Her dark eyes stare up at me, and I spot a playfulness in them. Coupled with the way her lips are curved into a smirk, it’s almost as if she’s daring you to do something. There’s an edge to her, trouble brewing just beneath the surface. And the longer I stare at her picture, the more I want to know.
Evangeline Montalbano.
Pretty name. Nineteen years-old. Born and raised in Manhattan, a New York native like me. I peruse the rest of the information in her file and then I groan. She’s involved in multiple charities, and spends her free time shopping and partying with her elite friends.
I tip the bottle back, letting the whiskey slide down my throat. Rich bitches like Evangeline are all the same. They use charity work to hide the fact that they’re stuck-up and self-absorbed. Can’t blame them, I suppose. They’ve had everything handed to them. This Park Avenue princess wouldn’t know a hard-days’ work if it bit her on her undoubtedly perfect Pilates-formed ass. Her greatest hardship in life was probably a hangnail.
But this job isn’t about her.
Evangeline’s daddy owns a multi-million-dollar corporation. Anthony Montalbano is one of the richest men in the city. He also used to be my father’s best friend.
According to Dad, Anthony unexpectedly pulled his money out of the business they’d started after college, and ran off with Dad’s girlfriend. It was a lifetime ago, but you’d better believe my father held onto it. He holds a grudge like a Pitbull in a tug-of-war match.
All Dad talks about is how he was betrayed, how it should’ve been him with the million-dollar company instead of bill collectors and a dead wife.
To him, this isn’t just a job. It’s personal.
This is revenge.
My instructions in Dad’s plan are clear: Pose as Evangeline’s bodyguard. Tail her, night and day, and infiltrate her home. Collect any and all information about Anthony Montalbano and his company. Dig up dirt, uncover skeletons in the closet. Anything my father can use for blackmail.
Sounds simple enough. But I’m left with one question as I dial my father’s number and press my phone to my ear.
“Graham,” he answers. “I take it you’ve looked over the girl’s file.”
“How are we going to convince her father to hire me as her bodyguard?”
My father snickers, and a chill runs through me. “Oh, we’re going to be very convincing.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I sigh, pulling the wool ski mask down over my face. This is a new low for me.
“You ready?” Tommy asks.
“As if I have a choice.”
Tommy’s gloved-hand pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry, G-man. Clemmons and I will do all the work. You’re just along for the ride.”
“Why, exactly? Why does my father want me here?”
He shrugs and tugs his mask into place. “I don’t get paid enough to ask questions.”
And he’s not smart enough to ask the right ones.
Dad pays these guys to do his dirty work. His lackeys. All brawn and no brains.
Clemmons glares at me in the rearview mirror. “Just don’t speak. The girl can’t recognize your voice. Your father will have our asses if we fuck this up.”
I’m well-aware. “Let’s just get this over with.”
As if on cue, the glass door swings open and Evangeline Montalbano steps out of the bar. I do a double-take as she pulls a set of keys from her back pocket and struts over to the red and black Kawasaki motorcycle parked in front of our van.
Yes, we’re in a blacked-out pedophile van with ski masks on.
Not the point.
Evangeline tugs a helmet on over her hair, which is streaked with deep red highlights unlike the picture I saw. A cropped black tank top fits snugly around her chest, revealing her tiny midsection and gleaming belly ring. What surprises me most is the tattoo on her left arm: A warrior woman’s face, marked with war paint under her eyes, inside the head of a lion. She swings a leg over the bike, her ripped jeans tucked inside black combat boots, and leans over to grip the handles, giving us a glorious view of her plump, round ass.
“Wow,” I say on an exhale.
There’s that edge I caught in her headshot.
Tommy chuckles from the passenger seat. “Fucking hot, right?”
Hot isn’t the word. It’s too generic. Evangeline is stunning. Gorgeous. She’s a gravitational force pulling me in. And she looks nothing like a Park Avenue princess.
More like Biker Barbie.
“Here we go, boys.” Clemmons turns the key in the ignition and waits a few seconds before pulling out behind Evangeline’s motorcycle. He stays behind her for several minutes, following her every turn. She weaves in and out of traffic, changing lanes without signaling, making it difficult for us to keep up.
Then she makes an abrupt swerve down a side street.
“Where’s she going?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Fuck if I know,” Tommy says.
Clemmons shrugs. “Let’s see where this princess is headed.”
We come to a construction site and hit a dead end blocked off with orange cones. Evangeline skids to a stop, props her bike up, rips her helmet off, and stomps toward the bumper of our van.
“I know you’re following me!” she yells.
Shit.
Clemmons and Tommy fling their doors open, and Evangeline’s eyes go wide as realization sets in: Two men in ski masks are charging toward her in a deserted alley.
Tommy gets to her first and grips her bicep, dragging her toward the van. To my surprise, Evangeline yanks her arm back and kicks Tommy in his kneecap. Clemmons runs up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the pavement. Tommy lunges forward to grab her ankles, but she kicks him in the face. Then she rams her head back into Clemmons’ nose.
This isn’t good.
Tommy spits a mouthful of blood over his shoulder and swings his fist.
“No!” I shout, as he punches Evangeline in her face.
Her head hangs forward and her body goes limp.
Fuck.
Tommy and Clemmons shuffle toward the back of the van, my cue to open the doors. When I do, they toss Evangeline’s lifeless body in beside me.
Clemmons zip-ties her ankles together, and then her wrists.
“Maybe I’ll take this pretty little Power Ranger for my own ride when she wakes up.” Tommy’s hand slides up her leg.
I twist his hand backward before he can go any further. “Touch her again and you’ll lose your hand.”
The sick bastard laughs and closes the doors.
My stomach twists when I see the purple, swollen lump already forming on Evangeline’s cheek.
Tommy hoists himself into the passenger seat. “That bitch can fight.”
“Yeah, well, that bitch almost took you out,” Clemmons says.
“Fuck you. We got her, didn’t we?”
The two continue to bicker, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Evangeline’s face. I brush her hair back, staring down at her bruise. “We need to get her some ice.”
“Shut the fuck up, man!” Clemmons yells.
“Screw my father’s orders. She needs ice!”
“Yeah, hold on. Let me take this van with a kidnapped girl through the McDonald’s drive-thru and ask for a cup of ice.” Clemmons shakes his head, glaring at me in the rearview mirror.