The Last Boss' Daughter

“Why?”

I look back at her. “You just can’t. Raj told you to stay away.”

She knows that, and she glances at Lance, too. “I don’t care what they’re doing in there.”

She would if she knew what that was, but I say nothing.

Now she’s looking back at me, her big brown eyes faintly imploring. “Why were you at my house last night?”

I avert my gaze. I’m not sure how to explain that. I shouldn’t have been there, and the truth is, I don’t know why I was. I settle on a half-truth. “Raj told me to follow you home the day you left. Make sure you weren’t spying for your stepfather.”

Her nose wrinkles up at the mention of him. “Ew. Why would I ever do that?”

I raise my eyebrows, since that should be obvious.

Annabelle shakes her head. “I hate him. I would never help him with anything. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”

It’s funny she should say that. I’ve stalked her enough to know she isn’t spying, but I’m curious at her level of hatred for the man. I mean, he’s very hateable, and most people do feel that way, but they still fear him enough to do his bidding. And she’s family.

Well, sort of.

Miss De Luca-Covello.

Or Mrs., I should say.

The reminder that she’s married effectively cools me down.

“You need to leave. Lance is a bulldog, he could go in and tell Raj you’re here any second.”

“Raj always liked me,” she says, glancing at the old building.

“Raj still doesn’t believe your loyalties don’t lie with Pietro.”

That makes her smile for some reason.

“Maybe instead of following me, you should kidnap me until he can be convinced I’m on your side,” she advises, flashing me a smile. Her brown eyes are warm as she looks at me, like I’m a goddamn knight in shining armor instead of the guy she now knows has been stalking her. Girl’s ten kinds of crazy, but damn, is she pretty.

Since it gives me the opening to bring it up though, I find I can’t pass it up. “I think your husband might notice you missing.”

Her eyes go dim at that and her whole face seems to darken. I feel like an asshole, but remind myself, hey, she’s the one who married the guy.

I wish I could tell her I’d help her if she wanted to leave him. I wish there was any point.

I feel bad for her, and I wish I didn’t know what I know.

She deserves more.

I want to know things I shouldn’t care about. Things I can’t care about.

Then she says, “He’s not my husband.”

That’s confusing, and I frown. “He seems to think he is.”

Annabelle looks aggravated and shakes her head. “He isn’t. Not really.”

“Then what the hell is he?”

“I feel like you should buy me a drink before I get into all that,” she sort of jokes, kicking at a spot on the ground with a cute little smile.