Page 8 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

I’m going to be late for my shift. Again. And Saturdays are the busiest nights at Naos. I snatch my coat off the hanger in the foyer and rush outside.

“Drago was very clear in his instructions, Tara,” Iliya, one of my brother’s men, comments as I sprint past him on the driveway. “You should be taking one of the guys with you whenever you work the night shift. Especially while the boss man is away.”

“Then it’s a good thing you won’t be telling on me.” I wink, throw my purse and coat on the back seat of my beat-up car, and slide behind the wheel.

The straight shot from home to Naos generally takes a little over an hour, but not when I drive. To avoid heavy traffic, I tend to take a lot of side streets rather than main roads. Not tonight, though. I’m already fifteen minutes behind, so I hit the interstate.

I make it through that gauntlet and even manage not to miss my exit, but now’s when the real fun starts.

The closer I get to the club, the more congested the streets get, and I need to concentrate so I don’t run over any idiotic pedestrians who cross the road wherever they fucking feel like it or hit the bike couriers who whiz dangerously close between the cars.

With the traffic light changing to green, I’m about to make a left turn when a pickup, coming the other way, blows through his red.

I slam my foot on the brake in the middle of the intersection. Mad honking explodes behind me.

“Fine. Fine.” I wave at the jerk riding my bumper and step on the gas. Old Betsy gives a little sputter, and the engine dies.

Fuck!

I turn the key again and again, getting nothing but rapid clicking in response.

The blasts of horns continue from all sides, echoed by the furious screaming from the asshole behind me sticking his head out of his window.

A common enough scene in New York, and it shouldn’t bother me, but my shoulders tense with every honk, every curse word lofted at me.

Each blast underscores just how incompetent I am.

My anxiety ratchets up. I picture other drivers leaving their cars, or marching up to mine and shouting every obscenity on earth at me. By the time my car finally starts, sweat beads along my hairline, and my hands tremble.

Taking deep breaths usually helps to calm me down, but as I cruise down the street, the nerves don’t leave me. Adrenaline is running rampant in my veins. I’m still about ten minutes from Naos, but I can’t keep my focus on the road.

My fingers flex around the vinyl of the steering wheel, and I turn onto the nearest side street, belatedly realizing the road is closed up ahead due to construction.

Whatever. Works for me since it appears to be completely deserted at this hour.

As soon as I see it, I pull into what seems to be a dead-end, narrow alley.

On my right there’s a building that’s clearly undergoing some renos.

Big tarps cover half of its facade. On my left is a three-level public garage, but it too is closed and utterly empty.

In the distance, I can still hear the hum of traffic, the ever- present noise of the city.

But all around me is a peaceful, calm night.

Just what I need to get myself under control.

I park and step outside, leaning against the car door for stability.

My limbs feel weak and unsteady while my chest remains tight, with rapid puffs escaping my lungs.

The chilly air helps, though. I take a deep, slow breath, trying to visualize a serene environment.

A green field. Wildflowers. The cheerful chirping of birds.

I exhale a shaky breath. Nope. It’s not working. I need something else.

Instead of soothing images, my mind conjures up Arturo DeVille’s angry eyes from two nights ago, glaring at me over the rim of his flute of champagne.

As pissed off as I was at him that night, I loved seeing the usually uptight prick lose a bit of his composure.

I saw his superiority slip off him like an ill-fitted mask.

It gave me perverse satisfaction to ruffle the devil’s scales.

Jelena told me he’s been at Naos the last two evenings.

He likely returned, intending to press the moronic marriage deal again.

The man must not understand the meaning of “fuck off.” I’m almost sorry I agreed to switch shifts with Jelena, working the afternoons instead.

I would have loved to wipe that smug grin off DeVille’s annoyingly handsome face by once more telling him how he can stick Ajello’s brilliant idea up his own ass.

It might’ve been the last time I could’ve seen those pretty features unmarred because, when my brother gets back, he will surely beat the shit out of him for even suggesting this dumb plan.

A tiny smile pulls at my lips. Imagining the demise of Arturo DeVille is proving more therapeutic than the calm influence of singing birds. All of a sudden, it’s way easier for me to breathe.

Feeling better, I turn to get back into my car, but a bruising hand wraps around my arm and pulls me away.

