131: Gotcha Trouble

131: Gotcha Trouble
RUE

"Dad?"

The Cross mansion was too quiet. That was suspicious, considering that my father's version of downtime usually involved yelling at his men to be faster with the damn numbers.

I climbed the marble stairs two at a time, heading straight for his bedroom. If my mother's gossip was accurate...Killian Cross, the devil of Bellator Crux himself, had been plagued with migraines and high blood pressure lately. The mighty lion had been pacing his cage a little slower.

I knocked lightly, and then I pushed the door open.

He was in bed, a laptop balanced on the nightstand beside an untouched glass of water, an ice pack pressed against his temple.

His glasses had slipped down his nose. Even with the lines around his eyes and the gray streaking his black hair, my father looked... unfairly good.

Mafia lords weren't supposed to age like wine. They were supposed to shrivel into bitter husks, not look like they could still seduce a boardroom and break kneecaps all in the same afternoon.

I padded across the room and gently slid the glasses from his face. He stirred, those piercing blue eyes opening just enough to rest on me. The same eyes everyone feared in negotiation rooms and back alleys. The same eyes I'd inherited, though mine sparkled more than they sliced.

"Rue," he rasped, his voice rough but warm.

"Hi, Daddy," I whispered, perching on the edge of the mattress. "You look like hell."

His lips curved. "Thank you, princess. Always so kind."

I grinned. "I get it from you."

For a moment, we just sat there. Him, the king of the underworld, pretending that the migraines weren't chipping away at him. Me, the princess, pretending that I wasn't worried. 

I reached out and straightened the blanket over his chest. He caught my wrist, his touch unexpectedly gentle, as if I were still five years old.

"I'm tired, Rue," he said in a low voice, and something in his tone made my chest squeeze. "All of it—the meetings, the blood, the politics. I just want a very long vacation. Somewhere nobody knows the name Cross."

I blinked. Killian Cross on vacation? That was like asking the sea not to be wet.

"Don't tempt me, Dad. I'll book you a flight to the Maldives right now. You can wear sandals and drink fruity cocktails. Mom would love it."

His laugh was soft but threaded with exhaustion. Then he fixed me with that steady, assessing look. The one that had broken men in half. "But if I go, someone has to take the weight. There's a deal on the table, Rue. A big one. Handle it, and you're not just my little girl anymore. You'll be the next head of this empire."

For a second, my brain short-circuited. Then excitement roared through me. I tried to keep my face casual, but my smile betrayed me.

"Are you serious?" I asked, my voice cracking just a little.

"Serious as a bullet," he murmured. His eyes softened as they studied me. "You've always had my fire. Now it's time to show the world."

My heart thumped hard against my ribs. This was it. My chance. My crown was dangling just within reach.

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I won't let you down, Daddy. You'll see. I'll close that deal so tight they'll beg us for mercy."

He chuckled again. "That's my girl."

And in that moment, I wasn't just Rue Cross, mafia princess. I was heir apparent.

The only problem? Whoever was on the other side of that deal wasn't going to make it easy.

...

The kitchen smelled like heaven. Garlic, butter, seared meat. My father's cooking, of course. Even with a migraine gnawing at his skull, Daddy had laid out dinner worthy of being served at a Michelin-star restaurant.

I slid into a chair and forked up a bite. My eyes fluttered shut. Perfect. The devil knew how to feed his little girl like a queen.

My phone buzzed across the counter.

Unknown Number: How's your father?

I froze, my fork halfway to my lips. A slow smile curved my lips. Cute. He knew I was home. He knew where I went whenever I needed a break or a boost.

My phone lit up again.

Unknown Number: Saw you leaving the gallery earlier. Blue silk. You should wear it more often.

I lowered my fork slowly, a pulse leaping in my throat as a familiar coil of excitement settled low in my belly.

He'd seen me hours ago, before I came home. Which meant he'd been close. Close enough to watch me laugh with the curator, close enough to know exactly how the dress clung to my hips.

