Page 17 of Filthy Little Games

His voice sounds slightly calmer, his eyes a little less hostile, as if he’s genuinely curious, and we’re just two people having a normal conversation without a guillotine hanging over my head.

And while I know I should fear him, the man people in the city refer to as the angel of death, it’s hard to fear someone so damn attractive. The “angel” part of his nickname is well deserved. Creed Ferraro is one beautiful bastard. I thought so the other night, and that opinion is reinforced by his close proximity tonight.

Shoving all those thoughts out the window, I shrug my shoulders. “In case you climbed through my window one night, and I needed to try to shift all the blame to that stupid piece of shit?”

His eyes narrow. “Cute.”

I’m actually not lying. After the raid, I even considered taking the messages straight to Ferraro as an apology, but I was afraid he’d kill me on sight before I could say a word. Hoping Creed Ferraro would kill Izaiah was a longshot, one I couldn’t risk if it didn’t work out. Rumors say the Rovina and Ferraro families are supposedly tight allies.

The two of us stare at each other. I’m trying to figure out his next move, and if I had to guess, he’s trying to decide if he’s going to kill me right where I stand, smushed against the wall, wearing nothing but a towel.

Not that Ferraro seems the least bit tempted by what’s underneath the cloth, which is unfortunate. I’m used to using my body as a distraction for assholes, but this mobster only has murder on his mind.

A sudden booming thud echoes through my skull hard enough to rattle my entire body. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s someone knocking on the other side of my door. Ferraro’s men come to help him kill me and dispose of my body?

Leaning closer, so close his open suit jacket brushes against my towel, and I get a whiff of his rich, clean scent, the mob boss whispers in my ear, “Guess who that is.”

I gasp in understanding, just before his annoying voice shouts, “Open the fucking door, Zara! What’s so damn important it couldn’t wait?”

Ferraro must have texted Izaiah from my phone and invited him over. How ironic that he’s using the brazen asshole’s own tactic against him.

Lowering his voice even more, Ferraro says, “I’m going to wait in the bathroom while you get him to confess to everything.”

“Could I at least put some clothes on first?” I implore him in a rush.

He glances down at the towel I’m clutching, as if seeing it for the first time. “No.”

With that, he steps away from me.

I suck in a rush of air as I watch him retrieve his gun from the sofa before slipping into the bathroom. He leaves the door open but flips the light off.

Knowing he’s in there, waiting to pounce on Izaiah, makes me ecstatic. Creed Ferraro is most likely going to kill Izaiah Rovina, something I’ve dreamed of doing myself for years, even if his death wouldn’t really solve any of my problems.

And for once, being manipulated by a mafioso doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

Ferraro is trusting me not to give him away, which makes me feel like I actually have some power for the first time in my life. He must have realized that I hate Izaiah enough or know him well enough to realize Izaiah is no match forAccabadore.After all, Isaved the texts from Izaiah, proving his guilt and was quick to throw him under the bus. Would I do that if I gave a shit about the man?

It just sucks that once Ferraro kills Izaiah, I probably won’t get to live long enough to spit on his grave.

Behind me, the asshole pounds on the door again loud enough to shake it, no doubt waking up all my neighbors.

Closing my eyes, I take a slow deep breath and then spin around to unlock the bolt and chain with a slightly shaky hand.

God, I don’t even know what the text Ferraro sent says, so I’ll just have to wing this conversation.

As soon as I turn the doorknob, Izaiah pushes past me and into my apartment. He’s dressed down in jeans and a tee, as if he’s given up trying to look the part of his filthy rich mafia father’s heir.

“What’s so important you couldn’t say it over the phone?” he asks while I shut and lock the door. “And why the hell did you tell me to park half a mile down the road?”

Ferraro is staying one step ahead if he told him not to park in the apartment lot.

Trying to think just as fast, I tell him, “I think someone has been following me.”

“What? Who? What do they look like?” he demands.

“I-I couldn’t see them. They were in an SUV with dark tinted windows.” I decide to keep the description vague. And it works.

“What kind of SUV? Was it a silver Maserati?”

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