Marrying the Mob Prince
2-9

INDIE

Was someone following me?

A shadow flickered behind the lamppost, and I cinched my purse tighter to my body. An unpleasant feeling urged me to return to the soup kitchen. I scanned the queue of homeless lining up to enter St. Luke's, the Episcopal church that sat beside a park.

The kitchen cooked meals using produce grown in their garden, and it fed two hundred people every day. St. Luke's also housed vulnerable women-victims of domestic abuse with unstable homes-which made Knox's plan to demolish it even more despicable.

After a moment, my heartbeat slowed and I turned around.

I could've sworn I saw a man duck under an awning. I blew air from my tense lips. I was paranoid. I'd just finished a disturbing interview with Lara, a woman who'd escaped a motorcycle club and grappled with a heroin addiction. Ten days ago, several long texts from Justine popped into my phone. She claimed they were fine and sent me pictures. I'd received enough proof to at least know they were alive. It was supposed to give me room to breathe. Instead I constantly looked over my shoulder. They still needed my help.

Warnings whispered in my head as I began my lonely trek home. I reached my apartment building and climbed the steep staircase. My place was sandwiched between volatile neighbors on the third floor. I unlocked my door and stepped inside.

Telltale thumps rattled the paper-thin walls. I grabbed earbuds out of my purse and shoved them in, picking a random playlist.

The music drowned out the relentless pounding. I opened the fridge and dumped vegetables on my kitchen counter, sliding my chef's knife beside my cutting board. I washed and peeled the potatoes and leeks, throwing away most of the dark green leaves. I threw butter in a pot and dropped the leeks inside. As I stirred the pot's contents, a strange thud broke through an Ariana Grande ballad.

I popped out one earbud, listening hard.

My neighbors were drug addicts, and I went through ridiculous lengths to avoid them.

"Bitch! You're a fucking bitch, Melissa!" her boyfriend hollered outside, slamming his fist into her door. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I'm tired of you," she shouted back. "I don't want you anymore."

"Open the goddamn door." Then his tone softened in a mollifying plea. "Give me my phone. Melissa, please. I need my phone."

"I'm not letting you-"

An acrid stench alerted my attention to the stove, where my leeks were burning. I lowered the heat and stirred, and then picked up the knife and diced the onion, the cut the potatoes into cubes. Melissa's boyfriend's persistent thuds crashed my space, coiling my insides with tension. I hated the noise. It made me feel like a hostage in my own home.

A slam reverberated through my apartment. The loudness of it made my spine zip straight.

The echo bounced from my bedroom.

Puzzled, I stared in its direction. A pulsing knot throbbed at the base of my throat as I faced the electric burners. My blade slid over potato flesh. Bam!

What the hell was that?

My breathing stalled as a black silence filled the air, broken only by the pop music streaming through my earbud. I took it out and gripped the knife. Was someone inside?

I paused the music. The banging next door was like a drumbeat, spreading ice through my limbs. The floorboards groaned.

Way too close.

My hand shook. The blade rattled the counter. I shuffled one leg in front of the other, swallowing the lump. Fisting the handle, I peered around the corner. I blinked, my eyes watering from cutting onions. The smoke alarm started to blare.

I whirled, cursing. I groped for the stove and turned off the burner. Then I ran to the window and fiddled with the lock. I grabbed the edges and pulled, but it wouldn't budge.

Locked.

But I didn't remember latching it. I unlocked it. My fingers curved on the trim and pushed, heart galloping ahead with the sensation of another person's presence...right behind me. My senses blazed just before a brutal force seized my ponytail...

...and yanked.

Agony burst from my head. The world tipped. I went flying. The arm holding my knife rounded as I caught my balance, and then my back collided with a man. An intruder.

A hand clapped my mouth, smothering the scream. His other arm banded my abdomen. His heated breath billowed over my neck like a beast. Panic flooded me with adrenaline and I kicked out, my foot colliding painfully with my coffee table. He hauled me over the couch.

I whimpered as he fisted my hair and tightened his grip, forcing me to bend. My head broke free of his touch. I screamed, my voice breaking, but the smoke alarm still blared. Nobody ever called the police in this neighborhood. Fight him.

His weight crushed my arm. My free hand clawed at his, dragging my nails into his skin. His growl rumbled through my body, and I yelled. Then he cracked my head into the arm of the couch. Pain flashed my skull like fireworks. My ears rang as I struggled to get my bearings, and then I noticed a jerking motion on my waist. My bare stomach scraped on fabric.

He's taking off my pants.

I gritted my teeth and shoved. I squeezed through the gap in his arms and fell, crashing on the tile. The knife clattered beside me. I grasped the handle, whirled, and lunged.

My strike hit his chest. He gasped. My gaze raced up past a swollen belly, meeting the shocked gaze of a man with light brows and flushed cheeks.

Who is he?

Was he hurt?

My mind scrambled to put it together as warmth gushed over my knuckles. Details passed through me like swords-a fountain of crimson, him grasping at his wound, and a deep, gurgling breath.

He dropped, knife embedded in his chest.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry!" I knelt beside him, arms flailing. "I don't know what to do!"

He made horrific, bubbling gasps.

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I whimpered, wringing my hands. Then I pressed the dark stain over his T-shirt. Blood poured from his lips as he lay there, gasping. I did nothing but gape, paralyzed, as life flooded out of him. Eventually, he stilled. Blue crawled through his veins, reaching his neck.

Dead.

What have I done?

The enormity of it towered above me, a colossal wall, trembling. A blinding pressure assaulted my eyes, and I swallowed the urge to cry. I breathed heavily, palms flat against the floor, desperate for the world to reorient itself. My mind was a frazzled mess.

I killed a man.

I'd grabbed the knife and shoved it into him. A tidal wave of emotion smashed into me, and I released a hysterical whimper. I grabbed my phone, but the screen shook too violently to make sense of the letters. What should I do?

Who could help me?

Knox.

God no. I palmed my mouth, recoiling from the warmth. I gathered my thoughts. I had to decide. Call the police or-him.

Knox could make this go away.

In my mind's eye, his hawk-eyed stare dove into me and stirred the pit of my stomach. Asking Bryan Knox for a favor terrified me more than dealing with the body alone. Fear shot through my swirling doubt. Yes, Knox scared me. But he was the only man with the means to help me.

My bloody fingers mashed a series of buttons. Then I called him, praying he wasn't in a meeting. It connected, and Knox's dangerously silken voice stroked my ear. "Indie."

I breathed a shaky sigh. My lip quivered, and what remained of my chill shattered. "Knox, I need you."