Smirking, I messaged him back.

'And here I thought you preferred me in red.'

The reply came instantly.

Unknown Number: Red is danger. Blue is devotion. I like both on you.

A wicked smile tugged at my lips. God, he was good. No cheap tricks, no fumbling lines. Just devotion that had been sharpened into obsession. I should've been unnerved. But, I wasn't.

These stupid texts made me feel alive, but I wanted more. Was it bad that I wanted to see him? I desperately needed to see the face behind the texts. Hell, I would let him kidnap me.

I was already so sick of pathetic little boys squirming at the sight of me, not able to handle my fire. Trouble was pretty consistent and that said a lot about how crazy our texting was. The best part? He never attempted to sext me just for the fun of it.

Rising to my feet, I headed to the fridge and opened it. There were a lot of things in it. Literally everything. Except for the one thing I needed the most.

"My juice," I muttered. "Where the fuck is my juice?"

Passionfruit juice was my ritual, my lifeline. Without it, the day felt wrong. And tonight, I was already hanging by a thread.

I grabbed my car keys, my annoyance fueling me toward the door. If the world wanted to spin out of control, fine. But my juice had to be within reach.

I reached for the door, but it swung open first. My brother filled the frame, his white shirt accentuating his broad shoulders. I could perceive the mint clinging to him. But beneath it, the faint smell of smoke lingered.

My nostrils flared. "Are you insane?"

He froze. "Rue, it was—"

"One cigarette?" I cut in, narrowing my eyes at him. "You think mint will cover it? You know what it means to him. One whiff, and you're finished. Do you have a death wish, Gio?"

His face paled, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He knew I was right. Our father would burn him alive before he let that stench linger under his roof.

"Pathetic," I muttered, brushing past him. "Hide it better. Or don't, and let me watch him tear you apart."

The keys jingled in my hand as I shoved past him into the night.

….

I'd just driven out of the Cross property when my phone buzzed again. A message from my beloved stalker.

'Don't frown, my Ruin. A happy little smile suits you better.'

Ruin was his weird little nickname for me. But I didn't mind. It was perfect.

I typed and sent him a reply before refocusing on the road.

'How long will you continue to hide behind the texts, Trouble?'

I waited for his response, but it never came. Eventually, I pulled up in front of my destination.

Then I slipped out of the car with my keys dangling between my fingers, whistling like I had nothing better to do on a Friday night than buy juice.

The little bell over the shop door jingled when I stepped in, and right away, the prickle at the back of my neck told me I wasn't alone.

My lips curled in satisfaction. Of course. He never let me breathe without reminding me that he was out there, somewhere in the shadows.

I plucked the last two bottles of passion-fruit nectar off the shelf, grinning as if I'd just won a trophy. Then I paid the bored cashier and sashayed back to my car.

I made a show of tossing the bottles onto the passenger seat, casually. With my phone in hand, I turned on my heel, my thumb flying across the screen as if I were making some urgent call.

"Mhm, Daddy, I’ll be home soon," I said aloud, just for my invisible audience.

The footsteps behind me quickened. Amateur mistake. He should've known better. My smirk widened as I strolled straight towards the mouth of a narrow alley, my head tilted in a way that implied that I was completely obnoxious.

When the footsteps drew too close, I spun. With one sharp pivot, I had him by the hoodie. Then I slammed him against the wall so hard that the breath whooshed out of him.

My forearm pressed against his chest, pinning him there.

He was taller than me. Broad shouldered and heavily ripped, but I had the element of surprise. Even through his hoodie, I could feel the hardness of his muscles.

His hood fell back just enough for the neon light from the street to cut across his face.

A black mask covered his nose and mouth.

One eye was a bright metallic silver, catching the light unnaturally, like a prosthetic or something custom-made. The other eye... gods. It was a crystal clear green.

That eye burned with a feverish intensity lit by a glint of pure, unfiltered madness.

I leaned in, savoring the pulse of adrenaline and the thrum of danger under my skin. "Gotcha, Trouble."