Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
I couldn’t have known it at the time how prophetic her words would end up being.
Because every single man who stepped into my life managed to screw it up worse.
Including the one standing in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said, lifting my chin a bit, glad he was being douchy because it was easier to be annoyed with him than terrified of him. “Anyway, my name is—“
“Cammie,” he cut me off. “And what are you doing here, trespassing, Cammie?” he asked.
“Well, see, that is a little complicated.”
“What, when it comes to a beautiful woman, isn’t complicated?” he asked, shaking his head, then exhaling hard. “Fine. Come on.”
“Come on where?” I asked, eyeing the main building and the pretty, rustic, Pinterest-worthy barn where—I’d learned from their website—they sometimes hosted parties. Mostly, it seemed, Happy Divorce parties. Which was kind of cool in my opinion.
“Inside,” he said, brows furrowing as he waved toward the main building.
“Yeah, ah, I think I’m not supposed to go with a guy to a second location. You know… true crime wisdom and all that.”
“Baby, that’s when some asshole comes up and tries to kidnap you. You’re the one showing up here, wanting something from me,” he said. “Pretty sure you’re the potential psychopath in this situation.”
Except I wasn’t a part of the mafia.
“Well, I’m going in. You can follow or you can fuck off. Your choice, babe.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the building.
A part of me wanted to fuck off. That would be what a smart woman would do.
The problem was, in that moment, I wasn’t a smart woman.
I was a desperate woman.
One who was desperate enough, in fact, to ask the man who had killed her boyfriend for help.
So while my rental car was absolutely calling my name from a few blocks over—if it hadn’t already been towed for being parked where I knew it didn’t belong—I knew there was no going back.
Not until I at least asked.
Reaching up, I grabbed my Saint Christopher necklace, rubbing it between my two fingers.
“Listen, if you help me out with this, I promise I’ll stop swearing. I mean, not entirely. But, you know, recreationally. Ugh. Never mind. We know that is never going to happen,” I grumbled, dropping the necklace back onto my chest.
I guess I was on my own.
Asking for help from a mafia hitman.
On a whimpering sound, I took a deep breath, then followed him into the building.
CHAPTER FOUR
Massimo
My past so infrequently came back to bite me in the ass.
I guess that was thanks largely to the fact that my job came with a lot of, let’s say… “finality.”
It wasn’t like someone I dealt with years ago would come back and start causing problems. Since, you know, they were all dead.
And as for women, well, we always had an understanding. It was all just good, sweaty fun. No commitments. Hell, no overnights.
Outside of that, the only people I engaged with were my family members.
But, I guess, there were always loose ends.
Like the one standing there in between rows of calla lilies that had just been photographed for a prominent magazine.
I’d seen her standing there from the parking lot as I climbed out of my car.
I hadn’t thought much of it, figuring it was maybe one of the employees who’d gotten to work early, and was waiting for the manager to get in so they could get inside.
But it wasn’t long until I realized that the skinny jeans and lightweight coral sweater were not the typical work uniform.
Figuring it was some local trying to get pictures for their blog or social media or something, I’d approached with a bit of an attitude.
I didn’t give a shit if people wanted to take pictures. But they would at least buy a glass of wine before they did it. And while the winery was open so the staff could make sure they weren’t fucking with the flowers.
We’d once had some “influencer” come and sprinkle all the roses with glitter because it fit her “aesthetic” or “brand” or some other bullshit like that.
Glitter on the flowers was relatively harmless in and of itself. But the problem with glitter was it was like shiny shrapnel, getting caught up in the wind and sticking in everything—and everyone—that it crossed paths with.
I had the shit in my suits, my hair, and my damn beard for a week straight after that. Hell, only a few weeks back, I’d found a bit of glitter on the bottom of one of my shoes in the closet.
The glitter flowers incident had been over a year before.
I didn’t see any glitter on the mysterious woman as I approached, but when it came to the herpes of the craft world, you could never be too careful.
She certainly acted sketchy, refusing to look at me at first even when she was speaking to me.