Page 8

In freak-out mode, I blurted that we needed to call the cops and take him to the hospital. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me like I’d suddenly grown another head. You’d think I’d suggested we stab the other side of his torso so he could have twinsies wounds.

Julian took long swigs of vodka and watched me through a swollen eye as Marta stitched him up.

His wariness of me was apparent.

He didn’t like me. That much was certain.

But me?

I was fascinated by him.

I stared, my eyes drifting from his face to his six-pack.

He was the most attractive man I’d ever seen.

I no longer cared about boys in my private school who wore designer sweater vests and loafers and bragged about which country clubs they belonged to.

I wanted my best friend’s brother.

A man in the Mafia, who was dangerous and corrupt.

A man who didn’t flinch at pain, who protected his family and gave his mother a kiss on the forehead after she stitched up his wounds.

Deep down, I knew it’d never happen.

He was nothing but a crush to me.

And to him, I was nothing but a threat to his family, as if I’d been sent to destroy them.

I have so many questions for him.

Why did he show up at the office?

Why the actual fuck did that Russian psychopath think I was his bride?

Julian helped me, but I know he didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he passes a car.

“My place.” His phone rings, stopping our conversation, and he answers it. “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he tells the person on the call before ending it.

As if he knows I’m about to play twenty questions, he turns up the music. When I reach forward to lower the volume, he snatches my wrist, slowly shaking his head.

Julian doesn’t drive long, and we’re still on the outskirts of New York City when he turns onto a private road and stops at a solid wood privacy gate, surrounded by a tall concrete wall.

He punches in a code, opening the gate, and drives forward.

I stare out the window, taking in the maple trees lining his driveway. He turns into an underground tunnel that leads straight into a garage.

As someone used to seeing sprawling estates designed to show wealth, I’ve never seen such a private setup before.

I unbuckle my seat belt as he parks. “Nice place. It gives very Batcave vibes. I’d ask if you’re a superhero, but we both know you’re the villain.”

Not saying a word, he steps out of the Escalade.

I do the same, noticing two other parked cars—a black Mercedes and a Chevelle similar to the one his father had.

He punches in another door code, and I follow him inside.