Page 1 of Protection (Mobsters + Billionaires 2)
MADS
I may own a private jet,have exclusive access to a heliport, and park a gorgeous, chauffeured car in my garage, but I fucking refuse to deal with New York traffic. For my money—and that’s saying something—there is nothing more efficient than the New York City subway system.
Fight me.
And sure, the train station smells like urine, and some of my fellow passengers are a bit strange, but that's all part of the appeal, am I right? Besides, I can get to the Upper West Side for poker night in half the time it takes my driver to get me there.
The train heading uptown is late, so I wait with everybody on the platform. Old-school Wu-Tang blares in my ears as I scroll through my emails, looking for anything flagged.
I'm CEO and Founder of Tracker Technologies, and we are best known for our collaboration with Wolfe Athletics to create a cross-training shoe with indestructible tracking and monitoring technology. Clicking on a message my assistant tagged with an exclamation point, I let out a frustrated breath. Yet another poorly written email threatening my technology, business, and existence on the planet.
Get in line, buddy.
Speaking of things that sound more dangerous than they are, I have an inconsistent, completely hands-off stalker-ish-type person I need to stay aware of. At first, I thought it was a guy with striking white hair who happened to have the same train schedule. But then he started showing up all over the city. At my favorite eateries, places to shop, and even one time at the Natural History Museum during an invite-only fundraiser.
I never told anyone about that one.
Shivering at the memory, I give a cursory look to the space around me. There’s a bunch of people headed home from the financial district for the evening, a few college students, and of course, a couple of colorful New Yorkers busking and entertaining for pocket change.
Typical subway experience.
I usually carry a few bills on my person for tipping and muggings, so I reach into my pocket and…freeze.
Shit.
Shit.
A guy with white hair stands two people away from me.
Doesn't mean anything. My stalker-friend has been MIA for almost three weeks. Hell, it might be Anderson Cooper. I lean over to give some cash to the kid popping to dubstep music and sneak another peripheral look, then stifle a gasp.
It's not Anderson Cooper.
It’s the stalker, and he’s standing right next to me.
With unsteady hands, I open my contacts and scroll past the security company listing to a familiar name: Anthony Edgerton. In addition to being a terrible poker player, he's also my buddy Rand's hard-nosed security specialist.
Pulling up my text app, I shoot off a quick message.
Mads: Stalker standing next to me.
Mads: Canal Street station.
I let out a shaky breath when the three dots immediately bounce.
Edgerton: Is he threatening you? Can you run?
Before I can answer him, the train pulls up, and the door opens in front of me. My friendly neighborhood stalker has never come after or tried to contact me directly, so I follow my instinct and walk forward with the crowd, finding a pole to hang on to. I sneak a look around the car, but he isn’t there. Glancing out the window, I catch a flash of white hair heading away from the train.
Clutching my phone against my chest, I take a huge breath and let it out slowly, using the pole to keep my feet under me. It’s always jarring to see him out and about, but this is the first time I’ve truly been afraid.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Edgerton. I reject the call and shoot off a quick text.
Mads: Sorry. False alarm. I'll see you at Luca's in a bit.
Edgerton: Are you sure??
Mads: Yes. I'm good.
