Things had been screwed up enough during that period of time. I didn’t want to add to that.
“No,” Massimo said, his face so indifferent that I was almost sure I’d imagined the shock I’d seen there a moment before.
“Oh, ah, okay,” I said, shaking my head a little. This was not going quite like I planned. But I was still alive, so I was going to count it as a win so far. “Well, I’m Cammie.”
“Cammie,” he repeated. “That’s a high school cheerleader name.”
I was almost sure he meant that as an insult. But I actually had been a high school cheerleader, so while he didn’t manage to insult me, he did make me nostalgic for a simpler time in my life.
Before Cody.
Before… everything.
Back when my biggest concern was keeping my face acne-free and how good my toe-touches were. And, of course, which boys in school were cute enough to take me to prom.
“Go with your girlfriends,” my grandmother had told me.“Take it from your old grandmother; men will bring you nothing but trouble.”
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.