4. Chapter Four

If ever there was a morning from hell, this is it. Seriously, I’m just waiting to see flames licking up the walls and the guy with the pitchfork and horns to show up.

I pick myself up off the living room floor where I’d fallen—because apparently, my own feet are trip hazards this morning.

My travel mug of coffee is empty, but the coffee now decorates my pristine cream-colored rug in a wonderful splatter pattern. Ugh, just wonderful.

“Maybe I’ll leave it and call it art,” I tell George.

It could work.

Abandoning the masterpiece for the time being, I go to drop the empty travel mug in the kitchen sink, fix my bun, which is now leaning precariously to the left, and hurry to the door. But I stop there and turn around, hand on the doorknob.

“All right, as you know, it’s a Monday. It’s going to be a long day, and we don’t want to bother Ms. Willoughby, so you hold down the fort, and Ill be back with something special,” I say enticingly.

George just looks at me. I swear he’s giving me the evil eye. He hates being left alone.

“You’re going to tear this place apart by the time I get home, aren’t you?”

George quacks. That’s a yes. Definitely a yes.

Shit.

I wouldn’t have thought a duck could do much damage, but in the short time George and I have been roommates, he’s proven me wrong. On many occasions. He kind of has a talent for it.

“I’ll throw in a bag of bugs,” I cajole, trying to sweeten the deal.

George doesn’t respond. I decide that means he’s considering my offer. Good enough.

I fly out of my house and across the front walk to my cherry-red ’69 Camaro, refusing to look at the clock on the dashboard since I have a feeling it’s not going to tell me anything nice.

As I pull out of the driveway, I decide not to take it as a bad omen when Eva, my receptionist, calls in to say she needs to leave the office on yet another emergency, something to do with her preteen daughter caught smoking in the schoolyard. We agree she should leave the waiting room open for my eight-thirty client since I’m only a few minutes away.

I crank up Led Zeppelin—because there are only a few things in life old rock music can’t solve—and keep it moving, knowing the unsettled feeling in the pit of my belly would leave once I got through the first three sessions of the day. Sometimes Monday just loves to kick you up the butt.

But despite Zeppelin, my resolve wavers when a traffic jam on the freeway slows me down by an extra twenty minutes. And it just about hits rock bottom as I pull into the building’s crowded parking lot and find a way-too-pretty, black Lamborghini parked in my spot. Jerk.

Would it be wrong to key it?

Yeah, probably.

So, I spend another five minutes finding another spot, tuck my keys away in my purse and hurry inside, taking the stairs rather than the temperamental elevator up to the third floor.

Visions of Miguel Ramirez—my first client of the day—already pacing a trench in the hallway outside my office dance in my head.

I reach the third floor to find that Miguel isn’t in the hallway, but the door to the waiting room is open. Unusual. Miguel is usually too wound up to sit down in the waiting room, especially on a Monday morning after he’s been on edge all weekend.

I push the door open and step into the empty waiting room, greeted by the usual relaxing classical music softly playing from the wall speakers. However, the real kicker is that my office door is inexplicably wide open. A knot of irritation tightens in my belly.

Why on earth would Eva leave my office door open, potentially letting Miguel—or anyone else—wander in?

I pad across the waiting room, my heels silent on the thick carpet, stopping short at the doorway.

There’s a man in my office—a tall, broad-shouldered figure who seems to be jacked to high heaven beneath his expensive-looking dark gray suit. He stands by the far wall, feet planted firmly apart, presenting his impressive back to me while his attention is fixed on the bulletin board that is lined with flyers for online therapy workshops and mindfulness sessions.

Who the hell dropped this Adonis in here?

Were he not dressed in a suit, I’d be inclined to think he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to the gym on the second floor.

The man suddenly goes still, as if sensing my presence at the doorway, then turns around. As if the back view wasn’t enough to get a girl’s heart racing, I’m struck with deep-set blue eyes like twin lasers, sensual lips, a square stubbled jaw, and thick dark hair that’s perfectly tousled.

Well, if the gods have decided to make up for the shitty morning with this sight, I’m pretty okay with that.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He takes a couple of steps toward me then stops. “You’re Sophie Kellan,” his voice rumbles deeply as his eyes graze over me from head to toe. It’s not a question, and the way he looks at me tells me he already knows who I am.

