Page 19 of Twisted Little Games (New York City Mafia #3)

Kirsten

I can’t believe Tristan is still following me after I told him to stop!

Well, hopefully the hit to his nuts will be enough to keep him away from now on.

Why was he still watching me, though? It doesn’t make any sense. He got what he wanted and more.

Pacing in front of my living room windows, I can’t help but wonder if he’s out there watching me right this second.

Does he just want to torment me even more than he already has?

Unless…is he planning to keep using the footage of us to get more blowjobs? Is this going to be the rest of my life, wondering if he’s watching me or when he’s going to show up at my door demanding I…service him?

No. I refuse to bow to that asshole ever again. If he tries to pull that shit on me, then I’ll just suck up my pride, let the world see all of me, and send his ass to prison for the rest of his life.

A sudden knock on my apartment door interrupts my internal ranting, making me freeze. Did he seriously show up just hours after I told him to leave me alone?

No. He wouldn’t be that stupid, right?

Tiptoeing barefoot to the door, I look out the peephole and release a sigh of relief when I see an older man in a suit on the other side.

With his hands resting on his hips, his jacket is pulled back enough that the badge and gun in his shoulder holster are both visible.

Still, why is a cop, a detective by the looks of him, showing up at my apartment this late?

“Can I help you?” I call through the door, refusing to unlock it just yet.

Maybe it was my unexpected bed companion, but I’m feeling a little more cautious lately.

Since I’m almost certain Tristan Ferraro was lying about not knowing the attacker in the alley, I shouldn’t be so paranoid.

The Ferraros have no reason to send someone to try and kill me now.

“Sorry to bother you so late, ma’am. But I have something urgent to discuss with you about a homicide case I’m working on,” the officer replies.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?” I ask.

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid not.”

I’m still fully dressed in my suit with no shoes, and I assume he must need my help getting a warrant for a potential suspect, so I unlock and open the door for him.

“Okay, but please make it quick,” I tell him, my voice stern. I don’t appreciate him showing up at my apartment without calling first. There’s no excuse for that oversight no matter how urgent the matter may be. He could’ve called on the way over here.

“Mind if I have a seat? It’s been a long one.”

“Fine.” I sigh, gesturing with a wave of my arm toward the living room. I shut the door behind him. “Would you like something to drink?” Even though I’m annoyed, my mother would be appalled if I didn’t try to be hospitable to a guest.

“I’ll take a beer if you have one?” He nods while standing in the middle of my living room, despite his request to sit down.

I head for the fridge and pull out one of my light beers.

“Sorry if I interrupted your night. I apologize to your significant other as well…” He trails off making me pause as he continues glancing around the apartment.

That’s an odd way of asking if I have someone over.

“It’s just me tonight,” I answer and bite my bottom lip in regret. Why did I say that? I should’ve lied and said, yes, my stupidly sexy mobster hookup is in my bed, but he won’t mind waiting a few minutes for me to give him head . Right.

I push aside those idiotic thoughts. This man is a detective. I’ve seen him around the courthouse even if we haven’t worked on any cases together yet.

“What do you need…sorry, who are you?” I ask when I go to offer him the beer bottle.

While I wait for him to give me his name, I watch as if in slow motion as he reaches for the gun in his holster.

Why would he…I glance behind me, toward the bedroom, wondering if that son of a bitch managed to sneak into my apartment, and the detective feels threatened. When I don’t see anyone, my confusion blurs into fear.

This cop is pulling his gun on me .

I don’t hesitate another second before I act, lunging to slam the beer bottle against the top of his head. It breaks in half. The liquid spills all over his face, and the detective staggers back two steps but doesn’t lower his gun.

While he’s off balance, I take off running to my bedroom and head for my gun.

I hear his footsteps come down the hallway.

My hands shake so badly that I know I’m going to be too slow when I pull it out of the drawer.

Still, I hurry, flipping off the safety, spinning around, and dropping to a crouch.

I don’t have time to check if the bullets were removed yet again.

The detective fires his gun, and I pull the trigger, firing one loud shot, then another toward the doorway.

The gun wasn’t empty. Thank god. And he missed me, shooting over my head.

One or both of my bullets catch the detective in the center of his chest. Still, he lifts his gun toward me again. “You little bitch…” he says just before I fire two more.

