“I’ve got to step up my game.” Dario stood in the middle of my room, his hands on his hips, and surveyed the area, every spare surface piled with clothes, books, and crap. He looked out of place, too big for this room, and too sexy for words in faded jeans, a T-shirt clinging to his build and a Breitling watch heavy on his wrist.

“What do you mean?” I pushed aside hangers and squeezed to the back of my closet, running my hand over items until I felt the scratchy fabric of my yellow dress. I wiggled it loose and emerged, running a hand through my hair and taming it back into place.

“Your room.” He stepped over and peered down at my desk, my textbooks half covered by my recent Sephora haul. “It’s … crowded.”

“Yep.” I took a giant step over a pile of folded towels and tossed a lone shoe in the general direction of the bed.

“And this is your closet.” He took in the cram of hangers, the pile of shoes in the floor, every inch packed to overflowing.

I squeezed past him and folded the dress into fourths, pushing it into the bag and working the zipper closed. “Your powers of observation are impressive.”

“I don’t understand.” He glanced up at the fan, the blades sagging on the ends and covered in a fine sheen of dust. “You have a gorgeous suite at The Majestic. One with a closet five times bigger than this. And your own bathroom. And a second bedroom, with its own bathroom.”

He folded his arms over his chest, blocked the exit to my room and pinned me with a stare. “Why stay here?”

I spied my phone charger and went for it. He waited as I wrapped the cord into a coil and added it to my purse. I glanced at him and realized this conversation wasn’t going away. “This is my place. I have full control of it. I pay for it. You should understand why that’s important to me.”

“You like the independence.”

“Yes.”

He grimaced, but dropped his arms, moving to my bag and lifting it off the bed. “You deserve better.”

“You’re right.” I wasn’t talking about the room. I was talking about a covert night in San Diego since we couldn’t go out in public here. I was talking about losing my cell phone because the wrong person answered his. I was talking about us, and he headed down the hall with my bag, either missing the inference entirely or ignoring it.

I flipped off the light and, like a good little mistress, followed him.

“Wow.” I watched as the headlights flashed, the vehicle unlocking. “You shouldn’t have.”

He laughed, opening the back and swinging my bag inside.

“No, really. You shouldn’t have.”

In the middle of my driveway, cozying up next to my car, sat a minivan. A Honda minivan. I walked up to it and glanced in the backseat, half-expecting to see a car seat strapped in. There wasn’t one, and I took a full tour around the van before glancing up at Dario.

“What? I don’t seem like a minivan guy?” He reached forward, pressing a button on the key fob, both side doors engaging and sliding open. I laughed and raised my eyebrows as if impressed.

“I can also close them. Watch.” He pushed another button. A loud beep sounded, the sort typically associated with a delivery truck backing up, and the side doors slid closed. He opened mine with a flourish, and I took a final look around, still expecting to see a limo tucked nearby, or a Range Rover, or his Rolls.

Nothing. This was it. Dario Capece was driving me to San Diego in a… I glanced at the brand emblem before tossing my purse into the floorboard and stepping inside. A Honda Odyssey. I waited until he got in, then pulled my seatbelt across my chest.

“No, you don’t seem like a minivan guy.”

In fact, had odds been put on that fact, I would have bet every dollar in my bank account that Dario Capece would have shown up at my house in something overly extravagant, something designed to impress, something that matched the wealth that dripped off of him. Even now, his jeans shifting against the cloth seat, his hand pulling designer sunglasses into place, he looked expensive.

He tossed the keys into a cupholder, and I noticed the rental tags on the ring.

“You rented this?”

“Yep.” He reached over, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss on it.

The man had a half dozen cars, easily. No need to rent anything, much less a mommy van with eight cupholders and a stain-proof interior. I took note of my suspicions and fastened my seatbelt as he pulled out of the driveway.

Finding an aux cable, I plugged in my phone, scrolling through Spotify and starting a Clint Black song. He nodded in approval and I pulled off my sandals and propped my feet on the dash.

We turned out of my neighborhood, and the minivan’s engine roared, moving into a higher gear as Dario sped up. I settled deeper into the seat and reached for his hand.

DARIO

She was driving him crazy. Bare feet up on the dash, soles arched as if they were in the air with him between her thighs.

She didn’t even realize it. She was teasing the fuck out of him and clueless about it. The song changed, a drumbeat starting, and she began to bob her toes to the beat. He forced his eyes to the road and willed his dick to calm down.

