Page 101 of That Girl is Trouble

Me: About to start work.

Axe: You don’t work on Wednesdays, and I know you’re not at the Garden.

Right, because he’d be able to see me, with all that spying he’s been doing that he won’t tell me about.

Me: Stalking me?

Axe: Always. Where are you?

Kat: Wouldn’t you like to know?

Axe: Kat.

Axe: Answer my question.

Axe: Or I’ll come looking. And we both know how that would end.

Kat: Relax, Donovan. It’s just this private party thing for my boss.

Axe: Rossi?

Kat: Yes.

My phone rings in my hand. I watch it, letting it ring until it stops altogether. But a second later, it starts up again, and Axe’s name flashes across my screen.

“I said I’m working.”

“And I said Vic Rossi is dangerous,” Axe grits.

“It’s just work, Axe, okay?”

“Guess it shouldn’t fucking surprise me. I tell you not to do something, not to go near someone, and you do the exact fucking opposite. Where are you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m coming to fucking get you.”

“Katherine?”

I jerk my head up at the sound of my name.

Vic Rossi descends the concrete steps leading down from his front door. I pull my phone away from my ear and hit End as Axe’s angry voice echoes from the speaker, then shove it into my purse.

“Mr. Rossi.”

He’s wearing a white button-down, black slacks, and loafers. A gold chain glints from his neck, and his eyes drop to my chest. He’s no doubt searching for his ring. Instead of wearing it like he commanded, I tucked it inside my pocket, along with the necklace he gave me.

He frowns as he approaches, stopping just in front of me and pressing a finger at the crook of my collarbones. “Where’s my ring?” he asks.

“Oh, it’s…” I dig around in my pocket and hold it out. “Here. You should have it back.”

“Nonsense,” he says, taking it from my hand and stepping closer. I have a strong urge to step back, but I cement my feet in place and regard him carefully as he drapes it around my neck and clasps it in place. “There. Much better. Come with me. You’re late.”

He leads me past a dozen or so very expensive-looking cars, up the concrete steps, and through his front door. I welcome the reprieve from the cool air when I cross the threshold, but the sudden warmth doesn’t rid me of the goose bumps that cover my skin, and it doesn’t calm the trepidation that has the hairs standing upright at the back of my neck. I pull the long trench I’m wearing to cover my usual outfit tighter around my middle as I study the place.

It’s a lot of glass. And white. White walls, white marble floors, white paintings. The lights are too bright, too… clinical, maybe, and the big arching ceilings make it feel more like a museum than a home. I think I might hate it here.

Rossi pauses, looking back at me with a smirk. “Impressed?”

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