The next fifteen minutes of landing almost killed me. Every time I wanted to turn and say something to Chase, he was looking directly at me. And not just one of those looks that says Hey weirdo, what the hell are you staring at?

No. Because if it was that type of stare, I’d simply flip him off and be on my merry way.

He was staring at me like he was a dying man… a man who’d just gotten out of solitary confinement and had been given a Christmas dinner. Me, being the dinner and a freaking Christmas tree.

“Mil.” Chase’s smooth voice invaded my peace and already-frayed nerves. I could have sworn his tongue just touched my ear.

“Hmm?” I pretended to be unaffected. Let it be known here and now, I’m a terrible actress.

“It’s time to get up.” As his words hit home, I looked around. People were filing out while I’d been daydreaming. Great. That’s just what we needed, my savior to be my distraction.

“Right.” I laughed and waved him away, then tried to get up, only to be held down by my seatbelt. With a groan I reached for the buckle — but was beat by Chase’s massive hand. Smirking, he reached around where it connected and lifted the buckle. I felt that effing lift all the way down my toes. Mother. Loving. Dying. Damn. Shit. Hell. Storm.

I repeated those words over and over in my head as his hand grazed my thigh. The seatbelt fell and I was frozen, paralyzed by his touch, and fighting a losing battle with actually hating the fact that I still felt the buzz from his fingertips.

“Up.” Chase motioned for me to stand. “Things to do, people to see, lives to ruin.”

“Wow, you should be a motivational speaker,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Nah.” Chase gripped my shoulders and whispered behind me. “I think I’m perfectly happy with being your husband instead.”

What the hell? I whipped around so fast I almost fell over. But he was grabbing his bag so I couldn’t see his face, meaning I was left to wonder if he’d actually meant what he’d said or if he’d been joking. A large part of my heart begged for him to be joking, because if he wasn’t, that other part of my heart, the ten percent, was so heavily invested I knew it was only a matter of time before it spread to one hundred. And I wasn’t sure I’d survive that type of transformation.

Chase

We checked into our hotel without any sort of issues. Frank and Luca decided to go gamble before the big meeting. Something else Mil had failed to mention. We were meeting the day we arrived. What the hell kind of bright idea was that? Exhaustion did not bode well for negotiation or for getting information, and I still wasn’t totally convinced we should be talking to the wife of the freaking Godfather of everyone.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t an actual Godfather, but it felt like it. Especially when you knew the facts. He was a Sicilian-born immortal with loads of money and the ability to survive not one, but seven bullets to the head — all on different occasions, but still. In my book, that made him either a freaking vampire or so damn evil that even Satan didn’t want him in hell yet.

I let out a sigh and pressed the button for the twenty-first floor.

“You sound frustrated,” Nixon said with such a smug know-it-all inflection that I had to count to five before I answered with a voice that sounded cool and reflective.

“Yeah well, not having sex does that to people.” Okay, so it was a low blow, but I didn’t care.

Mil gasped next to me while Trace’s eyes darted to the floor. I’d officially made it so awkward even I wouldn’t have minded if the elevator plummeted to the ground.

“Blame it on the alcohol,” Tex mumbled behind us while Mo pushed against him in disgust. He grinned. “Blame it on the al-al-al—”

“I’ll genuinely shoot you in the ass if you keep singing,” Nixon growled.

“Whoa.” Tex held up his hands. “Since when do both of you have sticks up your asses? Seriously, lighten up.”

“Says the guy with two hickeys,” Mo grumbled.

Tex stepped back and angled his body almost like he was about to protect himself from a blow. His mask slipped for a brief instant, face twisting in agony, as he begged. “I already told you it was—”

“We know what a hickey is,” Mil said impatiently as the elevator dinged and then stopped at the eighteenth floor.

The doors opened. A man with sunglasses walked in. Immediately I was on red alert, not because of the sunglasses, but because when he pressed the button it was for the floor above ours. And because the tattoo on his hand said Familia.

“You’ve been staying here a while?” I asked, trying some small talk.

Nixon’s eyes narrowed in on the guy as he stood in-between all of us.

“A few days.”

“How’s it been?”

“What?” the guy asked.

“The stay,” I said slowly. “How has your stay been?”

He looked down at the floor, his hands slowly moving to his back. Nixon and I made eye contact, but Tex was already on it. He snatched the guy’s hands and pushed him against the doors, searching his body.

“Aw, only one gun?” With a bark of laughter, Tex dropped it. The gun landed on the red carpeting with a dull thud, bounced and then stayed put. “No knives?” He shook his head, his lip curling in disgust. “And only one gun? Are you ten?”

“Tex…” Nixon warned.

“One gun,” Tex repeated as if he couldn’t believe it. “He’s not ours. Ours have at least three — and he isn’t De Lange.”

“How do you know?” Mil asked.

“Um, because there aren’t any shots fired, and you’re still standing,” Tex answered. “And because he’s too small.”

The guy cursed. Apparently he didn’t like being called small.

“My bet’s on…” Tex pulled out the guy’s wallet, still pushing him against the doors. “Bingo. Not Italian, not anything. Just a punk wanting to be a made man. Isn’t that right, William Herald? Hmm? What type of name is that anyway? You may as well be John Smith. A nobody,” Tex released him and sneered, “Got a pretty little piece waiting for you back home? I bet she tastes good…” He closed his eyes. “Guess what I’m doing? Imagining a little Mrs. Herald on my mouth, damn is that—”

William roared and fought against Tex, but Tex was a pro. He merely pushed the guy against the wall and sighed. “I’m already bored with you. Oh damn, I hope I didn’t just quote the missus. She tell you that just this morning before she put her mouth on your best friend’s co—”

“—Tex.” Nixon rolled his eyes. “Enough.” He pressed the stop button on the elevator and turned all his rage towards William. The thing about Nixon? When he was pissed? Or itching for information? You could actually feel the air charged with his frustration. It was like sitting outside just before a thunderstorm. He rose to his full height and narrowed his eyes on William, tilting his head in a predatory stance. “You work for Campisi?”

I grinned in amusement and pulled Mil to my side as the guy stuttered.

“I do not recall that name.” A bead of sweat fell from William’s temple as his eyes darted to the buttons on the elevator, most likely seeing if he could hit the emergency button to get the thing moving again.

“Cute. He’s scared shitless.” I tilted my head. “This your first assignment? Scope the elevators for the big bad Abandonatos and get some info?”

William swallowed convulsively, not answering.

“He’s quiet,” Tex murmured. “I’ll give him that.”

Nixon pressed the stop button again, and the elevator moved. “You, shit for brains.” He snickered. “You’re coming with us.”

Nixon quickly threw his head back and laughed then pointed to the camera in the corner and made a drinking motion as if the guy had had a few too many and laughed again.

Herald paled, his lips trembled. “But, but—”

I punched him in the jaw. He slumped to the floor.