I pace the room. “Shit. What did he want?”

“A job. Wants us to work with him. You might want to call him back.” Olly shrugs. “He sure didn’t like it when I chewed him out for calling here. You know what he’s like, Linds. This isn’t good.”

I clutch my stomach because it feels like it might just fall out of my ass. The bastard worked out who Oliver and I were a few years ago when we kept crossing paths. He’s a deadly assassin with loyalty to no one. We did our research on him too. No family. No girlfriend. No loved ones at all. Yet to this day, he’s never told anyone who we are. I had no clue as to why and I didn’t care as long as he kept the information to himself. When I encountered him on a job six months back though, it went all kinds of wrong. He disappeared after I shot him in the shoulder and I ended up with three broken ribs, bruises I had to hide for weeks and a scar from a knife wound that healed wrong because I couldn’t go to the hospital. They report those things to the police and that we couldn’t have.

“By the way, where have you been this morning? You’re even later than usual and I can’t say it’s been a great old time here worrying over this shit since that asshole called,” Olly questions me, brows furrowed, eyes glinting with suspicion. I never can get much past him.

“I was at breakfast.”

I brush it off because the last thing I need right now is Olly on my case about Mason.

“Alison’s in rehab. I was here at work. You don’t have any other friends. That really limits the possibilities of who you were with, Linds.”

I cross my arms over one another, taking a seat opposite Olly on the other side of the desk.

“Why are you being so nosy this morning?”

“Maybe because you’re my best friend and you’ve been more distant than ever these past few weeks. We also haven’t really talked about what happened with Marissa and I thought after court yesterday you’d call and want me to keep you company.” His voice lowers an octave as he looks at me like I’ve done something wrong.

“Olly, come on.”

He sighs. “Okay. Sorry. I’m in a shitty mood. I don’t care what Rossi wants, Linds. We’re not getting into bed with a man with no fucking soul. He’s the grim fucking reaper and you know it.”

Although I agree, something else is up with Olly, and the fact he just used Rossi as an excuse to cover it up does not bode well with the nerves already churning up my insides.

“Yeah, I know,” I trail off, my mind now elsewhere—somewhere between Oliver’s shitty mood and how to approach a man I’d rather shoot again than talk to.

Olly shakes his head and the movement catches in the corner of my vision.

“See, you’re doing it again,” he accuses.

“Doing what?” I counter, oblivious to whatever the hell he’s going on about.

“You may physically be here in the room, babe, but you’ve been inside that head of yours since the day of the shootout at Sweet Tarts.”

Was he right? The thought weighed heavily on my mind, because I guess there was some truth to it. I’ve been so caught up in worrying about Alison, worrying over the court case and dreading just admitting this to myself, but Mason has crept into my mind more often than I care to admit.

“Fine, you might be right, but we don’t have time for this. I’m going to go call Rossi and find out what the hell he wants. Then I’m going to remind that piece of shit who he’s fucking talking to. And Olly, we don’t need to talk about what happened with Marissa, unless you want to.” I should have given Olly a chance to respond before stomping out of his office, but I also didn’t want to risk the conversation going further into Mason territory. Admitting out loud I’m distracted is dangerous. Distractions cause mistakes, and mistakes are not something we can afford to make in this business. Or we might just find ourselves behind locked bars or more than likely, dead in a dumpster.

***

Each second of dial tone heightens my anxiety wondering what Enzo would want from us. The line picks up and I stop pacing. Breathing out heavily, I gaze out the large window of my office at Times Square, preparing for a conversation that likely won’t end well.

“Was wondering when you’d call.” His voice is smooth and calculated, the tone oozing arrogance, which he wears proudly.

“I’m going to give you thirty seconds to come up with a damn good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head for calling my office, risking everything and harassing my now very agitated business partner. And Enzo, I don’t miss. So get talking.”

He scoffs through the phone. “I’m sure Oliver will be fine. Throw some pussy in his face, that will surely improve his mood.”

The frown on my face lessens, some of the pressure straining my heart alleviates and relief floods me, because even the smartest of people can be fooled. I have to hand it to Olly. He puts up a plausible front. People like Rossi think they’ve got him pegged, but they couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Twenty seconds, Enzo. I am not a patient woman.”

“I have a proposition for you. And it’s one I don’t think you will want to turn down.”

“Spit it out before I hang up on you.”

“Adriana Marino.”

Every muscle in my body stiffens. “What about her?”

“She is the reason your sister is now sitting in a rehab facility scared for her life and still facing drug charges.”

I turn grabbing the edge of my desk in my free hand, leaning on it for support.

I shake my head. “No, Adriana is Ali’s best friend. They’re as close as it gets.”

Adriana is the good girl, the princess misfit in her deplorable family. Is she capable of hurting Ali? What the hell is he on about?

My mind scrambles for answers, some reasonable explanation for such an outrageous accusation. But is it really that unbelievable? In the past few years I’d only seen Ali a dozen times myself, granted those times she was generally always with Adriana but was it really enough for me to call judgment on a girl I now barely know?

“You want to know more, we meet. Little diner on Eighth Avenue, between Forty-eighth and Forty-ninth Street. Four o’clock, don’t be late.”

“Wait.” I groan, remembering my babysitters. “I have police on my tail today. I can’t meet you.”

His smug tone fills my ear. “Need some help?”

“No. Not from you. I’m giving you one chance to right your fuck-up by calling my office. I’ll meet you at the diner, but it has to be tomorrow when I have no babysitters.” I grit my teeth, furious I’m even agreeing to see him. If it were anything else, about anyone else I’d tell him to go eat his own gun.

“Fine. Same place and time tomorrow.” He hangs up the phone without waiting for my response. Tomorrow it is then.

Dread, it consumes me for the rest of the day and night. Worry surfaces in my throat, forming a lump I can’t swallow past. I can’t think properly, can’t concentrate on the million fucking manuscripts that are nearing deadlines. Enzo goddamn Rossi. The man is becoming a pain in my ass.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lindsey

To have trust is to have faith. I have neither. I no longer trust myself, not around him. I’m drowning in doubt and suddenly, I don’t remember how to swim.

The bell chimes, waitresses’ heads turn. I look around, searching for eyes as dark as death. Without even seeing him, I can feel him. Ice frosts my skin and I flick my head around and find him eyeing me from a few booths away.

In careful strides, I make my way over, sliding into the seat opposite him.

Clasping my hands together in front of me on the table, I glare at him, eyes tight.

“Start talking.”

He stabs his fork into the food on his plate. “She was there that morning at Sweet Tarts, Adriana stashed her drugs in Ali’s locker so when they got busted it would be Alison caught with them not her. And before you ask, your sister did know about it.”