Page 3 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

I didn’t get to do shit on my own. That wasn’t how the Family worked.

Which was why I wasn’t calling Luca. To get a firm “no” out of him.

Instead, I scrolled my contact list to find one of my brothers. Santo, the next youngest after me. The one who was probably going to give me the least amount of shit when I called.

“Mom’s already asking where you are, so don’t you come at me with some bullshit excuses about some skirt you are chasing,” Santo answered.

“I won’t be making it,” I told him, slowing down to toss some money into the change basket at the toll booth, then fucking flooring it again.

“Come the fuck on, Aug. You know you can’t just back out on dinner without a reason. Makes Ma mopey and shit,” Santo said, tone resigned. Because he already knew I wasn’t going to be swayed. I was known for being a stubborn-ass in the family.

“I have a reason. And I need you to tell Luca I’m not gonna be around for a bit.”

“The fuck?” Santo hissed, and the background noise was changing as he, I imagined, moved away from whomever he was near. “What do you mean you’re not gonna be around for a bit? Where are you going?”

“Traveler has something going on.”

“Traveler…” Santo said, searching for the name. I wasn’t surprised it wasn’t one easily brought forward in his memory. He’d maybe met her for a second at Mass’s wedding. Along with dozens of other people.

“Just wanted to tell everyone I’d be out of town,” I said, not wanting to get into it.

“August, you can’t just fucking go off and do shit you want to do. You have to ask—“

“I’m already on my way. I gotta go.”

With that, I hung up, then tossed my phone into the cupholder, where I went ahead and ignored it for the drive.

It wasn’t a long drive, but it felt like it took double the time I knew was elapsing.

I wasn’t overly familiar with the feeling of panic. From the cradle, I always knew my life was going to involve a lot of action and life-or-death situations. That had given me a high tolerance for stress. Shit usually just rolled off my back.

But there was no denying it was seeping in instead. My knuckles were white on the wheel, and my skin felt like it was crawling as my heart thumped an EDM beat in my chest.

I just barely resisted the urge to call her back.

But if she was hiding from someone, and she hadn’t turned off the ringer, or if the screen lit up, exposing her, I would be doing nothing but putting her at more risk.

It was hard to imagine the Traveler I’d met cowering and begging for someone else to help her.

She was, and always would be, a pill.

A horse pill, even.

Hard to fucking swallow.

She was sure of herself, strong, and almost painfully opinionated. She stood up to local criminal organizations, forcing them out of her coffee shop like they weren’t packing and perfectly capable of putting several holes in her body.

What the fuck had changed things?

That was what I was going to find out as soon as I got there, I promised myself. Even as another part of me wondered why the fuck I was even answering her SOS call.

Wouldn’t Massimo be the one to call?

The guy who owed her a favor?

Someone she got along with better.

I didn’t owe her shit.

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