CHAPTER EIGHT
MATHIAS
The town car parks in front of a dingy apartment building after picking me up at the private airfield. Beige paint tries to make the structure blend into the woods surrounding it, but all the color does is scream the seventies.
A fortune in Allison’s account yet she chooses to live here.
It boggles the mind.
“I won't be long,” I tell the driver before exiting the car. It's warmer here than it is in Boston, but there's enough of a chill to warrant my coat.
Recalling her apartment number, 19H, I take the stairs two at a time. They creak beneath my weight, and the only positive thing going for them is that they're covered, because if left open to the elements, they'd rot in no time.
Finding the chipped black door heralding Allison's address, I knock next to the peephole and wait. A teal welcome mat crunches beneath my shoes as I shift backwards to read the cheerful cursive. Hello, Gorgeous! The peppy greeting and bright burst of color is incongruous with an otherwise drab environment.
Shuffling occurs behind the door along with a chorus of barks and growls.
So she has dogs .
The door creaks open an inch, and then another, as I watch a sliver of Allison beat back the canines rushing the entry. The dogs refuse to listen to her commands, forcing her to squeeze through the cracked opening to step outside and shut the door on their rabid excitement.
It’s obvious she didn't check the peephole before answering, because when she finally turns my way, her eyes widen, her mouth dropping open in shock.
My comment about her lack of self-preservation pops to mind again, and my teeth will soon be dust at the rate she has me grinding them together in frustration.
The wise thing to do when you have a visitor is check the damn peephole because anyone could be on the other side of the door. I could have shot her dead in two seconds flat the moment the door opened. I could have barged inside her apartment with one forceful shove.
“M… Mathias?”
A sense of satisfaction dissipates some of the annoyance roiling through me. She remembers my name. It’s evidence of the only logical thing she’s done so far—research who gifted her a mountain of cash.
“Let's take a walk.” I skip the niceties. A habit to get straight to the point rather than wasting time by bullshitting about nothing.
My hand automatically reaches for hers to tug her downstairs away from the barking dogs who are still making a racket.
The wound in her thigh doesn’t seem to pain her. No limping or wincing with each step.
“Your injuries don’t bother you?” I ask against my better judgment. The state of her health isn’t why I flew hundreds of miles; the mystery of her refusal to spend my money is. I’ve come to figure out the puzzle that is Allison Marie Fields, and that doesn’t include monitoring her healing progress.
“There’s some residual pain, but overall, it’s like it never happened. Except for the scars.”
My clasp tightens around her fingers. Scars are a consequence of life. I’ve certainly got my fair share after years of lessons and punishments from Conrad.
So why the fuck does the thought of Allison’s soft curves marred by scars make me want to find D’Amora’s men and slit their throats?
Because you've been raised with a steady thirst for revenge , I rationalize, determined to maintain my composure.
They’ll get what’s coming to them soon enough from Luca, and that should be enough to appease the hunger for their blood.
But they left marks on Allison.
My w —
I slam the door on that train of thought. She’s not my anything. She’s just a puzzle.
Aware that nosy neighbors could eavesdrop on our conversation, I guide her between two trees for privacy. A thousand questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I go with the most relevant one first.
“Why do you live here?”
“Excuse me?” She pulls her hand away, and I wonder if my grip accidently hurt her since it's the same arm where she was shot. Did I tug too hard and irritate the muscle? Kick up that residual pain ?
“Why do you live in this shithole when you could move somewhere better? Safer?”
“This is a safe area, and I live here because I signed a lease.” Allison crosses her arms over her chest, and automatically, my gaze falls to the generous swell of her breasts beneath the thin shirt. The way they easily shape to their new position lets me know she’s not wearing a bra, and I grit my teeth at the realization.
Why the fuck is she opening her door to strangers without being properly dressed?
“Why are you here?” She retreats another step. As if she has a chance of outrunning me if she tried. “How did you find me?”
“I put a million dollars in your bank account. You think it wasn’t easy to find your address, too?”
“Touché.” A flash of understanding tightens her features, then her eyebrows lift in worry. “Is this about the money? Please tell me it wasn't a mistake, or if it was, that you don’t need it paid back immediately. I have the majority of it, but I used some to pay my student loans. I emailed you about it in case it was a mistake. You said it was legal and final .”
