Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
She was going to go to the cops.
And then shit was going to go south for me.
Fast.
Because I wasn’t some random guy she saw committing some heinous act, some unknown predator preying on innocent women.
No.
I was her fucking boss.
She knew who I was.
She knew where they could find me.
And once the cops got wind of who I was, it was all over for me.
I had to find her before that happened.
With that in mind, I had to break my own goddamn basement door to get free, then rush out through the thrown-open door and onto the street.
But she was nowhere to be seen.
It was impossible to know how long I’d been passed out. Objectively, it never lasted more than a few minutes. But a few minutes were too many when a scared woman was on the run. Especially as close to the police station as my house was.
Shit.
I turned back at the end of my street, knowing it was useless to keep looking. She was probably already giving her statement to a cop right about then.
Resigned, I took a slow, deep breath and made my way back to my house.
I did the only thing I could think to do.
I got all my important papers in one place for my father and brother to deal with when the inevitable happened.
When the cops showed up to throw me in jail.
Then I got a cup of coffee and sat down at my dining room table to wait.
For the cops who never came.
Eventually, I had no choice but to go to bed, confused and restless.
When no one was banging down my door the next morning, I did what I needed to.
Same went for the day after that.
And then, finally, it was time to get back to the grind on Monday.
I got ready and went to work.
The last place in the world I expected to see her.
Yet there she was.
CHAPTER FIVE
Josie
I barreled into the police station barefoot and terrified that Matteo Grassi might be on my heels.
The woman sitting at the front desk raised a brow at me, her keen gaze doing a quick once-over, noting my lack of shoes, then making unnerving eye contact with me.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a droll tone that said she imagined I was going to be a problem.
Which, I guess, I was.
“Hi, ah, yeah. Um. I need to report a, ah, murder,” I said, watching as the woman straightened.
“Excuse me?” she asked, sure she misheard me.
“I need to report a murder. A, um, mafia murder.”
“You’d like to report a mafia murder,” she repeated, making me vaguely aware of someone in a suit at my side moving closer.
“Yes, ah, I saw someone get shot by Matteo Gra—“
“Nance, I will talk to this young lady,” the suit at my side said, making me turn to find him standing there, watching me with unreadable green eyes.
He was what you might call a cool drink of water.
He was tall and seemingly fit under his charcoal gray suit. I didn’t know how old to say he was, but there was a hint of gray at the temples of his dark brown hair.
“You sure?” Nance asked, looking surprised.
He gave her this look right then, this raised brow, wide-eyed look, a look that I would maybe give a friend when someone was being obnoxious or insane.
Did they think I was crazy?
Maybe they did.
But once they heard what I had to say, they would have to believe me.
I mean, I worked for the man for goodnessakes.
I wouldn’t be confused about who he was or what he did.
“Yeah. Can you come with me, Miss…”
“Pearson,” I told him. “Josie Pearson,” I added, moving toward where he was holding out a hand.
He kept it raised and behind me, but not touching me as he led me through the back of the building toward an open room full of desks where several other men and women in suits were situated.
It was almost comical, actually, how much the room looked like it belonged on some primetime show about police detectives.
The noise was louder than I anticipated. I guess all those TV shows warped the reality by muffling the background noise and amplifying the main characters.
In real life, the phones ringing and the printer churning and the voices talking and the slow clickety-clack of pointer finger typing was almost enough to drown out my own thoughts, let alone any conversation someone hoped to have.
The detective walked me over toward a far corner closest to the wall and a window with a crack in it. I could feel the draft coming from it as soon as he led me to the seat in front of his desk as he sat down.
“Miss Pearson, I’m Detective Hart,” he explained, giving me a reassuring nod as he unbuttoned his jacket then took his seat, prompting me to take my own. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” he asked.