Page 70 of Dirty Heirs

It was hard to make friends when your dad was the most notorious crime boss in the area.

As I approached my neighborhood, the sun disappeared beneath the thick canopy of maple trees. And with each step, I swore someone was behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, anxiety pricking my skin with tiny bumps.

No one was there.

Stop being paranoid.

Since my mother’s brutal death last year, I hadn’t been the same, wondering if I was next. My three older brothers could handle themselves. They were all in their twenties but still lived with Dad and me at the house. They were always there, hovering over me, ensuring I was not the next victim.

Once again, I felt a presence behind me—the unmistakable pounding of feet on the pavement. I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out to still my nerves. This wasn’t the first time someone followed me home, hence the security.

I should have called Thomas. A year of looking over my shoulder should have taught me a lesson.

But I was a thrill-seeker.

I liked the chase.

It got the blood pumping through my veins. Fear made me feel alive and reminded me that I was still here. So I ran down the hill with two more blocks to go, using the decline to gain momentum.

Thankfully, I wasn’t wearing heels and opted for a pair of Chloé ballet flats my mother bought the week of her death. The thin soles were not ideal for a run, and my feet burned as they slapped the pavement.

I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t want to end up like my mother.

At the bottom of the hill, I bolted down the street. The man’s shoes hit the ground hard behind me. Fueled by adrenaline, I hauled ass across Mr. Bannister’s lawn. The old man hated it when people touched his property.

Oh, well.

I’ll apologize later.

He picked up his pace, following me between the houses. My family’s mansion was gated and guarded. If I could make it there, I would be safe. This asshole would be shot on sight, no questions asked.

I glanced over my shoulder to get a look at him. Tall and with short, dark brown hair, he didn’t look familiar. He was bulky in the arms and chest, which I could see beneath his suit jacket.

I was forced to turn in the opposite direction of my house before the man latched onto my arm. A car plowed down the street, slamming on the brakes as he crossed, giving me a lead.

“Hey, asshole,” a man shouted out the window at my attacker.

“Help!” I screamed, hoping the driver would call for the police, but knowing I couldn’t stop without him catching me.

He was so close.

On my tail.

I turned right at the corner of Blakely Drive, praying someone would be outside. It was dinnertime, and Saturdays were typically quiet in my subdivision. Even if my neighbors watched this from their porch, I doubted they would help me.

I was Cian Doyle’s daughter.

They would let me die.

The man reached for my arm, his fingers sliding down my skin. I shoved him away from me, desperate to gain an advantage.

“Help,” I yelled, hoping someone would hear me.

I shouted at the top of my lungs, repeating my plea until I was breathless. My throat burned from the fire spreading through my chest. Knowing the town like the back of my hand gave me a slight advantage. So I cut through the Masons’ backyard and hopped the fence.

“I can do this all day,” the man bellowed in a deep, throaty voice. “Keep running, Ella. I’m not even tired.”

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