, brows furrowing.
“Fuck… you,” he said, but not in theYou cut me off in traffickind of way. More in the surprised kind of way.
But some primal, cavewoman part of me took it in a completely different way, jumping up and down and goingYes, please!
I was going to go ahead and forgive her. I mean, yeah, the man was thoroughly bangable. And with his good looks, that part of the female DNA that saidHey, he’d provide good, strong, healthy babieswas hard to deny.
But I wasn’t going to bang Massimo Grassi.
“You know who I am?” I asked, confused. Had I been watched for a while before Cody was killed? The idea made my stomach twist painfully.
