Page 7 of Mafia and Gold Digger

But my stalker silently swings his SUV around the tight corner to follow me.

A window rolls down.

My heart leaps into my throat. And my head follows the smooth electric sound. And my eyes cut across to the dark-haired driver with piercing eyes.

Crap, this must be one of those cops Ronnie’s always warning me about. Has Ronnie gotten arrested? Is this why this cop is here for me now? Crap, crap, crap!

“Emerald Fiorelli,” his voice rumbles. The passenger door pushes open as he leans across, and a dark head ducks down on the driver’s side to glower at me. “Get in.”

I blink again before looking to my left and right.

“Me?” I squeak.

“You’re Fiorelli, right?”

To lie or not. I flash him my best attempt at a smile. “Um, who’s asking?”

“I don’t have time for this. Get in the car, princess.”

I can’t stop my pert nose from wrinkling. “Princess?Do I look like a Pomeranian?” Jesus, does he expect me to sit pretty and bark on command as well?

His dark gaze continues to burn into me. “Get in.”

“I don’t think so…” I’m trying really hard not to show my full-blown panic. They can’t just arrest you for refusing, can they? Or does it constitute obstruction of justice or something? Damn, if I’m going to date a made man, I really should pay more attention to thoseLaw & Orderreruns on TV.

I debate running.

“Don’t even think about it. Get in the damn car,Fiorelli.”

The way he says my last name sends a shiver skittering down my spine. “Ask nicely. Or you’re going to have to make me if that’s what you want.” Oh gosh, why did I just say that?

“Youreallydon’t want me to do that.”

“Scared that a girl will outrun you if you try?” Christ, I know I should really just stop speaking, but my brain and mouth seem to have lost all connection.

I can practically see him roll his tongue over his teeth in the darkness of the car’s interior. “Get the hell in the car. You’re just making this worse for yourself.”

That threat gives me pause.

“Count of three, princess…”

And suddenly forgetting about the ridiculously high heels I’m wearing, I make a mad dash down the sidewalk.

My family already has a bad reputation. And I refuse to addsnitchto the laundry list of sins on my family’s name.

I hear a car door open and his heavy steps pounding behind me.

The man continues calling my name as I look over my shoulder to see him chasing me.

My arms flail as I almost trip and try to keep my balance. People on the sidewalk see what’s happening but don’t even try to intervene. Jesus, does no one on the anonymous streets of New York care that I might be in mortal danger? “He’s a serial killer!” I squeal.

But no one pays a blind bit of notice.What the heck?

A thunder of footsteps. A rush of air. Steel fingers clamp onto my arm, yanking me backward. I slam into a wall of muscle, his grip unshakable.

Panic rips through me.

He manhandles me, twisting me around to face him. Annoyance laces the handsome face as I struggle against his grasp. But his grip doesn’t budge as he bends his head, and his deep voice caresses my ear. “Come with me.”

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