Falling for the Killer: A Dark Possessive Mafia Romance by B.B Hamel

Author:B.B Hamel [Hamel, B.B]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-05-03T23:00:00+00:00

11

Ash

I sat in Gian’s truck as it idled near Rittenhouse. The streets swarmed with men and women in business clothing hurrying home from their offices, walking south to their apartments, or north to the subway and the train stations. It was a little past five and peak hours.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked Gian, shifting in my seat. I wanted to go back to his place and hide under my covers, or do anything other than talk to Stuart.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Trust me, this is important. Do you want to go over the plan again?”

I shook my head. I didn’t need him to remind me of my job. All I needed to do was confirm that Stuart was the one who paid those guys to sit on that stoop, and then I was done. I could rush back here, get in this truck, and ideally never see Stuart again.

But I had a feeling I wouldn’t be that lucky. Stuart wouldn’t leave me alone, like a lingering cold or some horrible bacterial infection that crawled beneath my skin and made my whole body rot from the inside out.

I hated him so much for making me have to deal with him still.

“I can do this,” I said, taking a breath, and opened the door.

“I’ll be nearby,” he said, and got out with me. I felt a little better, knowing he’d be watching. “Stuart won’t talk if I’m right there with you, though.”

“I know,” I said. “You’re right, I just hate this.”

Gian stepped up onto the sidewalk next to me and took my hand in his. I was surprised and didn’t pull away as he lifted my fingers to his lips. He kissed them and smiled at me, rubbing his thumb against my knuckles.

“You’re stronger than you realize,” he said and nodded once. “Now go get Stuart to tell you everything.”

I pulled my hand away and felt a blush come to my cheeks. “Fine, just don’t kiss my hand again like I’m the queen or something.”

He laughed as I walked away. “You’re not the queen, but you are my princess,” he said loudly, and I caught a goofy look from a young girl sitting on a nearby stoop. I felt my cheeks burning as I hurried down the block toward the park.

Rittenhouse was a popular spot right in downtown Philadelphia. It was a small, shady oasis, the paved paths lined with benches. Buskers played music and sang and juggled, and couples sat on blankets in the grass, or lounged out in the sun. I loved Rittenhouse and always had—it was one of those places in Philly where you could feel like you were a part of the city, and not just some anonymous person walking along its streets.

I found a bench right in the center along the main path and waited. An older couple walked past, holding hands, their hair gone white, the man loping with an awkward shuffle, and I wondered if I’d have that one day. My parents definitely wouldn’t—they barely gave a damn about each other.

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