Page 38 of The Woman with the Wallet

God.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Maybe Megs was right; it had been too long since I’d been with anyone. I was thirsting after the guy who held my life in his hands.

Because as much as he’d been good to me so far, I could never lose sight of the fact that he was a member of the mafia, that he wasn’t even a capo, let alone the boss. Which meant that, while Miko was kind, that his bosses might not be. Orders could come down at any moment to take me out.

I couldn’t forget that.

The problem was, my body just didn’t want to get that memo as I stood there, my thighs tensed to try to ease the ache growing between them.

Then he had to go and walk into his closet and, with his back to me, whip off that towel and give me a view of his perfectly sculpted ass.

The most fucked-up part, though? That was how much I was just praying he might turn to the side and remove any further speculation. Even if, objectively, I had seen the outline of his cock through that damn towel. It wasn’t good enough. Thatslutty little voice in the back of my head wanted to see the full monty.

Before he could catch me peeking like a creep, I let my gaze fall to my feet, observing how threadbare my socks were getting while the sizzle of attraction coursed through me as Miko got himself dressed.

Then, instead of getting right to work, annoyed that I’d wasted his time by passing out for so long, he went on to insist he feed me first.

There was this strange, not unpleasant, weight pressing on my chest at that, then spreading outward until it enveloped me completely, this unexpected blanket of comfort that I wasn’t sure I’d ever experienced before.

The closest I could claim to have gotten was that tingly feeling I got each time I got a good paycheck, something that offered me a sense of security that so much of my early life had been lacking.

It was similar, but not quite the same.

And the uncertainty of it made me tamp it down until I could figure it out.

Half an hour later, we were sharing a thick Sicilian pie that made me want to moan, even if the crispy edges felt like swallowing glass with how inflamed my throat still felt.

I had to admit that with some sleep and a full stomach, I was feeling a hell of a lot more like myself. So much so that by the time Miko had served me a hot coffee—bringing with it that damn blanket feeling again—and produced the laptop to look at images, I felt ready to potentially face the bastard who’d put his hands on me, who’d stolen the sense of security I’d felt inside my own home.

“Alright. This is as far as I’ve gotten. I am considering there is a chance it isn’t one of these people, but possibly someone associated with them,” Miko told me as he placed the laptopon his leg and started to click through the many images he had compiled.

I expected to have that big a-ha moment you saw on TV shows. When the victim flipped through to the right page to find her attacker staring back.

But it never happened.

There wasn’t even that little uneasy feeling in my stomach that saidmaybe that one.

“He’s not here,” I said once we toggled through them all twice.

“I guess that would have been too easy, right?” Miko asked, shooting me a small smile as he clapped the laptop lid closed.

“How the hell are you not losing your shit right now?”

To that, Miko shrugged as he placed the laptop on the end table. “I would be if this was a job one of the bosses put me on. But this was my own job. I put up my own money. So while it fucking sucks, I’m not risking my future.”

“Are you allowed to do that? Work jobs without asking?”

“It’s actually encouraged. The more of an earner you are, the more chances you get Made. Or if you are already Made, the better your chances of moving up in the ranks.”

“What are you?”

“Soldier.”

“Which is…”

“The first rung of the Made man ladder. Below us are associates. Directly above, caporegime. Or capo.”

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