Page 8 of Mafia and Gold Digger

“I didn’t do anything,” I blurt out as he forces me back toward the SUV.

“Oh yeah?” he drawls, marching me past a couple of looky-loos gawking at us. “Innocent people don’t take off like that just from someone calling their name.”

I’m trying hard not to be intimidated by the man who’s towering above me. “You try being a woman walking alone when some random man confronts you. Let me go!”

But he doesn’t, opening the car’s back passenger door and pushing my struggling body inside.

The door slams. A soft click sounds. My hand flies to the handle and jerks it hard. But it’s locked.

He’s definitely a cop.

Crap!

Oh God, I’m really in deep trouble now...

As he gets into the driver’s seat, the SUV’s interior feels too still and too quiet, the air thick with the scent of leather and something else...and it’s the kind of scent that makes my pulse trip over itself.

He must be a detective because he’s wearing dark jeans hugging his muscular legs, a black T-shirt, black boots, and a leather jacket. And despite the casualness of his clothing, each item looks immaculate and expensive. This definitely isn't a guy who slums it. Everything about him is casual and languid, yet purposeful and powerful at the same time.

He’s well over six foot. At a guess, I’d say he’s six foot three. But it’s not just his height which is overwhelming me. It’s everything about him—because more danger rolls off him than should be allowed for any mortal man.

Panic hurtles through my mind at the speed of a sickening rollercoaster.

Ronnie will send a lawyer for me when I get to make my one phone call, right?

And am I under arrest already?

If I am, what have I been arrested for? A bead of sweat rolls down my back. Have they found out about some of the things I’ve done? That I’ve been a gun-runner? Or am I under arrest for having a mobster as a boyfriend? Or for working in a casino that launders dirty money? I hadn’t actually been working when I’d been stopped—I’d just been on my way to work. But Iamwearing the casino’s employee badge…

Ronnie’s warned me often enough that my connection to him means that the cops might try to get to me and make me talk one day.

My scholarship to St. Savior’s School means that as well as receiving the best education money can buy, I also have the privilege of hanging around with the kids from the local mafia family. And that’s where I met Ronnie Mainetto.

He’s part of the Imperiosi mafia here in New York, the organization that rules the shadowy underbelly of the city with a fist of iron and their own brand of dubious morals.

And today, the cops have decided to zero in on me because I’m connected to a guy who’s at the heart of the organization. Ronnie says it’s what they always do, trying to find a weak link, someone who’ll talk to them and give them juicy morsels of information. But I’mnota weak link.

I start worrying about when I’m going to get my phone call so that I can call Ronnie for help.

My eyes dart to the cop driving the car. His hair is perfectly mussed up and it’s as black as the leather jacket he’s wearing, and I can see ink creeping from his collar and escaping up the side of his neck. He actually has half-decent dress sense—for a cop.

“Um, excuse me? I know I’m supposed to get my phone call when we get to the station, but how about we just save some time? Because I’m kind of in a rush and need to get to work please.” I don’t know why I’m being so polite. “You can lend me your cell, and I can make the call right now, okay? Um, please?”

His dark eyes swivel to mine in the rear-view mirror.

My breath sticks in my throat as his stare burns into me.

He doesn’t say a single word…

I’m the first to break eye contact, not able to stop a flush running up my cheeks and not wanting to look at him as that happens.

How did he even know who I was and where to find me? “Why are you stalking me?” I grit out, trying to keep my voice strong.

He gives a soft scoff. “You must think very highly of yourself to think that I’m stalking you.”

As I watch the city speed by outside the window, I start worrying about how long it’ll be until I can call for help.

When I can’t stand the same thoughts going around my head yet again like a never-ending merry-go-round, I try to distract myself by switching to worrying about how I’m going to pay this month’s bills. What my mom brings in isn’t enough to keep us afloat; it hasn’t been for a long time now. She calls herself an escort—she’s basically a high-end hooker. And her career choice doesn’t pay particularly well, especially when she’s too wasted to work a lot of the time. And sitting here in the back of this cop’s car means that I’m not going to get paid for this extra shift.

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