Pretty Dirty (Dirty Bad Things Book 2)(29)

Joey’s fist hits me again, and I grunt as I hit the floor again.

Gray’s not watching this time. He’s not on the camera, a floor away and and ready to come save me. This is just me and Joey.

…And I’m not sure I’m walking away this time.





15





Gray




Fuck.

I’m missing her. A lot.

I sit in my car for a solid five minutes, just thinking about her. Zoe. My Zoe. The girl who came out of nowhere and landed in my lap. The girl with the broken past and the shadows behind her eyes that I’ve never seen in anyone’s besides my own. My pretty little bad girl. My dirty little secret.

Mine.

There’s never been a girl who made me feel this way. Never. I’ve been close, I suppose. There was Michelle, but that just left a bitter taste in my mouth. Michelle was years ago, and it turns out, Michelle wasn’t looking for love, she was looking for a roof and stability. Michelle was looking for a father figure for her son, Jason. And the fact that he looked damn near just like me was a bonus for her I guess. Jason was a sweet kid, for sure, and Michelle was a sweet enough woman, but that wasn’t love. That was me grabbing at normalcy after Afghanistan, and her seeing that and jumping on the opportunity.

I was mad about it all before, for a little while. When she was pushing marriage, and pushing for me to adopt Jason — all that shit when it turns out she was still fucking Jason’s deadbeat dad. I was pissed, sure, but I didn’t hold onto it. Michelle wasn’t what I was looking for, and in spite of all the bullshit, I hope the she’s found whatever stability she was looking for. For Jason, at least.

But again, that was years ago.

Eventually, I sigh, get out of my car, and head inside. I work from home a lot, but I do keep an office upstairs from Gino Moretti’s restaurant, The Venetian. I know, how fucking mob cliche, right? I slip in the back door by the kitchen, and say hi to Lincoln, the chef, who makes a fucking mean cacio e pepe. I shoot the shit with him for a second before I head up the stairs to my office. I just need to file some shit for Gino, and then I can get back to— I swing the door to my office open, and they spring apart.

Oh what the fuck.

The strikingly beautiful, red-haired woman is Quinn Moretti, or you could also call her Mrs. Moretti, as in Gino Moretti’s wife. No one knows how he swung that. I mean, he’s rich, but she’s not the gold digger type. She’s also insanely out of his league, and if we’re being honest, Gino has the personality, charm, and sense of humor of a piece of roadkill.

Gorgeous, much much younger, smart, and sharp. It makes no sense that she’s with a sixty-year-old degenerate like Gino. But then, it’s not my boss and the head of the Moretti crime family that she’s springing away from, panting with flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

…Its Roman, my buddy.

Gino’s security detail.

Her bodyguard.

We all freeze — Quinn looking away, Roman looking right at me, and me looking right back at the two of them.

“Roman was just helping me find my earring,” Quinn says quickly, chancing a look at me.

“Yeah, he’s…” I clear my throat. “Yeah he’s good at that I guess.”

Roman looks away.

“Especially when those earrings are in my office.”

My buddy whips his head back and glares at me. I just smile thinly.

“You guys find what you were looking for?”

“Yep,” Roman says quickly. Much too quickly.

“Fantastic.”

I want to laugh, but this is also no laughing matter. I didn’t see them, but c’mon, I know what I would have seen if the door had opened a second sooner. One of my best friends, with his hands all over and his lips kissing our mob boss’s wife.

Yeah, that's bad. That is real bad. That’s “you become part of the foundation of a new casino and no one ever fucking hears from you again” bad.

“Well, I should go.” Quinn smiles quickly at me. “Nice to see you, Grayson.”

“Ma’am.”

I nod brusquely as she steps past me, red faced and avoiding my grin as she steps from my office. Roman makes a move to follow, but him I stop with a finger to his chest.

“Sit your ass down,” I hiss.

“Fuck off, I have to—”

“Now.”

I shove him back into my desk chair and he glares at me.

“Don't give me that look.”

“Fuck off, Gray.”

“Are you fucking insane?!” I hiss at him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The fuck I don’t. Quinn fucking Moretti?” I slowly shake my head at him. “There are four fucking million girls out there on the Strip with all sorts of issues who’d be willing spread their legs for a guy like you.”

Roman says nothing, his glare hardening.

“You got a thing for redheads? Fuck it, that takes the pool down to like, what, one and a half million? Jesus fuck, Roman!”

“Leave it,” he growls with a warning tone.

“I can’t.”

“You should.”

“I don’t want to see you die, man,” I say quietly, glaring right back at him.