Page 32 of What's Left of Us

The guys all protest. “Come on, dude. It’s your big night. None of our schedules will line up again by the time your ass is gone. You’re going to call it early before the party really starts?”

Typically, I’m the last to leave, and it’s not normally willingly. I put up a fight every time a bar closes down or somebody tells me to go home. It was a big source of contention in my last relationship, where things would get heated whenever she’d try to get me out at a reasonable time. I’ll admit, she put up with more than most people would in the six months we were together. I couldn’t blame her for ending things when she did. I needed to grow up, and she needed somebody more stable. That wasn’t me at the time.

I tip the woman who passes me and grab a water before downing at least half of it. “I’d stay but—”

My words are cut short when I see a familiar brunette walk through the door wearing painted-on jeans that sit low on her lean hips and a low-cut top that exposes the curve of her pushed-up breasts.

Damn.She’s prettier than I remember her being last week, if that’s even possible.

“Shit.” Someone beside me whistles. Stiles, I think. “I don’t know who that is, but with legs like that, I think I want to know her.”

Jefferson looks between Georgia and me, an inquisitive brow raised and a smirk curling his lips when he sees how hyper-focused I am on the girl stopping a few feet inside the doors and skeptically staring at the bikers who are drunkenly catcalling her. “I think someone else is thinking the same thing,” he muses, hiding his smile behind his beer glass.

I stand, drumming my hands against the bar top. “I’ll be right back, boys.”

“Whoa.” McAdams halts me, grabbing my arm before I can step forward. “You know who that is, right?”

I don’t answer because I don’t owe him shit. I like McAdams, but he’s a gossip. The more you tell him, the more the rest of the station knows by next shift.

He leans forward, letting go of my arm when he sees the way I glare at his hold. “That’s Georgia Del Rossi.” When I have no reaction, he sighs. “There are rumors that her family’s construction business has ties with…” His brows go up, waiting for me to catch on.

Del Rossi.

Christ, that’s why she sounded familiar.

Didn’t her credit card have Nikolas Del Rossi’s name on it the night we met? I remember hearing mumblings about The DelRossi Group, a local construction business serving downstate New York and Jersey, being loosely associated with some heavy hitters in New York City. Last I knew, there were a few insiders spilling names within the five mafia families, and Del Rossi wasn’t one of them. Since their informant never brought him up, they focused on more important people.

My voice is low enough to stay between us while the others talk about work shit. “Are you really telling methatgirl is connected with a family associated with organized crime?”

He holds up his hands. “It’s what I’ve heard. Nikolas Del Rossi’s former business partner was making waves with some of the bosses in the city while still dabbling with deals down in Atlanta, where their first business was. Guess there were some conflicts of interest between families that got in the way when his contact in New York heard about who he was working with in the South. They didn’t like him outsourcing his business. I don’t know all the details. Ask Beauregard. They’ve been trying to find a way to get Del Rossi since they have his former partner talking to cut himself a deal. From what I gather, they’ve been doing surveillance on him for a couple years to find evidence.”

Beauregard is an investigator who works undercover with a lot of informants. If McAdams heard it from him, it’s the truth. And if they’ve been surveilling them, there’s a good chance Beauregard knows about my personal experience with Nikolas’s daughter.

“I don’t know, man,” I murmur, eyes going to where Georgia shifts on her heels and searches the bar for an empty spot.

She seems too innocent for the kind of lifestyle that comes with ties like that. Sheprovedshe’s innocent in more ways than one the first time we met. Somebody with a family like that could be as soft as her and certainly not as tempting.

Probably against my better judgment, I pat his shoulder. “I’ll take my chances.”

The guys all hoot and holler as I approach Georgia, where she’s stopped, looking around at all the bikers lining the room with tense posture as a couple of them make crude comments and gestures with their hands.

She freezes when she turns to lock eyes on me, hand clenching her purse strap when I slide a hand into my pocket in front of her.

I ignore the idiots I call my friends who are making a scene. “I was hoping to see you again.”

Her throat bobs with a thick swallow, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s nervousness in her eyes. Did she want to see me too? Or is that hopeful thinking?

“I wanted to apologize for the other night,” I go on when she doesn’t reply. “I had no idea you were a…” Her cheeks turn pink, so I don’t finish the sentence. “I can usually read people better.”

When she lifts her gaze, I’m pierced with a set of narrow golden-amber eyes. “And what read do you have on me now?”

“You’re upset,” I state matter-of-factly, scoping out her dilated pupils. Internally, I grin. “But you’re also turned on. I bet you’re thinking about that night right now. Tell me, Georgia. What was your favorite position?”

Georgia straightens, the heels on her feet making her almost come up to my six-foot-one height. “We’re in public.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

She doesn’t answer, but she does turn red.

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