Page 4 of Naughty Santa Daddy

Just as she makes it to the threshold, she looks back at me and pulls her fingers across her lips like she’s closing a zipper.

North Pole, my ass.

Someone made sure that Alex was trained to be aware of her surroundings and protect herself; if she thought to tell me she’d keep her mouth shut, it sure as hell wasn’t from law enforcement.

Chapter 2

Dawn Sullivan

Dawn Sullivan

Alessandra (Alex)

I frown as I reach the main floor of the parking garage and slip through the wide double doors that I assume will take me to the hospital entrance. Lost his wallet, my ass. He is leaving. There is no doubt in my mind. Sneaking out to avoid the mayhem and police while I am about to be stuck playing fifty questions with some of Bama’s finest—something I really don’t need to be doing.

The bastard.

“Miss. Miss, are you okay?”

I swing my gaze toward a nurse rushing my way. Concern and terror are prominent in her dark blue eyes, but there is also determination. As if she is going to help me, no matter what. It crosses my mind that she is a true first responder, one who cares and will jump into hell for others without thinking of the consequences to herself.

Suddenly, I feel a hand close over my bicep, halting my steps forward. I stiffen when a microphone is shoved into my face, and I can hear the excitement in the man’s voice when he says, “Ma’am, were you out with the others? Did you see what happened? Can you tell us?”

Shit. This isn’t good. I may have changed my name, but everything else about me is pretty much the same as it was four years ago. I still have thick, wavy black hair that I refuse to color, wide, dark brown eyes because there is no way I am wearing contacts, and light, olive-colored skin. Same height, a few more curves, similar clothing style.

I really do not want to have my image splashed all over the news networks. Not that it matters if my family sees me. They all know exactly where I am, even if I made the decision to distance myself from them and their not-so-ethical business practices. The problem is, their enemies have no idea that I now live just a seventeen-hour drive down the coast. I disappeared a long time ago, but even though I’ve been out of that life for years now, I am still the daughter of the head of the notorious Italian crimefamigliain New York.

All it will take is one look, one person to recognize me as the mafia princess I was born to be, and Alabama will be flooded with those enemies, each vying to be the one to either kidnap or kill Lorenzo Allegrini’s only child.

“How many gunmen were there? Did you see if there were any casualties?”

“Please, come with me so I can check your injury,” the kind nurse says, interrupting the reporter as she easily slides my arm from the man’s fingers and quickly guides me away and into an open triage room, shutting the door behind us. “Have a seat on the bed so I can get a look at that cut.”

My hand goes to my cheek and comes away with dark red blood staining my fingertips. I’d almost forgotten about it, the pain being minimal before and my mind on other things—like guns and sex.

“I’m fine,” I say absently, my mind going back to the sounds of gunshots and screams of the other volunteers. I wonder if my co-workers made it. “It’s just a scratch. You need to help the others.”

“Ma’am, do you have anyone we can call for you?”

Goliath. It’s the only name that comes to mind as I wipe my fingers on my black leggings. Of course, that’s his road name. I have no idea what his real name is. Or even what the name of his MC is. The only thing I really know is the size of his dick. That, I was up close and personal with.

I shake my head. “No…”

Before I can say more, there is a sharp knock on the door, and then it’s shoved open, and a large cop with some of the widest shoulders I’ve ever seen is stalking into the room. He is huge, but not as big as the man I just spent the best fifteen minutes of my life with in the back of an old truck, with just a camper shell shielding us from view while fiery hell rained down around the hospital courtyard.

“I need to take your statement,” he says abruptly. His face is set in what I assume is a permanent scowl, and I shiver at the distrusting, angry look in his gaze.

I tilt my head to the side, letting my eyes trail over him to where his name and rank are displayed on his uniform. “Of course, Officer Templeton.”

“Your name?”

“Alex Bianchi.”

“Alex?” His voice is scornful, a slight sneer on his lips.

“Yes, Alex. You have a problem with that?” Once again, my damn New York accent is slipping out, but the officer’s attitude is pissing me off, and we haven’t even been talking for a full minute yet. When he just stares at me, one eyebrow cocked, I sigh deeply. “My name is Alessandra Bianchi.”

“Age?”

---