The Woman at the Docks - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,4

out of it, then gotten back out before it mattered if they saw me on camera, before it could have led to some nasty interrogations. Or worse. This was the mob we were talking about, after all.

And I was nobody but a stranger invading their turf.

I'd done some research on the plane ride back from Venezuela, figuring it was smart to know what you were getting into if you were going to be doing something illegal, something as dangerous as encroaching on organized crime territory.

The docks, as they were commonly referred to, even if the official name for the place was the Central Jersey Port, had been owned and operated by the New Jersey Cosa Nostra for thirty-nine years, having been purchased at an impressive bid by Antony Grassi.

There wasn't much to be found around about the Grassi family, unlike their connections to the Five Families—the New York City—mafia, they'd managed to stay relatively out of the papers, out of the prison system. So there wasn't much to report. Though there had been some chatter about missing persons who'd had mob ties. Anyone who knew anything about the mafia knew that there were no such things as 'missing persons,' just bodies that had yet to be found.

Being on their docks without permission could easily warrant an execution-style murder then a body tossed into the ocean.

Cement boots, as the saying went.

I wasn't afraid of dying.

I was afraid of dying before doing what I needed to get done.

That was why I wasn't deterred.

Even though my heart was threatening to break out of the confines of my chest as I drove down the highway away from the docks, trying to put some distance between the man who'd been right on my heels and me.

I'd been running marathons since I was fifteen. It said something that he—a man who had some weight on me—could keep up when I was going at full tilt. That said, that weight was clearly all muscle, judging by the way that suit hung on him.

It was a nice suit, too. Black, perfectly tailored, a pristinely pressed white shirt underneath, cufflinks at his wrists. When his arms were swinging, I caught sight of a platinum wristband. One I knew cost more than some people made in a year.

I knew a boss when I saw one.

Though, this man was too young to be Antony Grassi.

Apparently, he had a son.

One who looked like he was carved by one of the masters with his wide forehead, stern brows, sharp cheekbones, and cutting jaw.

Wrap that up with some tanned skin, chocolatey brown eyes that were framed by thick lashes that matched his dark brown, nearly black hair?

Then you had some idea about what this man looked like.

Even running, sweating, trying to chase me down so he could possibly murder me, his image was burned in my mind in the seconds before I shot out of the parking lot.

I took a few deep breaths, trying to bring some calm to my system, climbing out of my tiny little hatchback rental behind the hotel, wedging it behind the waste and recycling dumpsters. I knew it wouldn't be a problem, because when I caught the front desk clerk sneaking out for a smoke and asked, he'd told me, "I don't get paid enough to give a shit."

So that was where I left it.

Out of sight.

So that even if this Grassi guy had his lackeys doing a sweep of the town, he would never find me.

The hotel wasn't much to speak of. A tan stone building with an ostentatious overhang as if anyone staying here actually had a car service to drop them off.

It wasn't a hellhole. But if you were going to come this way, most people would stay at one of the fancy hotels closer to the shore. And this hotel acted like it understood its clientele were simply businessmen and women or visiting family members who would rather saw off a limb than sleep on the pull-out couch of their relative's living room, metal bars poking into their backs, some toilet running down the hall, everything smelling strange and un-homey.

At least hotels had that sterile scent of bleach and industrial cleaners, real mattresses, and someone to call and bitch to if something wasn't working in your room.

I chose it because it was the hotel with the best view of the port if you got a room high enough and in the back. Which I'd done.

"Home sweet home," I grumbled as I opened the door, being