The Woman at the Docks - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,7

tapping his gun, "and we can figure something out."

I didn't know how to answer him.

Because, yes, I was in distress, as much as it pained me to admit that.

And, yes, I was in over my head.

But I also doubted I could trust this man.

Because if he was involved with what I knew he was involved with, then he had no good nature to appeal to. He certainly wasn't going to help me steal from him, take money out of his pocket.

No.

I was on my own in this.

And men with poker faces like his couldn't be trusted.

"I appreciate your offer of assistance, Mr. Grassi, but I don't need it. I am going to ask you to leave, or I am going to start screaming."

To that, his lips curved upward.

"Do you want to bet that no one would come to save you?" he asked, making me stiffen.

Maybe I had underestimated the power the mob still had in certain parts of this country.

Now that I thought about it, it was entirely possible that he had his men stationed around, that they had the ability to keep anyone from stepping in.

"Stay off my docks, Romy," Luca demanded, unfolding from the chair, moving across the room toward me, stopping near my shoulder. Up close, he seemed even taller than across the room. And there was the lingering scent of some spicy cologne clinging to his suit. It was ridiculous, but I found myself taking a deep breath, breathing it in, approving of it. "This is your first and only warning."

With his intense gaze on me, with his hulking body seeming to steal all the air from the room—and my lungs—I was finding thoughts and words hard to string together.

Taking a deep breath, I swallowed hard, barely recognizing my voice—low, airless—when I spoke. "And if I don't?"

"You don't want to know the answer to that."

With that, he moved out into the hallway, not even bothering to tuck the gun away.

I managed to slide the chain and wrap my belt around the bar again before I completely lost my shit, sliding down the wall, knees curled to chest, trying to remind myself that I could do this, that I would do this. Regardless of the consequences.

"Get it together," I snapped at myself, disgusted with myself, forcing myself to climb off the floor, clean up the mess I'd made, drink my juice and eat my dry cereal.

Common sense said I needed to lay low for a couple of days, let security get lax again, allow Luca Grassi to believe his threats had worked, that I had gone back to California.

The problem was, this was a time-sensitive matter. I couldn't just hide away in this hotel room for a few days.

I had to be back on the pier that night.

And I had to try not to get caught.

Chapter Three

Luca

"New York isn't happy," my father told us, moving to sit down at the table at the back of our family restaurant, Famiglia, whiskey in a glass catching the soft overhead light.

Everything was bouncing with energy around us.

The bartender's knives tapped the cutting boards as they sliced fruit for the drinks. The hostesses made reservations, answered the phones. The serving staff and bussers rushed around dressed all in black, doing side work, prepping for the shift ahead.

Their practiced efficiency made my slow, sleep-deprived brain feel lazy and useless as I sat in the high-backed booth, one of several that lined the back of the restaurant, allowing privacy to couples or—in our case—family meetings.

Matteo was nowhere to be found, which had ceased to surprise me a decade ago. When God was divvying out the work ethic genes, I got all of them, and Matteo had to go without. He handled his niche—albeit very loosely—and left all the heavy lifting to me. And our father, to some extent.

So this family meeting was my father, me, Leandro, Dario, and my cousin Lucky. He and Matteo were the same age, had been close when they were younger, but where Matteo shirked off his responsibilities, Lucky dove headfirst into the family business, always looking for opportunities to prove himself. He'd once shown up to a meeting three hours out of the hospital with a bullet hole still fresh in his shoulder.

Tall and fit, he notoriously dressed all in black. That choice, paired with his jet hair and inky-dark eyes, gave him a menacing appearance. If you saw him darkening your door, you knew you'd fucked up.

"Is New York ever happy?" Lucky asked, leaning back, unconcerned with