Page 9 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

I’d heard that more than a few times in my life.

They were breaking my truck’s windows.

I couldn’t go out front.

Or out back.

I was trapped.

And it was only a matter of time before they got inside.

My gaze shot around, seeing possible hiding spots. All of which any halfway competent criminal would think to check. Which meant I would be found.

Then fuck knew what would happen to me.

A beating like Sheryl had gotten?

Worse?

Likely worse.

Stomach flip-flopping, my gaze landed on my oven.

I’d bought it because it was big, sturdy, and industrial with only one big compartment, instead of the two smaller ones that most units had. It let me fit six baking sheets in it at a time.

I mean, I wasn’t going to say it would be an easy fit. But I’d seen girls squeezing themselves into suitcases before for social media challenges.

To save my damn life, I could cram myself into the oven.

I was reaching for my phone as I made my way over.

I could call the police.

Objectively, that was what you did in this situation.

But not in this town.

When the cops were all in someone’s pockets.

Even if they came, they might standby and watch horrible shit happen to me.

Hell, they might even participate if they believed I wasn’t going to live through the night and be able to tell my father about it.

Cops were out.

I could call my father.

But, well, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

I don’t know why, when my finger scrolled through my contacts, I landed on one name.

The last man in the world I thought I would ever call on for help.

August fucking Grassi.

A mafia capo from over by the shore.

I was hitting dial before I could think better of it, listening to it ring and ring and ring and ring.

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