Page 1 of Better Luck Next Time
Accabadore.
Beautiful but deadly, he’s the Italian mafia’s angel of death.
I didn’t see the danger in him last week in the dim light of the nightclub, but tonight, there’s no escaping it.
Dammit! I knew Izaiah was going to drag me into deep shit. Not only does Creed Ferraro know my name, but he also knows where I live, and is going to shoot me in the middle of my shitty Queens apartment.
Grasping my towel tighter to my chest, I glance over my damp shoulder at the locked and chained door.
“Wh-how did you get in here?”
Yes, that’s the most important question to ask the man who has obviously come to kill you. Like the logistics will help me out of this disaster.
“The window.” His voice is tight, his angular face stern. “Do you know why I’m here, Zara?”
I immediately nod as my gaping mouth completely dries up. The way he keeps saying my name, he makes it sound like a swear-word or an accusation. Maybe both.
Of course, I know why he’s here. His brother is dead, and he rightfully blames me. I blame Izaiah, but I doubt he’d believe that son of a bitch made me do it. Still, I want to try to explain.
Wetting my lips enough so I can try to speak, I tell him, “I swear I didn’t know what was going to happen. I-I thought —”
“Bullshit!” he roars. Flipping my laptop onto the sofa next to him, he surges to his feet. When he begins stalking toward me, I retreat until my back hits the closed and locked door.
I have two choices here. I could try to unlock the bolt and chainand outrun the man who is nearly a foot taller than me at five-eight, or I can try to reason with the don.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, unable to think of anything else to say to a man who just lost his brother.
“You’re sorry?” he repeats quietly. I think I prefer him yelling in anger. Just like I knew it was coming, his fist slams into the door right next to my head making me jump. I swear my heart is going to race its way right out of my chest. “No, you’re not sorry. Not yet. But you’re going to be. And you’re not the only one.”
He stares down at me, his eyes a fierce ocean blue, as if waiting for me to name names. When I don’t, he says, “I borrowed your phone while you were washing up. While I waswatchingyou shower.”
Oh god. He was in my apartment this whole time — with the bathroom door wide open. It never occurred to me that a don would sneak through my freaking window!
“I read your text messages back and forth with someone you listed in your contacts as Piece of Shit.”
Uh-oh.
He presses his large palm on the other side of my face, caging me in with his much larger body. “I think my favorite message was when you told him I was standing at the bar just moments before the raid. Right where mydeadbrother stood when those cops came in and shot him!”
“I didn’t have a choice! He asked me…”
“How much did he pay you to get my family’s blood all over your hands?”
“Nothing. And I tried to warn you and your friends to leave!”
“You should’ve tried harder!”
“I-I couldn’t,” I confess. “Someone might’ve seen me if I had just walked right up to you and started blabbing. What I did, calling you over to warn you, he willkillme if he finds out…”
“Hebeing Izaiah Rovina?”
I nod, since I have no reason to protect that jackass. In fact, it would be a relief if he was permanently removed from my life.
“It was stupid of him to use his actual phone number to text you,” Ferraro remarks.
“He’s an idiot,” I agree. “He-he did tell me to delete the thread afterwards…”
“Why didn’t you delete it?”