Page 2 of Twisted Little Games (New York City Mafia #3)

Tristan Ferraro

I ’ve been stalking the DA for weeks, and yet, for some reason, I’m still enjoying the chase as well as the occasional glimpse into her boring-ass life.

The woman’s obsession with the color white makes me want to roll around on the street with her, just to dirty her up.

She seriously needs a social life, something or someone to make her smile once in a while — a real smile — not the fake-ass one she flashes at her lunch meetings.

And she works too damn much. I can’t help but wonder if her recent late nights in the office have anything to do with the cases against me and my cousins for trial.

When she strolls down the courthouse steps around nine p.m. for the third night in a row, I expect her to hop into her usual fancy car ride service at the curb.

Instead, she finally does something completely different.

She takes off down the street on foot, her heels clicking rapidly on the pavement as if she’s in a hurry.

I climb out of my truck and follow her. I can’t help but notice her shoulders slouch more than usual, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the weight of whatever is in her white leather briefcase.

Her long unbuttoned ivory dress coat billows at her sides as she rushes through the streets, seeming unaffected by the winter breeze.

I wonder if she’s grabbing a late dinner, unable to wait until she gets home. Or if she caved and is going to meet up with some asshole for a date.

I’m shocked when she takes the steps down to the subway, but follow her as she swipes her card and hurries into the waiting train.

I barely make it inside the same car. Pulling my black Yankees ball cap down over my eyes, I sit as far away as I can from the woman who collapsed into the first empty seat.

Curious to see where she’s headed, I pull out my phone, pretending to be engrossed while I wait. Occasionally, I sneak a peek and watch as Kirsten slumps further in her seat. Leaning her head back, her eyes close as if she’s sleeping or meditating in the trash and sweat-scented enclosed space.

Is the woman trying to get robbed? Because in her pristine white dress clothes, she looks like a thief’s wet dream. No doubt she’s got the top-of-the-line phone in her pocket and expensive laptop in her briefcase, sitting between her knees.

I consider making a grab for the case myself. No doubt her laptop is tucked away inside.

But I’m certain it’s password-protected since it’s her work computer. The damn thing would probably be tracked right back to me, so I just sit and watch her while I can.

The more time and stops pass without her moving or opening her eyes, the more freaked out I get.

What the hell is she doing? And why the fuck am I starting to feel a little guilty about my plan this weekend to fuck her over?

She needs to let loose more than anyone I’ve ever met.

All she does is exercise in her apartment’s gym, work, have lunch to collect campaign donations, work some more, and go home and eat takeout.

That’s her normal weekday. On the weekends, Kirsten has her yoga class and shit, then I assume she works in her apartment all day.

She doesn’t go out with friends or date any men.

Her entire world revolves around prosecuting criminals, but damn, she looks good doing it.

Even now, as she sits on the subway apparently going nowhere since we’ve been on it for the entire route, after a long day in the office, she looks flawless. Not a flyaway hair on her head or a wrinkle in her suit.

Still, the snobby woman looks miserable tonight, more so than usual, and I want to know why.

I can’t talk to her and risk her recognizing me as one of her defendants in a criminal case.

That shit isn’t even allowed, based on what Dre and our attorneys told us.

All communications with the DA’s office must go through our attorneys.

Speaking to her in public could be construed as intimidating, unless she doesn’t know who she’s talking to.

The only thing I can do for now is watch her from afar and follow her.

A few of the other passengers, mostly younger guys, check her out because they either find her attractive or an easy mark. I tip my head back and meet their eyes with a threatening stare when they glance around as if considering making a move to speak to or rob her.

Heeding my silent warning, none of them go near Kirsten before her blue eyes finally open again. I duck my head to avoid her gaze; then she just gets up and walks off at the next stop.

I wait a total of two seconds before jumping up and following just as the doors close behind me.

By the time I catch up to her on the street, she’s approaching a waiting taxi. Thankfully, there are a few around this time of night, so I climb into the first one I see.

“Follow that taxi wherever it goes,” I instruct the driver.

The wrinkled old man doesn’t respond but does as I ask.

It takes nearly half an hour before Kirsten’s ride finally comes to a stop — right outside her apartment building in Upper Manhattan.

So, all that time on the subway was for nothing? She just wanted a long nap where she could’ve been mugged at any second, then went home alone?

I’m curious what the hell she was thinking and what the woman does up in her apartment by herself.

All I can see is when her lights are turned on or off from the street level.

She never comes near any of the windows to look out, as if she’s too busy to take even a moment to admire the city she lives in.

If I’m going to come up with the blackmail I need on her to make her drop the charges against me, Creed, and Andre, I need to find a way to convince her to take a night off.

Time to call in my contact in the district attorney’s office and see just how persuasive she can be.