Still, I answer, “That’s me. And you are…?”

“Nico Vitelli. I wonder if I could have a minute of your time, Ms. Kellan?” he asks, embodying cool sophistication and impeccable manners, but I see through that veneer.

There’s a dangerous aura about him. He’s unnaturally calm for someone who’s never been here before; its as if hes acting from a script, having planned each move with precision. The stealth in his movement just now, and the way his gaze sears into me as if he expects me to bolt any second—signals that I might be prey in his eyes.

It feels like I’ve inadvertently wandered into his lair.

My heart lurches, then picks up its pace.

Please, please, let him be a client,I silently plead, refusing to entertain any other possibilities for why a hot, dangerous stranger with otherworldly eyes would come crashing into my office as if he owns the place.

I force steadiness into my voice, “I’m afraid you’ll have to call to make an appointment, Mr. Vitelli.”

He smiles then—a flash of perfect teeth and deep grooves in his cheeks. It’s a smile that, I’m pretty sure, is designed to weaken knees, which would explain the ripple of awareness now coursing down my spine.

He steps around me and heads toward the office door behind me, forcing me to move fully into the room and reversing our positions. His smooth movements conjure images of panthers and tigers and all kinds of other things with sharp teeth.

Once he reaches the door, he gently pushes it shut and leans against it. The pounding in my chest becomes a deafening roar when I see him reach behind him to lock the door.

“Like I said, I just need a minute of your time.”

Oh fuck. I guess this is the plummeting toward my death part of my roller coaster morning.

“What do you want, Mr. Vitelli?” I cross my arms over my chest, not at all fond of the faint trembling in my hands. I’ve dealt with bullies like him all my life, I tell myself. This isn’t exactly new territory.

Except, it kind of is.

He remains silent, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes revealing nothing. But they don’t have to; I already sense that things are about to get very bad. I decide to provoke him the best way I know how—with words—to see if he will unravel. And maybe, just maybe, I could talk my way out of whatever he’s got in store for me.

“Since you can’t, or won’t, tell me what you want, Mr. Vitelli, I’ll hazard a guess,” I begin, keeping my voice steady. “Your wife—whom you love and cherish deeply, of course—has been here, telling me lies about all the bruises she’s ended up with.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a wife.”

“Shall I keep guessing, or are you planning to enlighten me anytime this year about what you want from me?”

His eyes flash—a clear blue like the cloudless summer sky, perceptive, missing nothing. After a tense silence, his gaze hardens, and with a deft flick, he opens his suit jacket button.

Suddenly, those incredible eyes seem too close for comfort. As his jacket falls open, revealing the outline of a well-defined torso beneath his tailored shirt, I realize the chilling reason for his action: it’s to ensure easy access to his gun.

Great. The day just keeps getting better. What is it about Monday mornings?

Yet, I stand my ground, refusing to show fear. Bullies thrive on fear, but he’s mistaken if he thinks I’ll give him the satisfaction. He’s chosen the wrong target for his intimidation.

Finally, he speaks. “Maria Ricci is your client.”

Its a statement, not a question. With the mention of Maria’s name, any remaining doubts about who Nico Vitelli could be evaporate. He’s a criminal. A predator. Either involved with whatever Maria’s husband was entangled in or a member of a rival gang.

Nico steps closer, invading my personal space and forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, which only adds to my irritation. He’s too freaking tall. I grit my teeth as his scent—mingled hints of mint and vetiver—envelops me, and I fight the impulse to close my eyes and work out which part of the fragrance is uniquely his.

“Maria Ricci,” he repeats, emphasizing the name.

Maintaining a carefully neutral expression, I can’t help but picture Maria’s face now, her features marked by distress, her tears soaking the hair at her temples. I remember the conflict in her eyes, the blend of fear and hope, as she hesitantly agreed to my plan.

Summoning the most dismissive tone I can manage, I snap, “Who is or isn’t a client of mine is none of your business, Mr. Vitelli.”

Nico’s voice drops an octave and takes on a slight accent. “You are very wrong about that part, signorina.”

