Page 25 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
I also shouldn’t be walking around in public, not?—
I suck in a sharp breath, the icy air stinging my lungs when realization settles in my chest.
Someone is after me…
Salvatore Ricci.
Even if Quinn killed the man sent to kill me or scare me or whatever, I shouldn’t be out here.
It’s just… I don’t know what to do. I don’t want the Ricci mafia family after me. I don’t want a monster husband, either.
But I have to keep walking, just to make sure that I’m alone.
“You’re not ten. You don’t need to have people around to pretend to feel safe. You’re putting them in danger if you’re in danger,” I mutter quietly to myself.
Besides, I’m pretty damned sure I’m alone.
So I turn and head home. Wherever Quinn is, he’s not following me. Or if he is, I can’t see him. I’ve checked enough times.
And he’s big enough and strong enough to just take me if he wants.
The fluttering in my belly makes me grit my teeth.
When he was on top of me, I could feel… everything. His thick muscles tensing, his cock swelling. Oh my Lord.
My heart pumps harder and I press my fingers against my temples.
Nope. No. Not going there.
But one thought does bounce around in my head, one that doesn’t fit the rest of the puzzle, doesn’t have any answers that satisfy me. He was the Irish man in the alley. The onewho shot Bernardo and started this whole thing. He’s responsible for this hit being put on me.
He doesn’t want to marry me. If he truly wants me dead, he should just leave me on my own. That’d be achieved way more easily than through marriage, if Ricci has anything to say about it. My family has no power; the mafia element is dead and gone.
And Quinn is a man who’ll do whatever he needs for money.
Maybe Uncle Anthony’s richer than I thought. And he still does have control over my inheritance, so that could be a factor.
Or maybe a blood wedding really does mean I’m his property so he’ll get my inheritance when it comes.
I don’t know.
And I don’t care.
This so-called wedding isn’t happening.
I walk faster, my fingers finding my phone and keys in the inner zipped pocket of my coat. I fish out my keys when I get to my apartment door, exhausted from the frenzied thoughts battering my brain.
The soft sound of my key in the lock starts to soothe me as does the slick click. Then I release the second lock and step inside. I close the door, lock it, and then I lean against the painted wood, my shoulders slumping.
But the brief seconds of calm are replaced with an eerie sensation that sends the hairs on the back of my neck springing up. My eyes snap open wide as every nerve ending fires.
There, in the dark, on my sofa, is a figure.
A man.
My heart drums as heat dials up within,flooding my insides.
“Get out.”