It was stupid of him to not fuck her. He was thinking of this as a woman would, thinking that sex would unlock some fountain of emotions between them. The problem was, there were already feelings between them. She was already his first thought when he woke up and his last before sleep. She had already eroded his self-control, his rules, and his boundaries.

And she was already in danger. He’d seen the look that had crossed Robert Hawk’s face when he’d answered that call and heard her voice. Dario had felt the prickle of unease when he’d stepped out of the casino and into his car. He’d noticed, in subtle shifts and quickened speech patterns, the discomfort of his staff. Something was going on, and if anything happened to her, he’d burn the entire city to the ground.

As a result, he’d gone rogue.

Spending cash.

Giving Bell a new, untraceable number to reach him at.

He’d used a fucking taxi this morning, taken it to the airport, gone through the motions of getting a flight, then gotten a rental car and driven to Bell’s.

Maybe he was being paranoid. It wasn’t the first time Robert had answered his phone and heard a female voice. And it wasn’t the first time, or even the tenth, that Dario had had a woman on the side. It wasn’t like Hawk could sense his love for Bell, and there was no reason for him to suspect anything. Still, every sensor in Dario’s body was blaring alarms at full volume. It was good that they were getting out of town. For at least a night, away from the city and Robert Hawk’s goons … she’d be safe. But at some point during this trip, he would have to tell her the truth—everything he’d bit his tongue on so far. And it wasn’t fair to sleep with her before that, not when those truths would likely end things between them.

She turned in the seat, pulling her feet off the dash, and he let out a sigh, grateful for one less distraction.

“I’m hungry. Mind if we stop somewhere?”

He nodded and changed lanes, an exit approaching.

THE TAIL

The minivan changed lanes, and Claudia did the same, hiding behind a large semi. She watched until she saw the vehicle on the exit ramp, then followed suit as it turned right. When the van pulled into a gas station, she continued forward, turning into an adjacent fast food restaurant and parking. Watching the vehicle stop beside a pump, she picked up the phone and placed the call.

“Yes?” Robert Hawk spoke quickly, the phone answered on the second ring.

“They’re stopping for gas.”

“Watch, but stay hidden. Call me if anything changes.”

Easy enough. She nodded, ending the call and putting the car into park. Taking a moment, she stretched out her legs, the muscles sore from tailing Bell’s run, and glanced in the rearview mirror, the fast food sign bright and appealing. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled.

She hadn’t had fast food in years. Her time in the warehouse had conditioned her stomach to the basic meals that servitude provided—cold subs delivered rarely enough to keep her hunger guessing. The subs were always leftovers from Hawk catering functions, some half-eaten, all delicious to their starved stomachs. Now, she eyed the Tex-Mex sign and remembered the last taco she’d had, over two years ago. It had been grabbed after work and choked down while driving home, a frosty soda gripped in one hand while she steered with her knees. She’d been so weak, back then. So focused on unimportant things like social media updates and fashion trends, TV shows and class schedules. She’d drowned her weekends in alcohol and distracted her boredom with sex. She’d had no idea of life until it had all been taken away from her.

And that was what Robert tried to give them.

The meaning of life.

The value of living.

The importance of submission and boundaries and respect.

Too bad none of the others had understood that, or listened to the whispered lessons she tried to pass on. They had all looked at her as if she was crazy, as if she was the one chained to a wall and they had all the answers.

The minivan’s door opened, and Bell Hartley’s head popped up. The infamous Dario Capece glanced over his shoulder at her, the gas pump in hand. She shut the door and came around the car, still speaking to Dario as she walked away … and toward the taco joint, alone. Claudia reached into the passenger seat, found her phone and got three or four good pictures of Bell on her way toward the restaurant.

Claudia’s stomach growled again, and she turned in her seat to watch Bell pull open the taco chain’s door and disappear inside.

She tossed the phone down and turned off the car. Opening the center console, she paused, glancing from the switchblade to the handgun. Could she do this? She thought of Robert’s promise, a dinner with him and Gwen, just the three of them.

She reached into the console and grabbed them, slipping the gun into the back of her jeans and the switchblade in her pocket. She was efficient in both weapons, thanks to hours spent with Robert. She’d learned the weak areas of the human body, knew how to stab, twist and slice the life out of someone. She’d practiced with the handgun at five yards, then fifteen, then twenty-five. She could hit the center ring of a bull’s eyes seven times out of ten at all three distances. Bell Hartley wouldn’t have a chance.

She stepped out of the car and toward the restaurant, one hand slipping into her pocket and palming the knife.

Poor Bell. So similar to Claudia, two years ago. A sitting duck. A dumb, hungry, sitting duck.