Finally, he stumbles backward the way he did when I hit him in the head with the bottle. There’s no wall behind him, so he crashes into the hallway, landing on his ass. Hurrying over, I slam my bedroom door shut on his shoe that’s in the way, then lock it.

Fuck! Now I’m trapped in my bedroom without my damn phone! I really need to get a landline to keep by the bed in case of emergencies.

Then, I remember my laptop is still in here from when I worked late last night.

Grabbing it off the nightstand where I left it, I sit down on the bed and flip it open with my gun lying within reach next to my thigh.

Now what?

My options are sending an email, text message, or Facetiming someone. How the hell do I just make a call on this damn thing?

Opening up my text messages, I intend to beg the first name at the top of the list to send help. But when I see a number without a name near the top, I click on it instead. I’m not entirely sure why I choose him out of all my contacts, but I do.

For whatever reason, I don’t think Tristan had anything to do with the detective who wanted to kill me. Which means, he was possibly telling the truth about the shooting in the alley.

It occurs to me a moment after I send the text asking Tristan if he can come over that I’m headed down a road I never thought I’d be on. But I can’t risk trusting anyone at the station or in the DA’s office if I call 9-1-1, since they might be compromised like the cop lying in my hallway.

I could’ve messaged Bryan. He’s a VICE detective and would be a better option than a mobster. But…what if he knows the man in my hallway was coming over tonight, or he doesn’t believe my version of what happened?

Oh shit. What if the detective in the hallway is calling for backup?

I hesitate for a second before taking my gun with me to the door. I quietly unlock it, then yank it open, keeping my gun lowered to where I last saw him. He hasn’t moved, which is good and bad.

I kick his shoe with my toe to try and get a reaction or a groan out of him, but there’s nothing but silence.

When I finally stick my head out enough to see his face, I realize I didn’t need to worry about him calling for backup.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, unblinking…

dead. His gun is still clenched in one hand while the other rests over the bleeding wound on his abdomen.

A man is dead, and I killed him!

Slamming the door again and locking it, I run back to the laptop and see three dots in the chat window as if Tristan is typing a reply, taking his sweet-ass time.

Hurry! I send to him.

Is this a trap, or are you just missing my tongue?

Oh my God.

Since I don’t have the time to deal with typing delusional messages back and forth with him, I decide to Facetime him.

He answers right away. The box on my laptop fills with his tattooed chest before his face comes into view.

He grins at me like he just won the lottery, while I’m panicking and losing my shit.

“Hey, sweetheart. You missing me already? Not sure if my balls recovered enough to fuck you, but my tongue works just fine.”

“Shut up!” I tell him. “I…I need your help.”

“Your fingers can’t reach that spot like mine can?”

“Stop, just…stop. Please,” I huff as I run my shaking fingers through the front of my hair. “Why weren’t you stalking me tonight?” I snap at him as tears well up in my eyes.

“Huh? You told me hours ago to stop stalking you!” he exclaims, then studies me on the screen.

“Wait, are you crying? Shit. I’m on my way,” he says as the image of him moves, and I’m looking at darkness, like he tossed the phone down on a surface.

A moment later, his face returns. A shirt now covers his shoulders and chest. “What happened?”

“Some guy…a detective, or at least I think he’s a real detective, just showed up to my apartment. He said it was urgent. I was handing him a beer when he started to pull his gun on me!”

“Fuck. Are you in your bedroom? Stay there. No. Go lock yourself in the bathroom. I’m coming —”

“He’s dead,” I tell him before he can end the call, dread turning my stomach as I speak the words aloud for the first time.

“Dead?” Tristan’s eyes are wide when his face reappears. “You killed him?”

I nod.

“Nice job, sweetheart. Wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

“Would you stop with the sweetheart bullshit! A man is dead, and…and I called you instead of 9-1-1 because…because he might be working with someone else in the department who wants me dead. I don’t even know why!”

“I’ll get rid of his body. Nobody except those working with him will ever know what went down tonight. I’ll find them before they get anywhere near you.”

It’s hard to believe he’s so quick to offer to help me, but I guess murder isn’t something that is all that new to the mobster.

And I don’t bother asking what it will cost me for his help. I already know I’ll pay whatever he wants.