Page 7 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

Panic flares in my chest, but I force myself to ignore it as I fish my phone from the inner pocket of my jacket. I’d set it to silent, ignoring texts and missed calls from my older sister Viviana, then pull up the map. I type in the address of the club and check my current location. Should be a ten-minute walk.

Every part of me screams to run, but I force myself to wait, the light of my phone catching on a slight bruise on my wrist from that sicko man’s grip. There’s one on my cheek from the bitch slap, too. The throbbing is real as I move my jaw. Sitting there, huddled up, the aches and scrapes all pulse in unison.

Who the hell was that guy? I didn’t look closely—I tried not to—but I caught a glimpse of longish dark hair and dark eyes when he abruptly ended my street fight with John.

That was supposedly his name. He was a friend of Headley Stymes, the guy Viv’s been seeing. I agreed to meet him to pick up something for my sister, but that was obviously just some bullshit excuse to get me alone and away from my normal protection detail.

My heart damn near stopped when he pulled that gun on me and claimed I was needed to make a point, to rein “him” in.

He never said who “him” was, and I have to believe it was my dad. But hurting me would be a death sentence. Even slapping me around like that would be cause for the most brutal torture.

The same man who took me also shot John. Dead. And Mr. Mitchum—I only know him from the papers. But why? What the heck did I walk into?

I know enough about this part of town—mostly warehouses but also places with strip joints and maybe illegal gambling—to know I shouldn’t have come at all, much less alone.

I just… I don’t understand anything about tonight.

A stone skitters across the ground. My breath freezes in my lungs—but nothing else happens. Maybe it was just a big rat, scrambling for scraps of abandoned pizza.

My heart lurches as I hear a crunch—something underfoot or one of thosedefinitely not a ratcreatures? I listen intently but hear nothing. The party limo is gone, and I hear no one else. When something nearby squeaks, I know I have to move before that limo reappears.

So I slowly creep out of the alley, biting back a shriek as the furry—definitely not a rat—creature scurries over my bare foot. I want to jab it with one of my shoes, but I don’t. New York street creatures are smart, aggressive, and probably organized, so I just glance around, shove my feet back into my shoes, and take off.

I pause at the corner to check if I’m heading in the right direction, my ears straining for any sign of the maniac who grabbed me. Or maybe I should think about him as the guy who saved my life and then kidnapped me. I’m not really sure of anything at this point.

But if that guy thinks I’m going to the cops, I have no way to let him know I won’t. I can’t stop him from looking.I’m no idiot. I know how these things work. He might have backed off, but he’ll be watching—and depending on what he knows or who he knows, he might just work out whoIam.

That would be bad. For both of us.

I think I hear footsteps behind me again, but when I turn, there’s no one.

“You’re losing your mind,” I whisper, walking briskly down the street. Each new street—each turn guided by the map on my phone—relaxes me a little more because there are cars, pedestrians, bustling businesses, and bars.

Thank God. Signs of life. I can blend and finally feel somewhat secure.

Eventually, I catch the pulse of techno house music from the masquerade party where Viv is waiting for me, and I almost want to drop to the ground and kiss the pavement—a disgusting thought but somehow welcome. I’ve never been so happy to see a crowd in my life.

I check my phone and dial her number.

Seconds later, she bursts out the front door.

“There you are!” Viv cries out, enveloping me in a flutter of feathers and sequins, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders. Her lips are painted red, and her mask is crisp white with cute little ears.

My sister is taller, thinner, prettier, has bigger boobs, and is outrageously unobservant. She never once says a thing about my mess of a costume.

She links her arm through mine. “Love your spy look. The blood spatter is extra, and I’m here for it. Where were you? I was getting worried that Mikey got lost.”

Mikey’s our driver—but I rarely use him because I can’t stand the thought of my father knowing everywhere I go.

“I had some errands torun first.”

The longer I stay out here, the more I feel like I’m being watched.

“Viv, you know, I think we should go. Let’s just head home?—”

She shakes her head, her lips curling up into a smile. “Sweetie, we are not going anywhere. The party is just getting good. You just need to relax. Here.”

Viv shoves a pill into my mouth, one that I quickly slide under my tongue as soon as her gaze fixes on the door. No way am I getting fucked up tonight. Sure, I might have a drink or two, but MDMA? Not a chance in hell.

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