“You bitch!” an angry male voice booms into the night.

“Stavros?” I cry out. “What the fuck? Let go of me!”

“You thought you could get away from me, yeah?” My ex shakes me, his fingers and the band of his ugly seal ring digging into my skin. “Make a fool out of me? Tell your bouncer buddies to throw me out like I’m some sorta trash? And then you send me your stupid little breakup text today?”

“Stavros! You’re hurting me!” I try to shrug off his hold, but he plants his other palm on the side of my car, caging me with his body.

“I waited for you to get back from the restroom for almost an hour,” he barks, squeezing my upper arm hard enough to make me wince.

His face is red now, and the look in his eyes is homicidal.

“Every damn server at that place was snickering behind my back! I’ve never been more humiliated in my life! ”

I shove on his chest while trying not to panic.

The bastard must have followed me here. Dread pools in the pit of my stomach.

A minute ago, I thought this quiet location was my salvation; now it’s become the site of my latest, and maybe biggest, mistake.

There isn’t a soul in sight. No chance of anyone venturing this way or helping me.

Damn it, I should’ve listened to Drago! He ordered me to break up with Stavros when he found out I was dating this moron, but I told my brother to fuck off and to stop butting into my personal life.

Another mistake.

Big mistake!

“I’m sorry!” I shout, trying to placate the quickly unraveling man before me.

“You should be very sorry, you fucking bitch! My father is friends with the owner of that restaurant, and now everyone knows how some stupid cunt dumped me without a word.”

Pain explodes in my head as his palm connects with my cheek. The entire side of my face feels as if it’s on fire. My fists fly up, pounding on Stavros’s front, while hot tears well in my tightly closed eyes.

“You think you’re something special?” he snarls. “Better than me? You think you can make—”

A muted bang bursts into the air just as something splashes my face.

My body goes completely still. A moment later, I realize I’m no longer being pinned against the car. My arm feels like it weighs a ton as I lift my hand to wipe my eyes. Slowly cracking my lids, I focus on my trembling fingers.

They are covered in blood.

“Stavros?” I choke out. He was right here in front of me and— I look down, gaping at the man slumped on the ground at my feet.

Oh my God.

I rear back, gaze transfixed on Stavros’s body. The side of his head is bloody, and he doesn’t seem to be breathing. Filling my own lungs with oxygen becomes a problem. I can’t seem to swallow around the big lump stuck in my throat.

What the fuck happened?

With my back plastered to the car door, I freeze like a deer in headlights.

Footsteps.

Coming toward me out of the dark corner of the dead-end alley. Out of the shadows where the flickering street lights don’t reach.

Getting closer.

I need to get back into my car, lock the doors, and drive away as fast as Old Betsy can manage to go.

Turn around, Tara! My instincts are screaming at me, pushing me toward safety.

But is being trapped in a car that might not start the safest bet?

Maybe it will, though. Then again, with the luck I’ve been having lately, it’s likely a definite not .

Shoving down every impulse that tells me to flee, I fix my focus on the dead body and try to calm my skyrocketing heart rate. If anything, having a man who leads a powerful criminal organization in New York City for a brother has taught me to never act before thinking.

Stavros worked for his father and had plenty of enemies, I’m sure. It’s possible that one of them decided to take him out. I have no desire to know who made that hit or to become an unfortunate witness.

One who will then need to be disposed of.

But if I don’t see the shooter, I stand a better chance of making it out of here. Alive.

Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Steps drawing ever closer. A crunch of broken glass under a heavy sole. Coming from my right.

I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut.

“I haven’t seen anything,” I say, loud enough for the shooter to hear me. “Please. Don’t come any closer. I can’t divulge anything I don’t know.”

Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap .

Slow, measured footfalls. Relaxed, as if out for a nightly stroll.

Closer. Closer.

“I don’t know who you are. And I don’t care.” My voice turns shrill. My throat starts to close up, and I’m left fighting for air. “I haven’t seen or heard anything!”

The steps halt right in front of me. Instantly, a rich woody scent with a bit of spice fills my nostrils. Then, a light touch seizes my chin. Fingers tilt my head up and turn it to the side.

With no hope left, I squeeze my eyes even harder. “Please, I just want to go home. I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.”