“It wasn't a mistake.” I stuff my hands in my coat pockets to avoid the temptation to shake sense into the woman.
She’s like a fluffy little bunny flinching at every noise in the forest, except for the ones that actually herald danger. Bullets from a drive-by. A stranger knocking on her door. None of that fazes her, but a substantial addition to her bank account with an official email of approval from the CEO of a billion dollar company? That’s what gets her hackles up.
“The only mistake being made is your stubborn refusal to spend more of it. You could have bought a house and moved away from this place.”
“Why does it matter if I don’t spend your money?” Her eyes crinkle at the corners as her mind works to understand. Square lenses frame the clouded blue—a new pair of glasses, brown rims versus the jade she wore in Paris. Unbidden, my hand pats the inner pocket of my jacket over my right pec, reassuring myself of its contents.
“It's not mine; it's yours.” My eyes roll heavenward where a thick canopy of bare branches form a gloomy barrier to the sky above.
What is wrong with this woman?
She should be overjoyed by her new financial freedom. Most women love to shop. They buy fancy trinkets and expensive clothing as status symbols. And while Allison may not be a socialite, she's still a woman. I find it hard to believe there isn’t something she wants. Something money can easily purchase.
“Fine, my money,” she acquiesces, an indignant spark lighting her eyes. It’s the first time a glimmer of annoyance has revealed itself, proving she’s not all terrified glances and uneasy breaths. “Despite your email, I’ve been skeptical that it’s real, which has made me hold off on spending more of it. But as far as the apartment, it would be a waste of money to pay the fee to break the lease when I can stick it out for a couple more months.”
“Are you serious right now? An extra thousand or two to get out of your lease is nothing compared to what you have.”
“Old habits die hard when you've struggled your entire life. I can't suddenly be okay with dropping a ton of cash when it's not necessary,” she grumbles, spearing me with a judgmental glare.
“How much?”
“What?”
I pull my phone out and draft a text to my accountant. “How. Much?”
“For what?”
“For you to feel comfortable ending the lease and moving somewhere better than this.” I wave a hand toward the shabby apartments. They’re not exactly derelict, but Allison can do better.
“Um… Nothing. There isn't a number.”
“Fine, I'll decide for myself.” I tell John to deposit another million dollars into her account immediately. A minute later, there's a ding, and she checks the notification.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Her gaze lifts to meet mine. “You added more money.”
And I’ll add more if necessary.
“That should be enough to cover your reluctance to pay whatever the fee is. Why don’t you show me what the inside of these monstrosities look like?”
My return flight takes off in another hour. This impromptu trip was ill-advised.
I have a meeting with my lawyers concerning next steps with Petit Enterprises now that it’s under new ownership, but I can’t resist the opportunity to stay a little longer.
To steal another peek into her life.
Because the woman is a conundrum.
A Rubik’s cube of mystery.
It’s a damn shame I’m a fucking problem-solver or else I could let this inconvenient fascination go.
Allison laughs in disbelief. “You came here from god-knows-where to give me more money and judge my apartment? I'm the one who saved your life, remember? I should be the one calling the shots.”
That draws a chuckle from me. The idea of this woman running my life is beyond comprehension. “ Fille folle … You'll learn soon enough that I'm the only one in control here. Hustle your cute ass back to the apartment, or find out exactly how far I'm willing to go to get what I want.”
Like tossing her over my shoulder and hauling her upstairs myself.
Being careful of her recent injuries, of course.
It shouldn’t matter what her apartment looks like. It won’t be her home for much longer, but I want to learn more about Allison. Maybe the interior will offer clues to explain her strange behavior.
She shuffles backward, darting a worried glance between me and the apartment building. Ah, my scared little rabbit is back. “Now’s not a good time. You heard the dogs. They don’t like strangers.”
“They’ll learn to like me.” My hand drops to the small of her back to push her in the direction of the stairs. Her shoulders slump in defeat, and whatever frustration that flared to life earlier evaporates like it never existed.
Gone is her previous stance of defiance.
In its place is the nervous bunny again.
What is she hiding up there?