“Thanks for meeting me so late for drinks. I think I spend more time in my office, signing papers, than I do in court.” Tony Vanzetti raises his tumbler to his lips and takes a sip. His gray-blue eyes follow our waitress as she walks past the table, and his gaze slides up her long legs to the hem of her black skirt. “What’s it like to be young and single?”

“What?” I grin, his question catching me off guard. “I thought things were good with you and Meryl.” Thirty years of marriage isn’t easy to come by these days. He usually brags about how good he has it at home during our poker games.

“Things are perfect.” He sets his drink down on the little table.

We’re about two blocks from my office, sitting in a lounge that has a retro feel to it. I’ve never been here, but apparently, the judge is a frequent guest. It’s a gentleman-only kind of place, but without strippers or cigars.

“But . . .?” I wait and clasp my hands in my lap. I haven’t touched my drink yet, and I’m not really in the mood to. It might be late, but I need to swing back over to the office later for a call with a company in Dublin I’m trying to acquire. It’ll be morning for them soon.

“Perfect can be boring,” he says, dragging his words out as he looks up at another waitress now standing at his side. She places a hand on his shoulder and bends forward, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t even know what boring feels like, but I’d like to give it a try one of these days.” Maybe on a beach in Bali.

“It must be nice to have women drop their panties for you in the blink of an eye,” he says once the waitress is gone from his side.

Tony is showing a side of himself I’ve never witnessed before, and I’m not sure I like it. I had this idea of him in my head, and it’s getting shattered right now. Honest, hard-working, faithful . . . you know, father-like . . . and maybe I hoped a few good ones existed since mine was shit. But now I’m wondering which server he’s screwing. I glance around the room. The blonde by the door? Maybe the redhead behind the bar?

“So, about your daughter.”

He rubs the stubble on his jaw and leans back in his seat. “So, which mob is Mya after now?”

Now? “The Irish mob down in the Clinton neighborhood.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look as surprised as I expected he’d be.

“I get that she’s a reporter, but I’m worried she’s going to get herself in trouble,” I say.

“Why couldn’t she have gone to law school like I wanted?” He shakes his head. “She had to ignore me and go to Syracuse and get that damn degree in communications. And now look at her—she’s working for one of the best papers in the country. But what’s the point, if she ends up killed?”

“So you’ll talk to her?”

“Yeah, but it probably won’t do much good. Maybe I can convince her to take a vacation, though.” He blinks a few times. “She’s stubborn. Always chasing down the next big article.”

I guess he’s used to this, but if I had a daughter, I’d probably lose my mind with worry every day. This city can eat someone alive.

I start for my drink, suddenly in the mood for the liquor now, but my hand falls back into my lap before I can lift the glass.

I lean forward a little, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. “Uh, could you excuse me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I rush to my feet and exit the club.

Did I hallucinate her? Because I thought I saw—

My heart slams against my ribcage at the sight of Gia’s long dark hair whipping over her shoulder as she peers my way right before disappearing around a corner. “Wait!” I take after her and yell, “Gia, stop!”

But she doesn’t.

I pick up speed and continue to pursue her. And then she finally stops dead in her tracks, and I nearly knock her down.

“We have to keep moving,” she sputters, out of breath.

“What? Why?”

She faces me, then looks over my shoulder and down the street. “They can’t see me here with you.”

“Who?” But she grabs my hand, taking me by surprise, and I follow her, not sure what the hell to think or do right now. All I know is the woman I’ve been thinking about for the last few days is now with me—and clearly scared.

“My office is up there. There’s a delivery entrance. No one will see us.” I point ahead, and she nods.

I scramble in my pocket for the keycard and note the movement of her eyes, left to right.

Once inside, she falls to her knees. She’s shaking. I crouch down and touch her cheek. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” Her lips are somewhat purple, and her face is like ice. “Let’s get you to my office and get you warm.”

I help her to rise, and we head to the back elevators. I pull her against me as we ascend and wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back, trying to increase her body temperature. I’ve wanted my hands on her since we met—but I didn’t expect it to be like this. Soothing. Comforting.

No, I had other images in mind—and all of them included my hands on her while she was naked. Maybe tied to the bed.

But, shit—I need to forget those thoughts.

Right the fuck now.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” she says as her teeth chatter and her words vibrate against my chest.

“Don’t talk right now.”

When the doors part, I scoop her into my arms without thinking. Her eyes flutter shut as she slings her arms around me and nuzzles her face to my neck.

I hurry to my office, and without letting go of her, I swipe my card by the door to unlock and open it.

The lights automatically flick on, and I place her on the couch.