I can’t deny the allure of his voice. And that accent? If he meant for his tone to send deadly chills down my spine, it’s missed its mark by a mile. Instead, it feels like I’m being drizzled all over with warm honey.

Get a grip!I give myself a mental shake. “My psychology degree and PhD would argue otherwise. In this office and as it pertains to my clients’ wellbeing Mr Vitelli, I call the shots.”

He takes a few steps back, watching me as if I’m a foreign species. “You’re not afraid of me,” he observes, almost in wonder.

I am. In fact, I can’t recall ever being this terrified. Because I know a killer when I see one.

I chuckle. It sounds forced, but I like to think it serves its purpose. “I grew up with men who would eat you for breakfast, Mr. Vitelli.”

His eyebrows lift, turning his face into a canvas of surprise and intrigue. It’s hard to tell which one is winning out.

“Is that so?”

“Damn straight,” I assert, drawing a deep breath. “So, if you’re here to kill me, could you hurry and get it over with? Otherwise, if were about done, I’d appreciate if you’d let me get back to my craptastic day.”

Every hint of humor wipes off his face, replaced by irritation as he surveys me anew. I don’t think he appreciates my tone. Good. He looks like the type who needs to have control. Riling him up might just disrupt his plans.

Quickly strategizing just in case Nico Vitelli decides to attack, I think of how fast I can wield the karambit dagger strapped to my thigh—a present from my dad for my sixteenth birthday.

The problem is, the man is armed. I know he has a gun holstered on the right side of his torso, which I absently note likely means hes left-handed. My gaze goes to his left hand. It’s large, tanned, and has blunt fingernails. There is a diamond signet ring on his left third finger.

With his eyebrows still furrowed in annoyance, Nico rumbles, “Listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once. Whatever Maria Ricci told you, it is imperative that you keep your mouth shut. Destroy your notes if you have to. You never met her. Do you understand me?”

His tone has an almost cajoling quality, like he’s asking me to work with him. Yet the underlying threat and authoritative bite has my spine stiffening and I retort, “Or else what? You’ll have no choice but to come back here and put enough holes in me to turn me into a human sieve? Is that the script we’re going with?”

I notice a slight twitch of his left hand, which hovers over his hip. Then he takes an imperceptible breath and releases it through his teeth, which tells me he just suppressed an urge there.

He doesn’t tolerate being spoken to like that, yet his practiced calm says he’s not someone to let his emotions lead him around.

He says softly, “I have no intention of coming back here. Or leaving without what I came here for. Your silence is all I require. You either give me that or else Maria and her daughter will die.” There’s an earnest intensity in his voice that doesnt sound like a threat.

Is he actually trying to protect them?

The fact that he doesn’t mention me dying if I don’t cooperate makes me wonder if he’s now decided against killing me, which emboldens me further.

“Where is Maria now?” I venture, thinking it crucial to know Maria’s location, especially if she’s still in the motel and waiting for Cade’s arrival today.

Nico looks slightly amused that I’m questioning him, but I’m even more surprised when he answers, “She’s not around.”

Sounds like he’s found Maria then. I’m also guessing he’s gotten her to sing like a bird which is what led him straight here today to tie up ‘loose ends’.

Infusing my voice with a confidence I don’t quite feel, I press, “Yes, I’m aware you haven’t stashed Maria into my office supply closet, Mr. Vitelli, but I’m going to need more details than that. I need to know if she’s not being held somewhere and fed on two teaspoons of water a day.”

This time Nico doesn’t seem bothered by my sarcasm, instead he continues looking at me with those intense cold eyes. “Unfortunately, Signorina Kellan, I can’t give you more than that.”

I’m only stalling for time while I figure out what the hell to do. Maybe Eva will return early. Or Miguel could arrive for his session. He’s a burly guy, that Miguel. Perhaps he could convince ‘laser eyes’ here to leave me alone. Or, by some miracle, the police could show up.

But deep down, I know it’s all wishful thinking.

Growing up, the rules were clear. Involving the cops was off-limits, especially given my own father’s covert dealings with the local sheriff. You never know which monster is yanking the lawman’s string from the shadows. And there always is. Men like my father—men like Nico Vitelli.

