Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(140)

And it’s what my father would have wanted for me.

“People are going to judge you for your name, sweetheart,” he told me when I was eighteen and heading off to university to get my journalism degree. “But that just means you gotta work that much harder. Make them take you seriously. Be so good at what you do that they’re forced to say your name with respect.”

Standing in my inappropriate high-heeled boots in this dripping, musty warehouse, I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears threatening to sting in my eyes. I can’t be weak. I can’t let my emotions cripple me. I’ve got to be strong like Dad was. Especially if I’m going to find out what happened to him… and who killed him.

It’s safer to think about my shoes, something silly and non-consequential. It helps keep my mind off how much I miss my dad. The only family I have — had — left. Now it’s just me, and I swore at his funeral that I’d make him proud in the afterlife.

It’s autumn here in Bayonne, New Jersey, and even deep inside this warehouse I can feel the occasional cool draft rippling through. I shiver and wrap my black trench coat more tightly around myself. This place is near enough to the coast that I could probably just run to the beach from here if I wanted to. But not yet. As tempting as it would be to just plop down on the Jersey Shore and let the salty fresh air mix with my tears, I didn’t come here for that purpose. I have something more important to do. I’m on a mission.

So I take a deep breath and try my best to walk lightly through the warehouse. This is easier said than done because my damn high-fashion boots are about as quiet as a foghorn, and the vast emptiness of this building causes my footfalls to echo slightly. Still, I doubt anyone else would come here — not since it was designated a crime scene.

Right?

After all, as far as I know nobody even owns it anymore. It’s sat out here on a muddy dirt road, abandoned, for so long that the original owners have probably died. I don’t know what this place was even used for. Except for murdering people in secret.

There’s that God-awful sting of tears again and I angrily swallow back the lump in my throat. I’ve come too far and risked too much to let myself be done in by my own stupid emotions. I can mourn later. Now, it’s time to buckle down and get the scoop.

I take a few more cautious steps before I’m distracted by what sounds like voices.

My blood runs cold, but I assure myself it’s got to be the draft rolling down the empty aisles, playing tricks on my spooked mind. There’s nobody here, I’m sure of it. Nobody but me.

But when I take another step I hear a distinctive shout.

I freeze up immediately, my eyes going wide. Oh no, I think fearfully, maybe it’s the cops coming by to check and make sure nobody’s disturbing the crime scene. But then again, they told me the forensics team already got all the information they needed, that the clean-up crew came through and cleared it all up long before I arrived. If there’s nothing else left to investigate, why would the cops be here?

My heart sinks into my gut.

Unless they’re not cops.

Feeling nauseous but strangely exhilarated, I lean into a massive metal shelf and strain my ears, trying to be utterly still and silent. I hold my breath and close my eyes, shutting out all extraneous sensory information so I can focus in on the voices. Sure enough, I’m able to make out the distant muttering of what seems to be a group of men.

A group? My heart starts to race as a sense of genuine danger starts to dawn on me. What am I doing here? I’m not a cop! I’m not a private investigator! I don’t have a gun or any kind of weapon at all, and even if I did, I would have no clue how to use it. I’m just a desperately curious, frightened fashion writer who has dropped herself smack-dab in the middle of what could potentially be some kind of criminal lair.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! I scold myself inwardly. What kind of idiot goes sleuthing around a murder scene unarmed and alone?

Holding my breath so tightly that my chest starts to ache, I can finally pick out a few choice words drifting over from across the massive warehouse: Cops. Information. Suspects.

Finally I’m forced to exhale and inhale sharply, letting the damp air fill my lungs. What on earth have I stumbled into here? What if these men are dangerous? I’m not prepared for a fight — hell, in these shoes I’m not even prepared for a quick escape. But something tells me I can’t turn back now. I’ve only been in this warehouse for five or six minutes, after an hour and a half of driving to get here. And who knows — the men talking might just reveal pertinent information about my father’s death. I can’t risk giving into my fear and bolting out of here now — not when things are just starting.