“Let’s go,” I grunted at German and led her toward the street.
German paused long enough to get pictures of Justin with his phone before jogging to catch up. We reached the car seconds before Maher and his two goons stepped out from the Daly Drinker and looked around. Maher spotted me, said something, and strode over.
“Get off me,” the girl said angrily. “What’s wrong with you?”
I shoved her into the back seat and slammed the door. “Trying to save your life,” I said and jumped behind the wheel. “German, get in.”
German hesitated, gun out, standing next to the passenger’s side. For one wild second, I thought he might open fire, but instead he got inside.
I started the engine.
“Running away?” Maher yelled. “Looks like you grabbed a prize, too.”
“Fuck off, Maher,” I shouted back as I pulled into the street. “You can have my leavings. He’s in the alleyway.”
“Clean up your own mess, asshole.” Maher leered at me. He was a skinny guy, tall and dark with a mess of brown hair. “If that’s his daughter, you should know that I want her. She’s worth something, damn you.”
I drove off without dignifying that with a response.
German sighed and wiped at his face before turning halfway around in his seat to glare at the girl. She glared back, soaking wet and shaking with grief and fear and a million other things. I could only guess what was going on in her mind.
I could only guess at what was going on in mine.
“What’s your name?” I asked, looking in the rearview mirror.
“Cara,” she said. “And as soon as I can, I’m going to the police and you’re going to pay for what you did.”
I sighed and shook my head. “You really shouldn’t say shit like that if you want a chance to escape. Now we have to make sure we keep you.” I sighed and rubbed my face. “I’m Luke, by the way, and that’s German.”
Her face turned pale as she clenched her jaw then looked out the window and didn’t speak as I drove back to my place. German kept an eye on her, gun still out, though held down low where nobody would notice it from the outside.
Cara O’Shay. Gorgeous, perfect, incredible, tasty as all fuck, Cara O’Shay. Definitely more trouble than she’s worth. Definitely going to be a problem.
But my problem.
Now I had to figure out what I was going to do with her—and how badly the Lionetti family might want her.
I glanced into my rearview again and felt a strange, tugging thrill in my gut, and knew that no matter what went down from here on out, nothing would ever be simple again.
2
Cara
I sat in the back seat of this stranger’s car and kept asking myself one simple question: Why wasn’t I dead yet?
The two men didn’t speak as they wove through the Philly streets. I kept glancing at Luke as he drove. He was a big guy with a handsome face and dark eyes that seemed to pierce deep into my chest. He could’ve finished me out in that alleyway, and I had a feeling most men in his position would’ve done it. Not that I wanted him to obviously—but I didn’t know what he wanted from me.
Unless he knew about the dossier.
I kept my mouth shut. I felt like I was dizzy, like my brain was disconnected from my body and my head was slowly floating up toward the roof of the car.
I was probably in shock. I saw my dad’s corpse lying there in a pool of his own blood and felt something break inside of myself, like a support beam in the core of me snapping in half.
And I didn’t even love my father.
He was a drunk and barely ever around. I lived in his house only because my mother’s life insurance paid it off when I was a little girl. She died in a car accident suddenly, and that sent my dad spiraling into a long pit of depression, anger, drinking, stealing, and fighting, although I didn’t remember what he was like before all that. My mom died when I was a little girl, barely old enough to walk.
My dad drifted in and out of my life, stealing from me when he could, making my life difficult in a million little ways, but I managed. I had neighbors that helped feed me and I took a million little odd jobs to pay for everything I needed. It wasn’t easy, going to school and trying to support myself, but at least the house was paid off and all I had to do was cover taxes each year.
Still, my father made it hard. He’d show up for weeks at a time, sit around drinking for hours, then disappear onto the streets again. Sometimes he’d appear with money, or with stuff he stole, like a case of expired soda or multiple boxes of toilet paper, but mostly he rolled in off the street when he was sober enough to remember where we lived.