The Disguised Heiress And The Mafia Don

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rom cigars, and the air reeked of cheap whiskey and desperation. Across the scarred oa

ap of dock territory hung in the balance. Refusing meant weakness. I lifted the tum

lurring, I stumbled out, heart pounding. The

l A fishtailed as I floored it, poison twisting my gut. Then-bam. Metal screamed. The t

unscathed. Damien Cobb stepped out, pristine in his tailored s

s voice dripped venom, eyes raking my mud-caked form. "John H

, blood, and lips likely turning purple from the poison, though he'd probably mistake it

lose. Far too close to the bindings hiding my chest. A surge of pure panic, cold and sharp, shot through me. I

by pure rage. He lunged, grabbing my collar again, this time with inten

ier, hovered n

, giving my words a sharp edge. "Ripping a boy's clothes in broa

th a more personal fury. The whispers about his "tastes," a weapon used by his rivals, was now a shield in my

me, and I spewed a foul mixture of black bile and gall. It splattered across the fr

t, to my face, then to the wreckage of my Ford, as if connecting invisible dots. A conclusion settled in his features, and it was a death sentence. Slowly, deliberately, his hand moved to the Colt h