I grab an extra blazer from the closet behind my desk and wrap it around her shoulders. “A thin leather jacket won’t cut it during the winter.”

She forces a smile. “I wasn’t really thinking clearly. Thank you, though.”

I drag a hand down my jaw as I assess the situation.

I left the judge alone without an explanation, and I have a conference call starting soon . . . but shit, none of that matters right now. Because the woman that’s been running through my mind is now sitting before me.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me. Not yet, at least,” she says after a minute, her voice calmer now, her lips turning pink again. “I wasn’t following you. I was tracking someone else.”

“Tracking?” I sit next to her. “Care to explain?”

Silence swallows the room, and yet, the gravity of the moment, of her being here, isn’t lost on me. Something is seriously fucking wrong.

Her shoulders slope down as she fists the material of my jacket in front of her chest. “You kind of pissed off the wrong guy last Friday night.”

“Yeah, Rory McCullen.” I haven’t heard back from Jessica, but it was only earlier today that we talked on the phone. I gave in and did my own research, matching Rory’s face to a name. Not exactly rocket science, since the club is called McCullens.

“So . . . you know.” She lowers her head, staring down at her lap, at the buttons beneath her polished nails.

I nod and reach down, tipping her chin up, needing eye contact.

Her face is warmer now, her temperature normalizing. “But what I don’t know is what you’re doing involved with a man like him. Since you’re not a dancer at the club . . .” I wait for her to finish my sentence.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. If my bodyguard finds out I’m not at home, and that I’m here, it won’t be good. For either of us.” She removes the jacket and sets it next to her, but when she stands, I touch her wrist.

Her eyes linger on my hand for a moment before drifting up to meet my eyes, and then she slowly settles back down.

“Who were you following?”

She rolls her lips inward briefly. “After my driver brought me home, I snuck out and took a cab back to the restaurant where Rory was at and followed two of his crew. They led me to you.”

I raise a brow. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“They were in the bar. Right behind you.”

I take a moment to process her words. “Why are you suddenly worried about me?”

“I-I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

I almost laugh. “You pointed a gun at me and kicked me out of the club just a few days ago.”

I’m greeted by silence, yet again. She’s afraid to answer my questions. The fear flows up her spine and spreads across her face.

“He may have killed you if I didn’t do that,” she finally says.

“Well, I can take care of myself.” I scratch the back of my head. “How’d you know someone was going to come after me?”

“I overhead Rory talking about you after you left Friday, and I wanted to make sure his guys weren’t going to hurt you.”

This time, I do laugh. I don’t mean to be a douche like Corbin loves to call me, but what the hell was she planning on doing if two gangsters came at me?

I eye her, wondering if she’s packing heat. She’s in tall brown boots, which cover dark leggings, and there’s a cashmere sweater that hangs to her quads beneath the leather jacket—I highly doubt there’s a gun tucked somewhere beneath it all.

“This is serious,” she murmurs and rises to her feet.

I take a step toward her, but she stumbles, almost falling right back onto the couch behind her.

I shove my hands in my pockets and study her, trying to figure out this mystery of a woman. “So, what was your plan? If you were coming here to warn me, why’d you run?”

“I-I didn’t really have a plan. I don’t want anyone else killed because of me, but then I freaked when you saw me.”

There’s a somber look in her eyes—the look of a person who has suffered an unbelievable amount of pain in life.

“‘Anyone else’?”

She turns away from me instead of answering, and so I rest my hands on her shoulders. She flinches at the contact and my hands fall back to my sides.

“I appreciate your concern,” I begin when she still doesn’t say anything, “but I’m more worried about you right now than myself.”

“You don’t need to be worried.” She spins around so fast she bumps into me, her hands landing on my chest, and I can’t help but seize her wrists. I’m barely holding on, not wanting to scare her, but I also can’t get myself to let go.

She drags her eyes up to meet mine, her hands still pressed to my dress shirt. She swallows as her lips part a fraction of an inch.

“It doesn’t seem that way. It looks to me like you’re terrified.”

“I really need to go.” Her chest slowly rises and falls, but she keeps her eyes on mine. There’s so much intensity there. So much fucking depth.

“So, that’s it? You come here to warn me, then run off into the night? You’ve done your part, and now you can be on your way?”

“You make it sound—”

“Like what? The truth?”

She moves away from me as if she doesn’t want me to read her—to see the truth in her hazel irises.

She heads to the wall of windows, folding one arm under the other as she peers out the glass.

That’s my signature move of avoidance.

