Page 33 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

I feign a spark of excitement. “I completely forgot about that meeting!”

“So, are you coming, or am I going to have to meet him on my own?” She gripes.

“It’ll be tricky, but I’ll have to try.”

“Good.” She sighs in relief. Too much relief. “I’m calling Dr. Garamond now. I’ll text you the appointment details and meet you there. Got it?”

“Fine, mom,” I huff.

“And Luna?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to need details. Every last fucking detail in fucking technicolor, you disgusting slut.”

This time, I don’t have to force my howl of laughter. But the moment I disconnect, my stomach lurches as my hands start to shake. The pieces click into place like tumblers in a lock.

Rocky was right. There are sharks circling me. Only, I don’t bother to pray that my father protects me. He can’t. No one can.

Within minutes, my phone vibrates with a text:

Lucky for you, Dr. Garamond is free. Even luckier that she has a 10 a.m. slot. No need to sneak around. Just swing over to the clinic on your way to college. I’ll meet you there.

That was quick. Too quick. I check the clock. It’s almost nine.

I approach the floor-length mirror, running shaky fingers through my tresses. A dark chuckle escapes me as I wonder about the going rate for virgins on the flesh market and how much they’ll need to knock off my price now that I’m supposedly no longer a virgin.

And here I was, thinking the worst of my problems was getting force-tested for a genetic condition.

I glance at my phone, its weight suddenly unbearable in my hand. There’s only one person who’d know what to do right now.

Reese, the traitorous bitch.

Still, I can’t deny it. Reese is as resourceful as they come. Her entire family was wiped out by a murderous old recluse who’s still hunting her. She’s only survived this long because of the layers she’s buried herself under.

The ache in my chest sharpens. I’d call her—if I hadn’t deleted her number.

No, I’m alone in this. There’s no one I can trust. And until I learn not to pick two-faced backstabbing bitches as best friends, I’m better off friendless.

“A moving target is the hardest to hit.”

Clemenza’s voice echoes from the past—the summer I turned fifteen. Papa made him teach me to shoot—and avoid getting shot.

“Always keep moving, Luna. Standing still makes you a sitting duck.”

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Move.

I strip, tossing my rumpled dress into the laundry basket. The scalding shower offers a brief respite from the chaos in my head. For a few minutes, I’m just . . . invisible. Not Luna Romano, Mafia princess. Target. Goods for sale.

Back in my room, I scan my closet. Today’s goal: blend in. An ordinary business school student. I choose a short black skirt, tight but easy to move in, paired with my trusty clubbing boots. Three inches high, but the platform sole is sturdy enough if I need to run. And let’s face it—running might be on the cards today.

I shrug on a loose-fitting black blazer over a thin white cami and leave my hair loose, the waves brushing past my shoulders. Good for hiding my face if needed.

Taking a deep breath, I dial Papa. It rings once. Twice. I tap my boot, steadying my nerves. One last chance.

“Luna,” his voice is brusque.

I shut my eyes against a wave of despair. Already a lost cause.

---