Page 70 of The Mafia Heir's Obsession

Dresses that show more skin than bikinis, leaving barely anything to the imagination. Shoes, coats, a closetful of lingerie. And I bought a diamond-encrusted collar for both the dog and cat, as well as some pretty leashes and carryalls for doggy business and a cat backpack for Clawzilla.

But through what should have been a gleeful and spite-filled spree, my throat closed tighter and tighter.

Because something is wrong.

And I know it has to do with Callahan.

I know it.

As we step into the house, Declan suddenly perks up like he’s the damn dog, and then I hear it.

Noise. A voice.

The coffee machine whirring from the kitchen.

My heart bounces, pulse pounding, hope and dread pulling me in all directions. I drop the package in my hand and take off at a run, ignoring Declan yelling behind me.

I falter to a stop at the door of the kitchen.

Callahan’s back is to me, his clothes a mess, ripped and singed. He pours whiskey into a big glass, then dumps the fresh coffee on top.

“Oh my God.”

He stills. “There’s a pickup basketball game we’re going to in a bit. Had to push it back.” He downs the drink. “You should come. Actually, I insist. Business as usual, and you’re not to be alone.”

“Callahan.” My voice is tight. Fear is choking me because… because… even from behind he looks like he shouldn’t have survived whatever happened. “Where were you?”

He pauses, then finally speaks.

“Doing a favor.”

“Look at me,” I say.

Heturns slowly.

My knees buckle but I grab the edge of the island. He stares past me, narrowing his eyes, and then he looks at me.

“Leave us,” he says to Declan. Then his eyes tangle with mine again for a long minute. “I’m alive, Lucie Joy.”

“What…” I slap a hand on my mouth. “You look like someone tried to blow you up.”

There’s blood, soot, a cut on his cheek. The back of his clothes has the worst of the burns, but the front’s a mess, too, like he went through glass, like he landed on pavement, like he shouldn’t be standing here, breathing, at all.

And the bastard lights a cigarette.

With a shaking hand, I smack it away from his lips, and his eyes burn with indigo fire.

He rests the cigarette on an ashtray, grabs me, and lifts me onto the counter. “That’s because they did.”

“Callahan—”

“It was a shit bomb.”

There’s something darker in those words. “I don’t?—”

“I’m here, alive, and I’m fucking ravenous.”

He takes my mouth in a deep, carnal kiss. He tastes of savage need, darkness, and flame. Of soot and smoke and whiskey. It’s almost irresistible, and I give over to it because… he could have died.

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