Page 12 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

It wouldn’t do any good for her to be stuck in that mindset. Not when I needed to figure out what the fuck was going on, who was after her, and why.

“Jesus,” she hissed as she stepped into the hotel room.

All they had left was the presidential suite.

Which meant it was going for a couple grand a night. However, one look around said it was worth every last penny of that.

We walked into a massive open room with a sunken living room space with seating for at least twelve, a massive glass globe chandelier, a framed television, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of the city.

To the left appeared to be a full kitchen with a bar-height island and seats.

To the right was a half bath then the bedroom with more city views. And, I imagined, a spa-like bathroom, given the price of this place.

“There’s a bar,” I said, waving toward the cabinet in the living room. “Want a drink?”

“If I have to deal with you? Fuck yes,” she said, hugging her arms around herself, clearly still feeling vulnerable even if she was snarking at me.

“What’s your poison?” I asked, opening the cabinet, finding ribbed glasses and a collection of any kind of liquor she could want.

“Whiskey,” she said, making my brows raise.

“Whiskey?” I clarified.

“What? Because I’m a girl, I have to like wine or margaritas?” she asked. “I mean, I do. But this is a whiskey situation,” she added, shrugging.

I grabbed two glasses with heavy pours and walked over toward one of the couches, putting the drinks down on the coffee table, and waiting for her to do the same.

She paused, reaching behind her back to pull off her apron, then making her way across from me, reaching for her glass, but only cradling it between her hands.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, shaking her head.

“I thought you were protected because of your old man.”

“I usually am,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on. The neighborhood has changed.”

“Power vacuum,” I murmured as I took a sip of my drink.

“Yeah. But then we had someone move in from Philly. Dealing Tranq,” she said, making me wince. “I mean, I’m liberal about some drugs. I’ve never shied away from a joint or some edibles. I even still buy from my dealer even though it’s legal now. And I’m all for mushrooms going legal. They’re killer for helping migraines and some psychological conditions. But the shit that makes your flesh rot off?” she said, doing a little full-body shiver.

“Seen that firsthand, huh?” I asked, grimacing.

“Yeah,” she said, finally raising her drink to take a sip.

“So these guys dealing Tranq, they’re not under your father’s control?” I asked.

From what she said last time, her old man was a crooked as fuck. But in exchange for looking the other way to the actions of certain criminal organizations, he demanded safety for his only child. Even if, from the sound of things, their relationship was strained.

“The thing was… they seemed to be. They don’t seem happy about it. And do shit like deal close to the door to scare off my customers. But they stayed out. And these are real assholes. They beat the shit out of a friend of mine the other day because she confronted them about tossing their supply in her truck.”

“Have they ever threatened you before?”

“No. And I mean… I didn’t see anyone. I can’t say if it was even that crew.”

“You think it was just random guys?” I asked, dubious. “Doing it for, what, the thrill?”

“No. It had to be some sort of organization. Most of what they were saying was just… twisted. But one of them made a comment about shutting me up. Which makes me think I’ve smart-mouthed them before. And I really only do that to the criminals.”

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