The Bookie (Chicago Bratva 6)

“I know, but that’s what makes it sort of interesting. Like on one hand, the guy’s beating up Zane, but then on the other, he’s refusing to take your car and telling you to let Zane fail on his own.”

I roll my eyes even though I harbor a similar fascination with Nikolai’s behavior. Romanticizing the bad guy is a stupid thing to do. “Well, it doesn’t matter because, hopefully, I will never see him again.”

“Which might make him the perfect option for a one-nighter.”

“Shut up. I don’t do one-night stands.”

“I know. That’s why I’m saying this kind of guy is perfect. Because you would never in a million years actually date him. He is sexy. He was giving you the I’m-hot-for-you vibe. That’s the kind of thing you should go for next time.”

My stomach twists. “I don’t do players.” I learned that lesson in high school in the very hardest way.

“You’d be the player. You just need to flip the script.”

I shake my head. “This whole conversation is moot because I’m not going to see him again.”

“Well, if you do, I say drag him into a closet and let him put his tattooed fingers all over you.” She wiggles her digits in the air.

I laugh. “You’re a dork.”

“Yep. A dork who’s getting laid when she wants it.”

“But not by your boss,” I throw back because she has an enormous crush on him. “And also, you work in a bar.” I would never want Shanna’s life. I mean, I feel like she should get a real job and grow up, but I’m also jealous of it. She makes more money in tips as a bartender than I do at my professional job, which is why she abandoned her degree in journalism to sling drinks.

“And you come into said bar every Wednesday. You could pick a guy up any time. In fact, I dare you to.”

“And I dare you to tell Derek how you feel,” I challenge, referring to her boss who is oblivious to her hopeless crush.

“We’ve been over this. Not going to happen. I like my job too much, and I like what we have. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” I pick up our empty champagne glasses to carry them to the kitchen. I need to work on the ad campaign for that diamond ring, so I can’t get too tipsy. I’m definitely a one-drink wonder.

Shanna follows and helps me throw our brunch dishes into the dishwasher.

“See you Wednesday.” When we finish, she gives me a hug.

“See you then. Enjoy the rest of your day off!”

“You, too, babe.”

She leaves, and I head to my purse to get the ring to study again. I decided this morning that not being able to lock it into the safe was actually a blessing because now I can look at it while I brainstorm ad ideas.

I open my purse and dig around. I haven’t left my apartment all weekend, so I didn’t bother taking the ring out on Friday. It should be right here…

I swish my hand along the bottom with more energy when I don’t find it then yank the sides open wider.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

My heart starts pounding. I’m sure it’s here. It has to be right here. I never left, and I saw it when I was digging my keys out to come in on Friday night.

I turn the purse upside down and empty it completely.

What. The fuck?

No ring box.

That can’t be right.

I pick up the empty purse and search every corner again, opening the small zippered pockets, even though I know it wouldn’t have fit in them.

Where in the hell is the ring? I feel like throwing up. My hands are clammy, my head is feverish. Or maybe that’s from the champagne.

“Please, please, please,” I murmur as I once more search through the contents of my purse on the coffee table. There’s no ring box.

I look at my apartment door. Could someone have come in while I was sleeping? But I keep it locked. That doesn’t make sense.

I grab my wallet and crack it wide.

Fuck.

My cash is gone.

How...when…? I gasp, clapping a hand over my mouth, my heart hammering even harder.

Zane.

Fucking Zane.

My fingers shake as I snatch up my phone to call him.

He doesn’t answer.

“Zane!” I scream into his voicemail. “Where’s the ring? That belonged to a customer at work. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to go to jail. What the fuck?”

As soon as I hang up, I text the same thing, ending the text with words that make me start to cry. If you don’t call me back in five minutes, I’m calling the cops on you.

He calls. “Chelle. Okay, listen. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I definitely shouldn’t have taken that ring. I was panicked about getting beat up again, okay? And they could hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”