Page 6 of The Woman with the Wallet

High cheekbones flushed pink from the cold, plump lips, and eyes that I couldn’t make out, but they seemed light from far away.

She was the kind of gorgeous that a man would change his plans for just on the off chance she might agree to get a cup of coffee with him.

Any other fucking day, I would have walked right up to her, tried to get a feel for whether she was receptive to talking or not. Get some food with her. Spend the night trapped between her thighs.

But this one day, all I could do was admire her from a distance.

I could have sworn she looked right at me at one point. The kick to the gut sure felt like a mutual moment of acknowledgment, of mutual attraction.

But she just as casually looked away, flipping the hood of the sweatshirt under her jacket up over her head, hiding her hair and most of her face when she turned in my direction, hunched forward against the cold, and started walking.

She was so busy looking down that she didn’t seem to notice me as she got closer that she was plowing right in my direction.

I couldn’t seem to make myself do the gentlemanly thing and move out of the way, though.

Nope. I just let her pretty ass plow right into me.

I’d forgotten all about my coffee until I felt it sloshing down my hand, my suit jacket, and onto my new shoes.

“Fuck,” I said, too distracted for a second to realize that the woman had just… kept walking.

No asking if I was alright.

No apology.

Nothing.

I turned, watching her as she continued walking like nothing at all happened.

Fuck if that didn’t make me all the more attracted to her.

Hell, I almost turned and ran after her.

Almost.

But the coffee was literally starting to freeze on my skin thanks to the cold air, so instead, I tossed the cup and duckedinto the closest café to go rinse the shit off of my hands, suit, and shoes.

It wasn’t until I was making my way out of the restroom and thinking about grabbing something to take with me to eat later, or on the way, that I realized what had happened.

When I reached for my wallet.

And found it gone.

She hadn’t put her hood up and ducked her head to resist the cold. She’d done it so I couldn’t see her up close, so I couldn’t identify her in a lineup.

And she hadn’t rammed into me because she wasn’t watching where she was going. She did it so she could use the impact and confusion to reach her fucking hand into my pocket and jack my wallet.

Honestly, if it was any other day—any fucking day of the week, month, year—I would have thrown my head back and laughed. I would have nodded in approval for her quick hands and her steel balls.

I would have called to cancel my cards and shrugged off the loss of cash. Gotten myself a new ID.

No big deal.

But this wasn’t any day.

This was the one goddamn day when I had something irreplaceable in that wallet, something that I was going to use to secure my place as a capo in the Costa Family.

“Fuck fuckfuck,” I hissed, rushing out of the door of the shop and making my way back toward where the run-in happened.

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