Nicole Fox

“Ice cube?” he asks me, holding out a bucket of them.

“I don’t need a fucking ice cube, Ruslan. I need this baby to get out of my body!”

“Soon, baby,” he assures me. “Soon.”

Or we will, anyway, if this baby ever comes out.” I stare at my belly. “Please come out. Mama’s tired.”

“And terrifying.”

“What was that?” I snap.

“I said you look so beautiful right now.”

“No.” I blurt it before I can think better of it. “No. No. I’m not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Oryolov. I’m a—I mean, fuck you, I’m a person! I have a life and hobbies and people wh

“No.” I blurt it before I can think better of it. “No. No. I’m not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Oryolov. I’m a—I mean, fuck you, I’m a person! I have a life and hobbies and people wh

Wouldn’t that be a headline? Reporter Faints in Men’s Bathroom While On-Duty; Cracks Head Open On Sink; Funeral Sparsely Attended. Honestly, I’d have to laugh—it would be undeniably hilarious if my obituary got a byline before I ever actually got one myself.

Wouldn’t that be a headline? Reporter Faints in Men’s Bathroom While On-Duty; Cracks Head Open On Sink; Funeral Sparsely Attended. Honestly, I’d have to laugh—it would be undeniably hilarious if my obituary got a byline before I ever actually got one myself.

“I’d say ‘Take a picture; it will last longer,’ but you’ve been staring at me long enough that I’m pretty fucking sure you have it all memorized by now,” he spits. The voice matches his eyes: cold as the grave, rough, relentless.

That’s right: Leander Makris, New York’s infamous crime boss and head honcho of the city’s Greek mafia, is the star of my article.

“No,” he replies as he unclasps the kit and starts to pull out bandages, gauze, and disinfectant. “A compliment would be me telling you that you look fucking stunning in that dress. Calling you ignorant was merely an observation.”

I slap his chest with my good hand. “Ass!” I cry out.

“Now, it’s my turn to ask if that’s supposed to be a compliment.”

I’m not sure whether I want to laugh, scream, strip, or escape.

I should back away. I really, really should. Everything about this man is a red flag. Charisma is a red flag. Cleverness is a red flag. Being that stupidly good-looking is like a whole flagpole’s worth of red flags.