The Woman in the Trunk - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,9

my father, who'd been pissed about the car more than anything, then I found myself a teacher who made sure I would never be that useless again in a fight.

It was around that same time that I had started taking on more family obligations, which meant things like vacations were part of my past.

Hell, the year before, I'd worked every weekend, every major holiday. This year looked to be a repeat of the same thing.

Maybe the man at the top got to take it easy, but those closest to him had to bust ass to keep things running smoothly, to keep him in the lap of luxury. That was especially true when your job involved dozens—if not hundreds—of people who would gladly see every member of your family with slit throats, bleeding out on the doorstep as they moved into your house, your position of power.

But as I was driving into Cape May, an area that was overwhelmingly a vacation spot, I could feel the itch to get away, to take a day, to sit down on my own couch for more than five minutes; to hop a plane and say "fuck it all" to everything back home for a week or two.

I couldn't imagine how I would fill that time.

Maybe get some sleep for a change.

But that wasn't in the cards, I reminded myself, turning off the main drag by the shore to do a drive past the house, wanting to learn the layout, to be able to get in and out easier when the sun went down and the town quieted.

I didn't anticipate how late things would stay lively, leaving me twiddling my fucking thumbs until after three in the morning, which gave me a very small window before sun up to get the girl out and leave town unseen.

The ranch-style home didn't have any yard to speak of, but boasted an enviable side driveway, one of only three houses on the entire street that had one.

Cutting the lights, I backed in, so the neighbor didn't see me, coming to a stop with my trunk right near the side door. Climbing out, I popped the trunk, grabbed a lock-pick set, and worked on the kitchen door.

Why Leon Lastra kept a vacation home and didn't bother to protect it from even the most novice of petty thieves was beyond me as I opened the lock and moved inside. Who didn't at least have a deadbolt on a house where they only spent a couple days every year?

Though, that said, Leon Lastra was, by all accounts, a fucking moron, so nothing he did—or didn't do—should have surprised me.

The house itself was dated, in desperate need of a renovation. And a part of me was a bit pissed off that he hadn't put the work in, then used the house as a rental to help bring in the money he owed us. It didn't take rocket science to think of the idea. But Leon was never much of a thinker. People who had a good head on their shoulders didn't typically end up indebted to the mob.

We could have taken the house, instead of some convoluted plan to kidnap the bastard's poor daughter. But my father wasn't a fan of hearing my ideas.

Reaching into my jacket, I drew out my gun, hoping I wouldn't have to use it, that Leon would be smart enough not to charge at me.

A quick search said all the rooms were empty. But the car outside said someone was around.

Which meant that the girl or her father, or both, were in the master.

When I got in, though, all I found was a woman on the bed in a pair of short shorts and a tank, her leg cocked up, her long, dark hair fanned out over her back and shoulders.

Alone.

I moved into a corner, getting into the shadows, waiting to make sure Leon hadn't just walked around the corner to pick something up from the store or something.

I felt very much like a creep as I stood there, gaze moving over the sleeping girl's body, taking in the soft jut of hip, the round ass just begging for a slap, those fit but thick thighs, giving me ideas about getting leg-locked with my face buried between—all causing an inappropriate and distracting hard-on build.

Half an hour passed of nothing but the restless dreams of the girl in the bed, likely brought on by the fact that the room was hot as fucking hell, and the ceiling fan