The Morellis live in Bishop’s Landing, too.
So why is Leo Morelli meeting my father in New York City?
Once I’ve merged onto the highway I tug the mittens halfway off so I can have a better grip on the wheel while keeping my fingers from going numb. I drive five over the speed limit all the way into the city, my phone’s GPS steering me to the address my dad left.
With every block that passes, my heart sinks lower. Acid burns at the back of my tongue. This area isn’t good. The streetlights are few and far between, and I drive past more than one with only remnants of shattered glass.
“The destination is on your left,” my phone announces.
I pull the car over and peer at the building. A boarded-up shop on the first floor, graffiti on the boards. One of them has a torn-off corner as if something chewed into the wood. The rest of the block isn’t any better. I’m parked next to the curb, and beyond that is a crumbling sidewalk. It’s not livable here. Industrial, really, with a wharf jutting out into the river.
No sign of my dad.
I’m not going to be able to find him sitting in the car, so I pull my mittens up, put my phone in my pocket, and step out onto the street.
Voices from a nearby alley echo across the deserted block. Most of the river is covered in ice, but some of it is free to slap against the pilings. It’s colder by the water. I would give anything for a warm car to drive away in.
I would give even more for my dad to be here, too.
The voices from the alley rise. Laughter. Hardened laughter. The Morellis wouldn’t hold an actual meeting in a place like this. They would lure a man into a trap. There’s no time to call Cash and ask him if he can drive to the city. No time to do anything but check the alley myself. Stay out of sight. If my dad is there, I’ll get him out somehow.
He might be hurt. Bleeding. I have to help him.
An icy spike of wind wriggles down the collar of my coat as I hurry toward the opening of the alley. Light flickers there, spilling out onto the sidewalk. I get as close as I dare. One, two, three. I stick my head around the corner of the building.
Six guys. No, eight. Maybe ten. Homeless, possibly, by the looks of them. Some of them have heavy coats. Almost all of them have hats. One guy has makeshift gloves made from plastic bags. Their faces glow in the light of a fire they’ve made in a barrel. They huddle in close, shifting positions to take turns warming their hands.
None of them is my dad.
Shit.
“Come here, girl. You aren’t from around here, are you?”
I pull my head out of sight, fear skittering up my arms and drawing my shoulders up, up, up. I’m three steps down the street when they catch up.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” I regret not running. I thought walking would make them less likely to chase me. Stupid. It was stupid, and now there’s one man on either side of me and my car is across the street.
“I have to get home.”
“We saw you looking at us,” one says. He’s the man with plastic bags on his hands, and he strips them off and lets them fall to the ground. “We want to see you, too.”
The other man takes a sudden step toward me and I react on instinct, going the other way. Toward the building. My shoulder hits the brick and I turn so the wall is against my back. Trapped. I’m trapped against rough brick, and now three of them are blocking the path to my car.
“I’m leaving.” I’m proud of how level my voice sounds. “Get out of my way.”
“You came to our party.” The third man presses in and reaches for me. I slap at his arm but he laughs. “It’s probably because you’re bored at home, aren’t you? Wanted some fun tonight. Let’s show her a good time.”
I try to edge sideways, but one of them puts a foot out and angles his body to stop me. More hands reach in. Too many to swipe away. One paws at the waist of my coat. Someone’s dirty fingers are on my chin. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to pass out. Those two things aren’t options for me right now, because if I do either thing, they’ll take advantage of that weakness.
If they get me onto the ground…
If they get my coat off...
A blind punch at one of the men. It’s useless. I’m wearing mittens. He laughs and grabs my hand. No—the mitten itself. It comes off in a hard tug and tears sting the corners of my eyes.
A strong voice breaks through the clamor. “Find somewhere else to play.”
The guy with my mitten turns around, a sneer on his face. His confidence closes off like a shutter over a window. “Guys.” He tenses, voice rising. “Guys, guys.” My mitten flutters to the sidewalk. The man who held it is already gone, leaving his friends abandoned.
One of them is reaching into my pocket when the hand appears on his shoulder.
A big hand. A male one. The hand pulls him back like he’s nothing and the man’s face contorts, his head crumpling toward his shoulder. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, and then he’s lurching away. He’s free because a man in black—tall and dark-haired and dark-eyed—ignores him as he steps neatly into the open space left behind.
This close, he is all intensity and movement. Practiced. Controlled.
It looks easy for him to bring back his fist and drive it into another man’s nose. To catch that man when he starts to fall and send a cracking blow into the side of his cheek.
He drops the man unceremoniously, the way you’d drop a dirty dishrag into the laundry, and kicks at the groaning body at his feet.
“Go on,” he snaps, like he’s talking to a feral dog. Less than a feral dog.
He kicks the guy again and he rolls over onto hands and knees. He’s halfway to his feet when my white knight plants a foot in the middle of his back and sends him spiraling onto the bare concrete. He must be off-balance from the blows, because his forehead meets the sidewalk with a dull thud. It has to hurt.
Adrenaline spirals down through my veins and lights up my fingertips. The air is so cold, so clear. I can feel the heat from the fire in the drum. I can taste it.
He saved me.
He saved me from whatever those men were going to do, and he hurt them. He hurt them because he could.
We watch the man get unsteadily to his feet and stumble toward the alley. More faces appear around the corner, eyes wide. A few people hurry out from the alley and go the opposite direction, fading into the gloom. They don’t want to be here if this man is around.
This man, in his beautiful black overcoat. He looks like a photo from a men’s fashion magazine, only sharper. Even in profile, the lines of his face make my chest ache.
His face...
It’s familiar somehow.
My mind is a mess, tangled up in the dread and relief of this near-miss, and I can’t place him until he turns to look at me with eyes like midnight. My heart stutters. I’m from a family known for its beauty, but I have never seen a person so agonizingly gorgeous.
Recognition makes my breath catch. Leo Morelli.
I’ve only seen him in glossy photographs in local magazines and online gossip blogs. On paper he’s handsome in a vague movie star way. In person he’s breathtaking.
I try to take a step back, but I’m against the wall.
There’s nowhere to run from the Beast of Bishop’s Landing.
3