Faked A Dark Mafia Romance - Vanessa Waltz Page 0,28
grandness a harsh reminder that I’d never afford the tuition. Luckily, Michael footed the bill, but I used as little of his money as possible.
Working as a barista was all right. Occasionally, I dealt with frazzled grad students crying over their thesis papers between wiping tables, steaming milk, and drowning shots of espresso in flavored syrups. The summer job distracted me from my brother’s death, Mom’s chain-smoking, and the danger on the streets. Without it, I spent too much time cooped up in my apartment.
Staying busy was the antidote to a troubled mind. I only wanted to worry about whether I should take Chemistry or Physics to satisfy my physical science requirement.
Someone rapped on the counter.
I beamed at the customer, a lithe man in his thirties who carried himself in a way that said that he’d made it. My gaze slipped over his Adam’s apple to a wide jaw and full lips, which pulled into a thick smirk when I met his sparkling blue eyes.
I studied his tattooed, muscled arms and leather cut. My heart thundered as I read the small white patch—president and Legion MC. A ball throbbed low in my throat.
Not a coincidence.
“Mister President.”
“I don't know about mister. Seems overly formal.” He leaned over and offered me a hand. “Killian.”
“Liana.” I shook it, my eyes dry from not blinking. “Nice to meet you.”
His powerful grip swallowed mine. Everything about Killian was too much, starting from the sensual flame in his smile, to his friendly touch. I gave him a pointed look, and he released me.
I stopped myself from wiping my hands on the nearest towel.
“You're cute in the apron,” he murmured. “But I would’ve thought Michael treated his sister better.”
My chest tightened. “I chose this job.”
“So you want to earn minimum wage?” Killian’s lips twitched as his voice took on an oily quality. “Boy, your brother should get a refund on that pricey Ivy League tuition. What are they teaching you?”
Ice touched my spine. “How do you know that?”
“I'm familiar with everybody, Liana. Especially you. I’ve watched you for a while. You run the treadmill every morning at eight in your Allston-Brighton flat. Your favorite pizza joint is around the block. You like hanging out with your friend Queenie. You’re single, and, rumor has it, untouched.”
My creep radar shot to the stratosphere. His hungry stare landed on intimate places. I shivered as though stripped naked.
“I was going to kill you,” he confessed, stunning me. “You were supposed to be retribution for the six guys your brother killed a year ago. I had you in my sights. Almost pulled the trigger.”
I snapped to attention.
All that registered in my brain was the jaunty French music breezing from the speakers, which dissolved into a saxophone cover of “La Vie En Rose.”
“What stopped you?” I said.
“That's an excellent question. I'm still figuring that out.”
He’d scared me with the dossier of information, the stalking, and watching me through windows. I needed to buy curtains—fuck curtains—I’d move to a high rise like Vinn’s.
This had to be a joke.
“Did you get it out of your system?”
His eyebrows knitted and he pulled back his head.
“Scaring the shit out of me,” I added for clarification. “Order a coffee, or I’m calling the police.”
Not like they’d do anything.
He glanced at the menu and lowered his voice. “I’ll have a steamy twelve-ounce of Italian roast. Don’t need any sugar, but you can kiss the cup for me.”
“Buddy, ask for her number and leave,” a heavyset customer hollered. “Let’s go!”
Killian’s eyes flashed with a deadly arrogance as he glanced at the growing line behind him. His lips yanked over a wolfish smile as he flipped off the man, who cringed, turned tail, and jogged toward the exit.
When Killian swiveled back, his jacket drifted over his waist, revealing a gun.
Shit.
A lump swelled in my throat. My thoughts staggered in a thousand different directions. “Look. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Well, that makes two of us. Meet me there and bring me something sweet.” He slid away, winking. “Besides yourself, I mean.”
The fuck?
He strolled to the tables where he sat, his leather and jeans looking out of place among the students tapping on laptops. Nobody paid him any attention as he lounged there, bumping his knee to the happy music.
What should I do?
Vinn’s warning pitted my gut with dread, because this guy was nuts, and not leaving without me. Beyond the glass walls, chrome winked on the sidewalk. My bodyguard was gone—probably held at gunpoint—crap. I reached for the panic button, hesitating. Calling