But right now, in this new life I am carving out for myself, it’s hard to detangle those ingrained beliefs about cops and the law.

One thing is true, though: It was a very stupid move to get involved with a client. Why the hell didn’t Cade warn me against this?

Oh, right, he did. For about two seconds because he knew I wouldn’t listen anyway.

“Can you at least tell me that Maria and her daughter are safe?” I push, needing to grasp any thread of reassurance.

“They’re safe,” he confirms. After a pause, laden with unspoken thoughts, he adds, “And I intend to keep them that way.”

This admission stirs a mix of emotions within me. “You’re telling me you’re doing this”—I nod toward his concealed gun—“to protect Maria and Victoria?”

His silence speaks volumes, yet its his unwavering gaze, his posture, more than his words, that convinces me of his sincerity. Despite the alarm bells ringing in my professional mind, I cant shake the feeling that hes telling the truth.

Okay, now what, oh queen of body language?

I muster my courage, “Fine, I’ll keep my mouth shut, but that is by no means a lifelong promise. Besides, if the police start looking—”

“They won’t,” he interjects, eyeing me for another long moment. Debating.

I can almost hear the tick of the clock on the wall slowing, a tense soundtrack to Nico’s deliberation. Perhaps he’s contemplating the simplicity of permanently silencing me. After all, he went to the trouble of getting me alone. Most likely, he’s the reason Miguel didn’t show up today. Maybe he even had something to do with Eva’s emergency, too.

Finally, he nods tersely, then spins on his heel and leaves without another word, closing the door with a click that resonates like a gavel.

A huge breath whooshes out of me, as if I’d been holding it since the moment he first locked eyes with me across the room. With the immediate threat now gone, I stand still for a moment while my brain tries to play catch-up.

Once reality sets back in, I collapse into my chair, free now to let my hands shake all they want.

Looks like my tough bitch skills have grown rusty.

Nico Vitelli hadn’t demanded to see my notes on Maria. He didn’t even ask me for details of our conversations. Instead, he simply disappeared, leaving with nothing but my less-than-convincing promise not to talk. I have this gnawing suspicion that he got far less than he’d intended from our encounter.

And that he’s not done yet.

Not even a full minute later, a knock on my office door jolts me. My body tenses, the brief respite shattered. This is one of the few times I really, really don’t want to be right about Nico Vitelli coming back.

“Soph?” a voice calls through the door. It’s not Nico. It’s Cade.

My heart sinks. My almost-brother also happens to be an FBI agent—an FBI agent whom Nico no doubt just saw walk toward my office. I bet the mafia guy is going to love that.

Freakingwonderful.

I rise and cross the room, opening the door. Relief washes over me when I see that Cade is dressed in casual jeans, scuffed boots, and a worn T-shirt that does little to conceal his two full sleeves of tattoos or his build. He looks more like a club bouncer than an FBI agent.

“Thank God!”

“Soph…” Cade begins, his voice laden with hesitation.

I dismiss his concerns with a wave, sinking back into the chair with forced nonchalance. “Forget it, Cade. It was a stupid, terrible idea, and I know better than to get involved with a client. There’s no need for you to go to Harmony now. My client, she’s...made a different choice.”

She’s now in Nico Vitelli’s clutches. Or under his protection, whatever that means.

“Sophie.” His tone, firmer now, halts me mid-thought, and I’m struck by the intensity in his green eyes—a stark, haunted look I’ve never seen before.

“What’s happened?” The words barely leave my lips before a knot forms in my stomach, a prelude to dread.

“It’s Rafe,” he says, the weight of those words drawing a tight band around my chest.

Rafe, Cade, and I had grown up together, gone to school together, and gotten arrested together. Cade and I had used our time in juvie as a wake-up call. Rafe hadn’t.

I stand and amble to the window, peering out at the parking lot below, seeking solace from the view. I note absently that the black Lambo that stole my spot is now gone. Whatever Cade is about to say, I don’t want to hear it.

Because deep down, I already know.

“He’s dead, Soph.” Cade’s words fall heavy in the room, echoing with a finality that leaves me reeling.

Gone.

Just like that. My gut twists with pain for the wasted potential of a life once so closely intertwined with my own.

God damn you, Rafe.