Page 6 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

I took over a month ago, and I’m still no closer to finding out who carried out the killings all those years ago down in South America. But I will. There’s nowhere in this world they can hide from me.

Dardan says something, and Orton and I exchange glances, having both come to the same conclusion: Dardan doesn’t have the information we need. He’s the kind of man you send for a threat, not the kind my brother would’ve trusted with secrets. A sledgehammer, not a lockpick.

I turn to Gianni and ask him about the coke delivery. He gives me just enough information to be useful and not waste my time, so he could be somebody to pull out and question.

And then there’s the girl.

The harder she rages, the hotter her gaze grows. Is it possible this is her act? A lot of the whores adopt a persona for the job, and she could be going for the angry ingénue. Then again, it really does seem like she’s trying to keep her face blank and simply failing.

Which makes her all the more fascinating.

Compelling.

I want to unwrap her. Provoke her. Mark her as mine.

She’s all wrong. And she’s fucking riveting.

She could be up to something, of course. People who seem wrong usually are. She could be a plant from a rival clan, a snitch, a girl desperate for money, or a newbie drug addict.

But it doesn’t matter what she is. Nobody touches this organization, and nobody touches me—not anymore.

I focus back on the chat about the uptown crew—not easy with her blazing so hard with... what? Judgment? Anger? What is it about this girl on her high horse, so fucking above it all? Well, that’ll change at the hands of a guy like Dardan.

Something unpleasant churns in my gut.

And really—the outfit. Good god.

So wrong. So fucked up.

Though sometimes a man wants fucked-up things. And I always take what I want.

Chapter Three

EDIE

Luka toys with his glass, fingers moving with the sort of graceful precision that could turn to lethal strength at any moment. Faded scars crisscross the knuckles of his rough, weathered hands, and veins run along the backs like raw power.

He is another species from the college boys I’m used to with their pampered hands and recycled hot takes on Marvel movies and craft beer.

He wears a bracelet of wooden beads on his left wrist, and a tattoo peeks out from beneath the shirt cuff on his right; I can see a bird’s wing, some roses, and part of a sword.

It’s most likely a two-headed eagle. I know from my medieval studies that the Albanians love the two-headed eagle. It’s on their flag, their products, and a lot of their clothes.

The chat moves on. I take my mental notes, trying not to look too hard at Luka or his hands.

Sometime later he takes off his jacket and turns up his shirtsleeves, revealing a few extra inches of his muscular forearms, and that’s when I see it—the full tattoo.

It’s not the two-headed eagle I expected from an Albanian mob guy. No, Luka has a one-headed eagle with an extra talon.

I blink, stunned. I know that symbol from my medieval symbology class. It’s Prince Arianiti’s eagle.

Arianiti was a 15th-century badass who led uprisings against overwhelming odds. He was underappreciated and never given his due but kept fighting anyway.

He was all about resilience and resistance, which resonated with me during one of my hardest semesters. I was constantly choosing between books and food and dealing with my mom’s drinking and criticism about “wasting money on school.” That defiant eagle carried me through.

I look away, unfolding my napkin and folding it up again.

Arianiti’s eagle. So weird.

---