I come up alongside her, press a palm to the glass, and look out at the New York night. The city is glowing and alive, and for the first time in a long damn time, I feel alive, too. It’s been a while. A long fucking while. But there’s something inside my chest, and it’s like a slow burn splintering throughout my organs and lighting everything on fire.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” I say and continue to stare out the window.

This city never lies. It absorbs everything and will spit the truth right back in your face when you least expect it.

I’m still waiting for it to happen to me.

“I told you.”

“No. Some part of you came here because you want my help.” I step back from the glass and wait for her to follow suit, to fight my words.

Fear might rule part of her life, but she’s also bold. I saw it Friday night, and when she faces me right now, I see it in her eyes. Like me, there’s a fire inside of her, too.

“I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve survived this life for ten years.”

“Survived?” I rub my jaw. “Is that what you want from life? Just to survive?”

She leans her back against the window. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

“And I’m trying to give you one,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And what would you expect in return for helping me?” She pushes away from the window, her eyes darting to mine as she shifts her sweater off her shoulder, showing me the top part of her black lace bra. “Sex?” She swallows. “Do you think I’ll screw you?” Her voice is harsh and bitter like the cold New York nights.

“No, Gia. I’m not a fucking monster.” I’m trying not to be, at least.

“Then what is it, Cade? Why help me? You don’t know me.”

“Can’t a person do something for someone without wanting anything in return?”

She shifts her sweater back in place and murmurs, “Not in my world.” She starts past me, but I turn and grab her wrist. “I just need you to help me get home unnoticed. After that, I never plan on seeing you again. I warned you, so now, you’re on your own . . . like me.”

“You can’t ask me to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Leave you alone.” I mean it, too. I’m invested now. In her health. Her life. My brother is right about one thing—once I’ve made up my mind about something or someone, it’s all bets on the table. And I’m showing my cards right now.

I might be emotionally closed off to people, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let this woman get hurt if I can do something to help.

A flash of hesitation passes over her face. “Don’t get involved with me. Look where it’s gotten you so far. Any more time with me will only get you killed.”

“And what exactly will happen to you if I let you walk out of my life without a second thought? What will this son of a bitch do to you?”

She shirks free of my grasp, and I let her, because I’m not like Rory. I won’t keep my hands on a woman if she doesn’t want me to.

I move, giving her some space.

“Is there a way out of here for me? I need to get home before anyone realizes I’m not there.”

Back to avoidance.

I contemplate my options, but locking her away in my office until I can figure out a way to keep her safe isn’t going to fly.

“I’ll have my driver pick us up in the garage. No one should see us,” I say, but I’m nowhere near done with this conversation—she just doesn’t know it yet.

“Thank you,” she says.

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in my limo, and Gia is positioned across from me, her eyes outside, observing the city as it blurs by.

I raise a glass to my lips and swallow the shot of whiskey, unable to take my eyes off of her, and it’s killing me that a woman like her—hell, any woman—should be living in fear.

When her eyes catch mine in the glass, she rips her gaze away.

“Please, be careful,” she says in a soft voice. “Rory doesn’t give up.”

“And neither do I.” My grip tightens around the glass as my other hand clenches into a fist in my lap, my eyes falling shut.

How has she dealt with the guy for ten years? Ten fucking years.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Her accent thickens. “I will get away from this life.”

And why don’t I believe her? Why do I feel like I’ll see a picture of her dead body on the front-page news someday?

The mob.

No getting out.

Not alive, at least.

My eyes open at the rustle of material. She’s lifting my blazer from her lap, holding it out to me, and I catch sight of the angel wings on the inside of her wrist as the jacket sleeve slides up a little.

I almost shut my eyes again as a memory—a recognition of some sort—tries to resurface. It’s like a thin veil has dropped over my mind, taunting me with only fragments, a puzzle to figure out.

“We’re here, Mr. King,” my driver says after opening the glass partition.

I had instructed him to park around the block from the location Gia gave me. Hopefully she won’t be noticed. And as far as we could tell, we didn’t have a tail.

But before she leaves, there’s something I still need to know. “How’d you get involved with Rory in the first place?” I finally take my jacket from her, and she reaches for the handle.

“My father,” she says before getting out and closing the door.

And it’s in that moment everything comes to me.

The memory of her from my past . . . it blankets my mind, wrapping around my head like a tight bandage. It cuts through me to my very soul, if I even have one.

“Jim, I need you to follow her and see what apartment she goes to. Don’t let anyone see you.”

I grab my cell from my pocket so I can call Jessica as soon as Jim has information.

I can’t be too late to help.

I need eyes on Gia. I need her safe. Alive.

I screwed up eight years ago. I can’t do it again.