Chapter One
Finn
From the first instant I see her in the flesh, I’m obsessed by Mia Moretti. I want her so hard it’s like a rage. My gut tightens and my blood hammers. One look and I’m pumped.
I watched videos of her, of course. And I saw photographs, but I had no idea she was this gorgeous. Her almond eyes sparkle with a glow of mischief and sin. Soft, curvaceous and womanly. She has a swagger and a no-shit attitude.
I like that. A lot.
I have a habit of putting women on pedestals. Imagining them like they’re fragile pieces of china or priceless works of art. I should shake it. See the woman inside.
Not this one, though. It doesn’t matter what I think or feel about her or what I don't. All I need is to get the job done.
She wasn't so hard to find. I've no idea why she's on the run. It’s not my business to know. Not my problem to solve. Somebody wants her found. Finding people is something I’m great at. Especially people who don’t want to be found.
In a bright store on the top tier of an upscale mall, I watch her at the counter, talking to the sales guy. The store is stacked with fabrics. Silks and satins, cottons and lace. Rolls of white silk and satin. Big cuts of fine, delicate, and intricate white lace.
Like she’s setting out to make her own wedding dress. Definitely an odd thing for a girl on the run. Even odder, when hers is the second biggest mob family in Vegas.
A girl who’s in hiding from her own family planning a big wedding? I don’t see it. But it doesn’t matter what I see and what I don’t. I don’t need to understand.
Mia Moretti is unusual, though, to say the least.
The sales guy leans back. Cocks his hip as he shows her a catalogue. Turning it. Making her move closer. She has to prop her elbow on the counter. Rest her chin on her hand.
A knot of rage snaps tight in my gut. I want to break the fucker’s neck.
While I’m sure she hasn’t spotted me, I slip out of the store.
My plan is simple and foolproof. There’s a food court table nearby. I wait with a coffee and an apple Danish.
Two suspicious-looking overfilled suits lurk farther down the walkway. Those thugs are not even slightly convincing, pretending to window-shop for women's shoes.
Ten minutes later, she strides out of the store. Dark cascades of hair waving wild and unruly, cool sunglasses in place. Her body moves like she's been choreographed. Like a dancer with shapes and moves so well practiced, they’re second nature.
Like the creamy ingredients of all my filthy wet dreams when I was younger. And all the way up to now. I know she’ll be taking a starring role from here on. She won’t be on a pedestal there.
She’s loaded with bags and rolls of fabrics. That’s going to slow her down and make her easier to take.
I know the level and the spot where she parked.
As she sashays down the walkway, headed for the elevator, the two suits lumber into motion.
They’re going after her.
She's totally unaware, as far as I can tell. Of me or of them. As I get up, they're closing on her. Big guys. Dark suits, dark glasses. Standard issue mobster uniform.
She’s at the elevator. The bell dings.
The goons speed up as they pass the door to the fire escape stairwell. They’re big. Not as big as me.
I rush the one on the outside. I drive my shoulder hard into his upper arm. He slams into his partner. I reach for the door handle at the same time as the second man’s back bangs into the door.
Another fast shove, while they’re both still wide-eyed in shock and trying to work out what's happening. The door swings shut behind me. It was so quick, I don’t think any of the civilians saw a thing.
They stumble back, off balance, into the bare concrete stairwell. I drive my fist into the side of the neck of the one nearest. The other one is pulling a gun. I have a powerful loathing of guns.
He keeps his weapon on the back of his right hip. Amateur. I swing wide and slam the side of my fist into the outside of his elbow.
He keeps hold of the gun, but his arm buckles behind him. I grab his wrist and twist the arm out. The sinew in his shoulder starts to tear while I drive my other fist into his kidney.
I shove hard, and he tumbles down the first flight of concrete steps. Twelve bumps on concrete. He'll be feeling that for a while. His little automatic still dangles off his loose finger, though. He’s lucky he hasn’t shot his balls off with the thing.