Stalked By the Mob (Miami Mafia 1)

He chuckled and I fought the urge to retreat to the sink. It wasn't like it would do me any good to run.

Even if a predator like this didn't have the money and resources to follow me wherever I ran, he would probably enjoy personally carrying out the hunt himself.

The best chance I had to get his attention off me was to convince him how boring I was, which really shouldn't be too hard. "I don't know what you're trying to get out of this, but trust me when I tell you you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm not the kind of girl you're looking for."

"What kind of girl do you think I'm looking for?"

When did it get so hot in here? If he weren't staring at me like he wanted to unhinge his jaw and swallow me whole, I would grab some ice cubes to rub along the back of my neck. "I spend all my nights in and don't have friends. I don't see boys or go out. I'm not what you would call fun."

"Good news for you, Angel. I'm not a boy. Now take the fucking phone." He pushed it closer to me.

I reached for it as though his demand held some magical command. Did anyone ever refuse his orders anymore? Probably not and lived to tell about it, I bet.

Becks still wasn't back, and no one had asked for a refill. The entire bar was waiting for him to be done with me before they continued with their night.

Without saying a word, he put my entire existence on pause.

"Are you going to use this to track me?" I asked as I turned the thing over in my hands. How much did a brand-new phone like this cost these days? Over a thousand dollars, I’m guessing. Yet he was handing it over to me like a five-dollar tip.

"I don't need a phone to track you. I already know what building you live in and exactly what second-story window to look in if I want to see your bedroom."

I jerked away from him until my hips hit the back of the sink, even though he was still a mere few feet from me. And the bastard just smiled and pulled out a cigarette. "That was too much. I can be that way with some people."

I had a feeling that was the closest I would get to an apology.

He brought out a Zippo lighter and in one practiced move, flipped open the lid and ignited it. "Keep the phone charged and on. If you don't, I'll have to come and do it myself," he warned as he stood, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and placing it on the countertop.

Then his eyes met mine again and we stood like that, locked in a wordless spell for who knows how long before something in the back crashed, breaking us free. "I'll be seeing you," he said, in either a warning or a promise.

And God help me, why did my entire body tingle at the prospect?