Page 23 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

But for me, this is real. The money I need to disappear from Stanley Torrino is real. The feelings I'm developing for a man I'm supposed to be robbing are real. The danger I'm in right now is?—

"Well, well. Delilah fucking Monroe."

My blood turns to ice. I know that voice—gravelly, cigarette-roughened, carrying the kind of casual menace that comes from men who enjoy causing pain.

I look up to find Stanley Torrino's enforcer, Tony Marcelli, blocking the mouth of the alley.

He's exactly as I remember him—stocky build, expensive suit that can't quite hide the bulge of a shoulder holster, dead eyes that suggest he's killed people for significantly less money than his boss lost because of me.

The memories slam into my mind, entirely unwelcome.

Philadelphia, two years ago. I thought I was running a simple investment scam on a bored socialite named Claire Torrino.

Convince her to put money into a fake art acquisition fund, take my cut, disappear before anyone notices.

Standard rich wife con, the kind I'd run a dozen times before.

Except Claire wasn't just any rich wife. She was Stanley Torrino's wife, and the money she was gambling with belonged to some very dangerous people. By the time I realized what I'd walked into, Claire had already lost two million dollars of mob money and was begging me to help her get it back.

I tried. I really did try to fix it, to return what I could, to make it right. But it was too late. Claire ended up in the hospital—"fell down the stairs," according to the official report—and Stanley blamed me for all of it.

"Tony," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "Long time no see."

"Too long." He takes a step closer, and I notice his hand resting casually inside his jacket. "You know, it's funny. Stanley's been looking for you for two years, and then suddenly your face shows up in some fancy catalog for rich perverts. What are the odds?"

My stomach drops. He knows about the Hunt catalog.

Which means Stanley knows. Which means this isn't a coincidence—they've been tracking me through my increased visibility, through Graham's world. Shit, I was careless. So caught up in Graham and the Hunt and the idea of all of this, that I didn’t think about the consequences.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, though we both know it's pointless.

"Sure you don't." Tony's smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Sophia Reeves, right? Nice identity. Though you should probably invest in better plastic surgery if you're gonna keep using your real face."

He takes another step forward. I calculate distances, escape routes, the likelihood of making it to the street before he can draw whatever weapon he's carrying.

The odds aren't good.

"Stanley wants his money back," Tony continues conversationally. "With interest. Two years of interest. Call it three million, round numbers."

"I don't have three million dollars."

"No, but your new boyfriend does." His grin widens. "Amazing what you can learn about someone when you put your mind to it. Graham Ellsworth, tech billionaire, recently submitted his girlfriend to some kind of sick rich guy competition. Sounds like the perfect mark for a girl with your talents."

"He's not my boyfriend?—"

"Sure he's not. Just like you're not a lying, thieving bitch who destroyed my boss's marriage and got his wife put in the hospital."

The words sting, partly because they're true. I didn't mean for Claire to get hurt, but my actions set everything in motion. The guilt I've been carrying for two years sits heavy in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Tony reaches inside his jacket, and I tense for whatever's coming next.

"Miss Reeves?"

Leon Marsh appears at the mouth of the alley, his imposing frame filling the space with the kind of authority that comes from years of professional violence.

"Mr. Ellsworth asked me to check on you," he says, his eyes never leaving Tony. "Everything alright here?"

Tony's hand freezes halfway to his weapon. He looks between Leon and me, calculating odds that have suddenly shifted dramatically in my favor.

"Is there a problem here?" Leon asks, his tone casual but his posture suggesting he's ready for whatever Tony might be stupid enough to try.

Tony stares at Leon for a long moment, then at me, then back at Leon. Some kind of silent communication passes between them—the recognition of one dangerous man by another.

"No problem," Tony says finally, his hand slowly moving away from his jacket. "Just catching up with an old friend."

"That's nice," Leon replies, stepping further into the alley. "Miss Reeves, Mr. Ellsworth's looking for you. Something about the Morrison files."

"Of course," I manage, though my voice sounds thin and shaky even to my own ears. "I should get back."

Tony gives me one last look—a promise that this isn't over—then turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.

I slump against the brick wall, my legs suddenly too weak to support me.

"Thank you," I breathe. "I'm fine, really. Just an old acquaintance."

Leon studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "Funny kind of acquaintance. The kind that makes you run out of buildings and hide in alleys?"

"It's complicated."

"I'm sure it is." He doesn't move, doesn't offer to leave, just stands there like a human wall between me and the world. "Mr. Ellsworth values his employees. All of them. Anyone gives you trouble, you let me know."

The kindness in his gruff voice almost breaks me. If he only knew what kind of trouble I really am, what kind of danger I'm bringing into Graham's world...

"I will," I lie. "Thank you, Leon."

But as we walk back toward the building, one thought echoes in my mind: Stanley knows where I am. He knows about Graham, about the Hunt, about everything.

Which means the game just got infinitely more dangerous for all of us.