I shouldn’t have a phone. Shouldn’t have access. But I memorized a few numbers before they took mine. Some were already programmed in.
My thumb hovers over Emilia’s name. She shouldn’t be in my contacts.
But… she could be an asset. If she goes back in and distracts them, I can figure out how to fuck everything up from the inside.
If I can make Luisa hate me so much, she begs to be replaced—and one of our own takes her place—it’ll be cleaner.
I text Matteo.Give me 72 hours to get a cleaner way.
You have 48.
Fuck!
Forty-eight hours.
How the hell am I supposed to push Luisa far enough to make her leave in that amount of time? It would be easier to make her love me than to break her.
No.
Not love me. If she fucks me. Gives in to me, she’ll remove herself. She won’t risk a case—she’s too damn noble for that.
She’ll kiss me, report herself, and be replaced.
I’ll use her fucking morals against her to save her—to save her (proving I’m not a monster) and keep the cops from stacking more charges against me.
That’s doable. Just like Luisa is. I go another round with the punching bag before heading upstairs.
She’s stretched out on my couch, reading something about the law—how fucking fitting. She kicks her feet idly, twirling the tip of her ponytail, shifting just enough that her thighs jiggle slightly.
Just like her ass. She’s so damn plush.
“You look like a perfect body pillow,” I inform her.
She doesn’t flinch. “Dinner’s being served in an hour.”
How the hell am I supposed to seduce the woman I just yelled at?
I glance at my fists and smile. “Want to punch me?”
Her feet freeze mid-kick. For a second, I don’t even think she’s breathing. Luisa’s gaze snaps to mine. “You’re trying to get me on police brutality?”
Damn. That would have been an easier way to go.
Backup plan. I shrug. “I don’t have a murder room—here anyway—but I have a boxing ring.”
“Fight club. Shocking,” she sneers.
“We both put on boxing gloves and go at it. I’ll put in writing that it was my idea—if you need supervisor approval to get a workout.” My tone condescending.
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t need permission to best you in boxing.”
“Are you sure?” I tilt my head, all mock innocence. “Seems like you need permission to enjoy yourself. I tried to give you that permission, but maybe we should call your boss, your partner, your parents. I want to cover my bases,” I say with a shrug.
She slams the book shut.
There she is.
“You won’t even land a hit.”
