Page 74 of Betrayed

My throat goes tight. “I was trying not to get you into these mafia messes in the first place.”

“Too late,” she says. “I guess if you’re meant for the mafia, it finds you. Takes hold and doesn’t let go.” She smiles up at me. “Kind of like you with me.”

“Damn right. I won’t ever let you go.”

I imagine her in a white dress, dripping in diamonds, a gold crown on her head. Is it possible? Could she be one of us?

Marry me, take our last name?

Erin Bachman.

It has a nice ring to it.

“Speaking of being meant for the mafia.” She looks up at me through her lashes, flashing that sweet smile she knows I can’t say no to. “There’s one more thing.”

“You’ve just been shot. What more do you need to accomplish?”

“Grazed,” she corrects. “Only lightly grazed thanks to your quick thinking.”

She gives me that look. The one that says she’s not backing down.

I hold in an exasperated sigh. “What is it?”

“Gretchen.”

“The last girl to disappear?”

She nods. “Mary risked everything to help me trap Caleb that night. I want to find Gretchen for her. If I can.”

Fuck me.

“Gregory is doing everything he can to help. He’s working with the King’s. They’ll track her down, I know it.”

Here she is, recovering from taking a bullet to save my brother. And now she wants to risk it all for a girl she’s never even met?

I leave the room without a word so that I won’t yell at my girl, or worse, turn my gunshot victim over and spank her ass for even suggesting such a thing.

I go to the kitchen where Gregory is poring over a stack of old school paper maps.

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “For getting Erin even more caught up in this.”

Fully enthralled with his project, he barely looks up. “Did she like the candy?”

“Yeah. Loved it, the little maniac.” I pause. “But she doesn’t want you thinking you owe her anything.”

“She took a bullet for me. I’d say I owe her.”

I wince at his words.

Is it completely fucking impossible to keep the ones you love safe?

“What a fucking week,” I grumble. I slam the cabinet door too hard, stomping to the stove with her mug.

I step outside, make a few calls, and wait for the kettle to boil.

When I return with her cup of tea—two sugars, one milk—she’s in the bathroom getting ready for her day. She’s wearing a soft, cozy outfit I bought her for recovery: a cream-colored, cropped sweatshirt with loose, wide-legged matching bottoms.

I hold the tea out for her.