Inevitable - Kristen Granata Page 0,1

mine. I’m going to take his empire and build my own, right on top of his grave.”

I shudder at how psychotic he sounds. I suppose years of obsessing over something will do that to a man.

Without another word, I take the envelope from him and stalk out of his office, making sure to slam the door closed behind me.

He hates it when I do that.

I walk back to my apartment, hoping the crisp autumn air will soothe the years of pent-up frustration and resentment boiling inside my gut.

I used to love living in Brooklyn. It’s like living in Manhattan without the expensive price tag. Then Dad moved his office less than a mile away, because God forbid I have anything that’s truly mine.

When I arrive home, I swipe the bottle of Jack Daniels from my kitchen counter before collapsing onto the couch, and flip open the file in my lap.

The headshot captures my attention in an instant, a photo paperclipped to the inside cover.

Long, raven-colored hair frames her perfect heart-shaped face. With porcelain skin and plump pink lips, she’s a natural beauty. She’s covered up in a cap and gown, the picture taken from her high school graduation last year. To the untrained eye, she looks like any other pretty face.

But I’ve been trained to look deeper.

Her dark eyes stare up at me, and I spot a playfulness in them. Coupled with the way her lips are curved into a smirk, it’s almost as if she’s daring you to do something. There’s an edge to her, trouble brewing just beneath the surface. And the longer I stare at her picture, the more I want to know.

Evangeline Montalbano.

Pretty name. Nineteen years-old. Born and raised in Manhattan, a New York native like me. I peruse the rest of the information in her file and then I groan. She’s involved in multiple charities, and spends her free time shopping and partying with her elite friends.

I tip the bottle back, letting the whiskey slide down my throat. Rich bitches like Evangeline are all the same. They use charity work to hide the fact that they’re stuck-up and self-absorbed. Can’t blame them, I suppose. They’ve had everything handed to them. This Park Avenue princess wouldn’t know a hard-days’ work if it bit her on her undoubtedly perfect Pilates-formed ass. Her greatest hardship in life was probably a hangnail.

But this job isn’t about her.

Evangeline’s daddy owns a multi-million-dollar corporation. Anthony Montalbano is one of the richest men in the city. He also used to be my father’s best friend.

According to Dad, Anthony unexpectedly pulled his money out of the business they’d started after college, and ran off with Dad’s girlfriend. It was a lifetime ago, but you’d better believe my father held onto it. He holds a grudge like a Pitbull in a tug-of-war match.

All Dad talks about is how he was betrayed, how it should’ve been him with the million-dollar company instead of bill collectors and a dead wife.

To him, this isn’t just a job. It’s personal.

This is revenge.

My instructions in Dad’s plan are clear: Pose as Evangeline’s bodyguard. Tail her, night and day, and infiltrate her home. Collect any and all information about Anthony Montalbano and his company. Dig up dirt, uncover skeletons in the closet. Anything my father can use for blackmail.

Sounds simple enough. But I’m left with one question as I dial my father’s number and press my phone to my ear.

“Graham,” he answers. “I take it you’ve looked over the girl’s file.”

“How are we going to convince her father to hire me as her bodyguard?”

My father snickers, and a chill runs through me. “Oh, we’re going to be very convincing.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I sigh, pulling the wool ski mask down over my face. This is a new low for me.

“You ready?” Tommy asks.

“As if I have a choice.”

Tommy’s gloved-hand pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, G-man. Clemmons and I will do all the work. You’re just along for the ride.”

“Why, exactly? Why does my father want me here?”

He shrugs and tugs his mask into place. “I don’t get paid enough to ask questions.”

And he’s not smart enough to ask the right ones.

Dad pays these guys to do his dirty work. His lackeys. All brawn and no brains.

Clemmons glares at me in the rearview mirror. “Just don’t speak. The girl can’t recognize your voice. Your father will have our asses if we fuck this up.”

I’m well-aware. “Let’s just get this over with.”

As if on cue, the glass door swings open and