By now, she was making a scene. I sighed as her fellow bartender walked over, glaring at me. “You okay, Fiona?” he asked.
“This gentleman was just leaving.” Fiona stared at me. “Right, sir?”
“Of course.” I threw back my drink. “I wouldn’t want any trouble. I’m the kind of person that avoids it when bad things come calling.”
“Just get out of here,” the male bartender said.
He was lucky I had rules. No excess bodies, no needless blood. Otherwise, I would’ve enjoyed beating that worthless, cheap smile into a disgusting pulp.
I left and sat on the stoop across the street again. German would love to see this, the asshole. He was probably somewhere smoking those stupid American Spirits like a hipster kid from 2005.
God, sometimes the mob really pissed me off.
I passed the time by walking around the block. I found that walking kept me in good shape and helped my mind work through problems. And my main problem was this: why would Fiona Doyle stay in the city when she knew the Morozov family wanted her dead bad enough to send a hitman?
People were, in general, not trying to die. Most folks wanted to keep on breathing for more than a few days.
Not Fiona though. Apparently, she had a death wish.
There had to be a reason. I kept coming back to it, over and over again. There had to be a reason she wanted to stay, and I needed to find out why. There weren’t many good excuses to stick around once a mafia took a contract out on your head, and I wanted to know what Fiona’s was.
I was curious like that.
At the end of the night, the regulars filtered out first, followed by the staff a half hour later—except Fiona. I circled around the block, heart ticking away like a hamster on a running wheel, until I spotted her trying to slip down the back alley. She must’ve known I’d be waiting.
I hurried up and fell in stride next to her.
She jumped, glared at me, then crossed her arms over her chest.
“I’m not doing this,” she said.
“Not doing what? I’m just escorting you home. You do realize there are people in this city that want you dead, right?”
“I’m not playing around, Mack. Can you please leave me alone?”
I grabbed her arm and stopped her. “I followed you to Washington Park.”
She stared at me. Her mouth opened, she went to say something, she stopped. Gently, she pulled from my grip, and I let her go.
“That was nothing,” she said finally.
“I know who you met with,” I said, bluffing my ass off, but I was a good liar. “You walked away looking pretty fucking upset. Question is, why? And is that why you won’t leave the city like I said you should?”
“Leave me alone.” A whisper now and she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
So I was getting warmer.
“You think this is some kind of game for me?” I moved closer, voice dropping softer. “The Morozov family wants you dead, and I’m the man they send when they want to make sure it happens.”
“Guess they chose wrong this time.” A slight smile.
“Guess so. Tell me what you got yourself into, Fiona. I might be able to help.”
She wanted to do it. I could see it all over her—I bet whatever it was dragged her down like an anchor around her neck. But she only shook her head and started walking again.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. Just leave me alone.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. This girl was going to be a real pain in my ass.
I hurried after her, caught up, and grabbed her arm. This time, I didn’t let her pull away, and pushed her against the brick wall of the row home to her left. She stumbled then gasped in surprise as I pinned her there, heedless of anyone watching—although the street was otherwise empty at two thirty in the morning.
“I’m going to admit something to you,” I said softly, trying not to look down at her chest as she breathed hard and fast. “I’ve never held back before. You’re the first target that I didn’t finish as quickly as possible, and it’s got me all fucked up. I keep thinking about you kissing me, and how slick your pussy was, and the way you moved your hips—”
“Stop it.” She looked away, closing her eyes. “That was a mistake. I was emotional.”
“You were turned on.” I cocked my head. “What is it you like about me, huh? You think I’m handsome? You like that I could cut your throat right here?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s right, get mad. I like it when you’re pissed. Maybe that’s what gets you off. Are you dripping wet right now?”
“Asshole.” She shoved me, but I didn’t budge. “You don’t know me, okay? You have no clue what I’m going through. I don’t need you messing this up for me, not right now, not when Connor—” She stopped, her eyes going wide.