When I disembark at the private jet terminal at La Guardia, it’s dark, forty degrees outside, and drizzling. It might as well be eighty degrees and sunny for how happy I am.
I stand at the top of the airstairs of Kage’s swanky jet and throw my arms wide, shouting, “Hellooo, Big Apple!”
The uniformed chauffer waiting with an umbrella at the bottom of the steps on the tarmac squints up at me like I’m nuts, but I ignore him. I’ve never been to New York, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and bump into a random billionaire I can get to work on.
If not, there’s always shopping. The Louis Vuitton boutique on Fifth Avenue has been calling my name all the way from Tahoe.
“C’mon, doggo. Time to go see mommy.”
Mojo lifts his head from where he’s been sleeping the entire flight, on the first cream-colored leather seat in the cabin near the door. He glances at the door, looking dubious, then back at me.
I smile at him. “Move your butt or I’ll make a rug out of you, shaggy.”
Moving at the speed of a slug, he pours himself off the seat and onto the floor, yawns, scratches his ear with a hind paw, then blinks at me.
Shaking my head, I snort. “There’s no way you attacked anyone. It would take way too much energy.”
He yawns again, proving my point.
I head down the narrow metal airstairs, the dog following me. When I get to the bottom, the driver says solemnly, “Welcome to New York, miss. I’m Sergey, your driver.”
Sergey is young, green-eyed, and big enough to lift the car over his head if he wanted to.
Major big-dick energy. I like him already.
“Thank you, Sergey! I’m so happy to be here.”
“I’ll handle your luggage. Please, follow me.”
He gestures toward the sleek black Bentley parked on the tarmac a few yards away. I let him cover my head with the umbrella and follow him over to the car, feeling a slight twinge of guilt that there’s only one of him to handle my luggage, because I didn’t pack light.
Translation: I brought almost everything I own.
A girl can’t be expected to know what she’ll want to wear days in advance. It’s mood dependent.
Mojo and I get settled in the car while poor Sergey acts like my personal sherpa and loads all my bags into the trunk. When he finally gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door, he’s sweating.
“Sorry about all the baggage, Sergey. I’m terrible at making clothing decisions.”
He glances at me in the rear view mirror and shrugs. “You’re a woman.”
I decide not to be insulted by the overt sexism and smile at him instead. “You noticed! Was it my boobs that gave it away?”
His gaze drops briefly to my chest. Then he meets my eyes again. “Yes.”
He puts the car into Drive and pulls off, ending the conversation.
Big-dick energy, zero sense of humor. Next.
We drive through the city as I ooh and ahh at all the bright lights and big buildings. Beside me on the seat, Mojo snores. We take a turn into the garage of a skyscraper and drive down a twist of empty floors until stopping next to a bank of elevators.
In front of the elevators stands a phalanx of burly dudes in black suits, glaring at the car like it’s about to explode.
Ah, Russian gangsters. Such a trusting group of fellows. I just want to pinch their cute rosy cheeks.
I wait for Sergey to open my door for me before exiting, because there’s nothing better than making a regal entrance in front of a captive audience.
Especially when that audience is a bunch of strong, dangerous men.
I have a feeling this trip to New York is going to be epic.
Smiling, I step out of the car. I wonder if sending the army of gangsters a beauty queen wave would be too much.
Probably. These guys don’t look like they’d get the joke.
But suddenly, they’re not looking at me. Their attention has been caught by the other car pulling up behind us.
It’s a big black SUV with blacked-out windows, and it might as well have a neon sign on the roof screaming, “You’re all going to die!” for the reaction it gets from the Russians.
In a coordinated move that would make any military general proud, all of them reach into their coats, pull out weapons, and point them at the windshield of the SUV. One of the men starts bellowing something in Russian like a crazy person.
Then, when five more SUVs screech to a stop behind the first one, the shouting guy completely loses his shit. He drops to a knee and starts firing.
Oh boy. This doesn’t look good.
I should’ve brought that .357 I stole from Stavros. It figures that’s the only thing I didn’t pack.
I dive back into the Bentley, almost crushing Mojo as I land on top of him on the back seat. He squirms out from underneath me and huddles on the floor. Gunfire erupts all around us, echoing painfully loud against the cement walls and ceilings of the parking garage.
I lie on the seat with my ears covered and my knees pulled up to my chest, just waiting until everyone runs out of ammo and whoever’s left alive will commence the hand-to-hand combat phase until they all kill each other that way.
I’ll sneak away then. Once these guys start throwing punches, they don’t notice anything else.
When I was in the Mediterranean with Stavros and his crew, fights would break out all the time. I could’ve strutted around naked for all they’d notice. They’re like pit bulls once they get going.
My plan is shot when someone grabs my shoulders and drags me out of the car.
I land on my back with a thud that knocks all my breath out of me. My head cracks sharply against the cement.
Before I can recover, I’m picked up and shoved into the back seat of one of the SUVs, so hard I fly all the way across the seat to the opposite side of the car. My head hits the window with an alarming splat, like a hard-boiled egg thrown against a wall.
I see stars.
The world slips sideways.
Guns are still firing.
I hear Mojo barking, but the sound grows fainter, drowned out by the engine gunning and the squeal of tires against the ground as the SUV rockets forward.
I try to sit up, but can’t. Something isn’t working right. My brain isn’t communicating with my muscles.
A face materializes in my line of vision, swimming into focus.
A man leans over me. He’s mid-thirties, with jet black hair, a hard jaw, and eyes the color of the Caribbean sea. They’re such a vivid blue, it’s breathtaking.
In a low voice lilting with an Irish accent, he says, “So this is the woman who got my men killed.”
His gaze drifts over my face. It pauses on my mouth, where it lingers. “Can’t say I see what all the fuss was about.”
I’d punch him, but it’s impossible at the moment. Maybe later, when my brain isn’t sloshing around inside my skull like a guppy in a gyrating fishbowl.
After some concentrated effort, I manage to form words. “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”
“I’m Declan. I’m taking you to Boston to speak with my boss. As for what happens when we get there…that’s not up to me, pet.”
The blue-eyed stranger pauses, leaning closer. His voice drops. “But you did start a war, so I’m guessing you won’t like it.”
Flying out of the parking garage, the car lands with a lurch so jarring my woozy head smacks against the door handle.
The last thing I see as the world fades to black are Declan’s piercing blue eyes gazing down with searing intensity into mine.
