Page 11 of Rake

“Figure this out? Figure what out? Just let me go,” I demand.

He sighs and sweeps a hand through his hair. It’s ridiculously attractive hair.

“I wish I could,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “But that wouldn’t be great for either of us. P.J. is waiting outside, most likely.”

The thought sobers me. I’ll never be free of that monster, will I?

“You strike me as an intelligent woman,” he continues. “So why don’t we work together on some kind of mutually beneficial solution that doesn’t involve you getting hurt any further?”

Is he serious? I don’t want to work with a Carney on any goddamn thing.

“Or you could call the cops,” I spit.

“I don’t see that helping much at all.” He folds his arms across his broad chest. “My father has people everywhere.”

Fuck. I’d thought as much but hearing the confirmation from Carney’s son cements the fear in my gut. I’d wanted to believe there were more good guys than there were bad guys out there.

How can I work for justice in the midst of so much corruption?

“This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night either, but it doesn’t look like either of us has much of a choice,” he says drily.

“So sorry to disturb your plans.” My voice drips with vitriol that scares even me. I don’t care if he’s right. His cool response to this situation is disturbing and tells me everything about his family’s business that I need to know.

They project a genteel, refined image, but what lies beneath is ugly and terrifying.

Darker and more twisted that I’d imagined.

The same holds true for this handsome man in front of me. What does he have to lose if he lets me leave? P.J. mentioned his father threatened him. With what? And what would he do to me to escape that threat?

My leg is twisted painfully beneath me. Now that the feeling is finally returning, my ankle screams, throbbing as I grab the front of my boot and try to maneuver into a less painful position. Are my boots always this heavy? I clutch my ankle, grateful that my boots have kept out the cold, damp snow at least. Fighting back both exhaustion and tears, I pull my knees in close to my chest to find what warmth and comfort I can.

He watches me struggle and furrows his brow as he registers the pain I’m in. It’s a momentary flash of humanity, but it’s gone in a second.

“I’m sorry.” He says it like he’s not used to apologizing. The prince of a mafia family doesn’t have to apologize often, I guess. “I probably seem cold, but I’m used to the reality of my father. Pragmatism will save us both pain. I don’t mean to minimize what you’ve been through tonight.”

“Tonight?” My voice wavers. “Do you have any idea what your father has put me through? I’m lucky to be alive.”

My eyes search for any sign of remorse, but there’s none. His face doesn’t move—he’s like one of those marble statues of Adonis.

Distant.

Unreadable.

“Not many people come away from standing up to my father unscathed, Ms.?” His hand moves as if of its own volition to a scar that cuts through his eyebrow. It’s the only imperfection marring his otherwise perfect face.

Maybe I don’t know the whole story here.

“Sasha,” I offer reluctantly. “Sasha Saunders.”

“Ah, the union organizer,” he says, easing down onto the hardwood floor next to me. It’s not a graceful descent. He’s not someone who’s used to lowering himself like this. “P.J. bringing you here makes a lot more sense now.”

“Please do let me in on the secret, then, because I have no idea what’s going on.”

He smirks at me.

God, I wish I didn’t find him so fucking attractive.

“May I?” he asks, indicating my boots. “Seems like your ankle is bothering you. Besides, the snow isn’t good for the floors.”

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