Page 15 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
Because right now it is.
"No." I grit through my teeth and my voice sounds dangerous even to my own ears. "You don't just leave."
I don't chase women. I have never chased a woman in my life. Women come to Scarlet Thorn, the night happens, and everyone goes home with the understanding that it was what it was and nothing more. That has been my arrangement for years and it has never bothered me. Not once. So someone needs to explain to me why every cell in my body is screaming at me to go after a woman whose name I don't know like my life depends on catching her.
I'm on my feet. I slam my palm against the elevator call button. The mechanism hums to life far below and I wait, jaw grinding, pulse hammering in my neck, counting floors as the box climbs. It's too slow. She could be in a cab already. She could be halfway across the city while I'm standing here in my goddamn underwear.
I spin toward the kitchen and grab the house phone and punch the code for the lobby desk. It rings. And rings. And rings.
No answer.
"You have got to be kidding me." I check the clock on the microwave. 4:12 AM. The night doorman should be at his post. I jab the code again. Ringing. Nothing. My blood pressure spikes and I make a mental note to fire whoever left that desk unattended.
My thumb hovers over my cell. Luca. One call and every camera in the building lights up on his screens. Kon. One text and the Beast covers every exit in three minutes flat.
But I can see Luca's face already and I know what he'd say. The slow grin spreading beneath those gold-flecked eyes. "You're texting me at four in the morning because a woman left you aftera one-night stand? Massimo Santoro got ghosted? Hold on, let me get Rafael in on this. He'll flip."
Screw that.
And Kon. Kon would just show up like he always does. Silent. Massive. Standing in my foyer like a concerned wall. He’d say nothing while his dark eyes cataloged the whiskey glasses, the wrinkled sheets, my bare chest, and then fill in every detail I wouldn't offer.
It makes me almost prefer Luca's loud mouth.
I can't. Not tonight.
I stalk to the bedroom. Yank open a drawer and pull on gray sweats. Fuck the shirt and shoes. The red heel goes in my left hand, phone in my right. The elevator doors stand open from the call and I step inside, hit the lobby button, and the descent begins.
I call the front desk while the floors tick down. The phone rings twice.
"Front desk."
"Santoro." My voice is hard. Clipped. "There's a woman who just left the building. Blonde hair. Baby blue dress. Stop her."
A pause. Rustling. "Mr. Santoro, there's a woman matching that description outside right now. She's... it looks like she's getting into a taxi."
Every muscle in my body coils tight. "Stop her. Go outside and stop her right now," I howl.
"Sir, I..."
"Now!" I roar.
The elevator hits the lobby. The doors part and I'm through them before they finish opening, bare feet slapping cold marble. The lobby stretches empty and gleaming ahead of me and I can see through the glass entrance doors to the street where a taxi idles at the curb, amber light glowing against wet pavement.
When the fuck did it rain? I was so damn consumed by the woman I lost all sense of my surroundings.
I shove through the doors. Chicago's predawn air hits my bare chest and every inch of exposed skin contracts. Goosebumps rip across my arms and shoulders. The concrete is rough and freezing under my feet, biting into my soles with every stride, and I don't slow down. I don't care about the cold or the concrete or the fact that I am running shirtless and barefoot down Michigan Avenue at four in the morning chasing a taxi like a man who has completely lost the plot. Because I have.
"Wait!" My voice tears across the street. "Stop!"
The taxi's brake lights glow red. She's just gotten in. The rear door is still closing and I'm sprinting, feet pounding wet sidewalk, lungs burning with cold air.
The dome light inside the taxi is still on. For one second, maybe two, I see her face through the rear window and my heart contracts. Blonde hair falls across her cheek. The line of her jaw. The curve of her nose in profile.
My stride breaks. My bare foot catches on a crack in the sidewalk and I stumble forward, catching myself with one hand on the rough concrete. Pain flares across my palm but I barely register it.
Smooth, Santoro. Very fucking smooth.
I right myself but my brain is still tumbling along the floor. I blink a few times. That face. It couldn't be. The dome light is too dim. I'm seeing things.
