The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family #6) Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Crime, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Grassi Family Series by Jessica Gadziala
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Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
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But I knew that she had a bathroom and a back room.

I moved into the bathroom first, but there was nowhere to hide. Just one big room. The ceiling didn’t even drop, so she wasn’t perched up there.

Back room it was.

If she didn’t already get herself free and out of here, that is. The call was almost an hour ago, after all.

I pushed open the swinging door to the back, pulse skittering, some part of me thinking I might confront someone there, despite the almost eerie silence in the place.

But there was nothing.

A kitchen space, a work table, a desk to the side.

Confident I wasn’t at risk by any madmen who’d broken in, I flicked on the light, then tucked my phone away as I moved through the space.

There was a big metal door to the side of the room. A refrigerator walk-in. Unlikely hiding space, but I made my way in that direction, pulling it open, and looking around.

The metal racks were lined with acrylic bins, displaying everything inside.

No hiding spaces.

“Traveler?” I called as I moved back out. “It’s August,” I added, just in case she didn’t recognize my voice. “You can come out,” I added, checking under her desk. Nothing.

Maybe she was gone.

But one look toward the back door showed me her purse and her keys still waiting for her. If she ran, wouldn’t she have grabbed at least one of those on her way out of the door?

I mean, not everyone had their wits about them in life-or-death situations, though, so it was possible she just… ran for her life.

Still, I wasn’t leaving until I was sure that was the case.

“Traveler, come on. Where are you?” I called, moving back toward the kitchen area.

Double ovens, countertops, big glass canisters full of various items. Sugar, flour, oatmeal, some sort of tiny black seeds.

There were upper and lower cabinets.

But all there was in the base cabinets were various pots, pans, and cookie trays.

Standing, I was about to go into the alley in the back when I remembered something. A video I’d scrolled past on social media where a woman evaded home invaders by folding herself into the minuscule corner bread box.

She’d been long-legged too.

So if she could do it, Traveler probably could have as well.

“Trav, come on,” I said, reaching up into the cupboards, pulling open doors.

Nothing.

“Fuck,” I hissed, looking around when I was done.

Then I saw them.

Four racks sitting on top of her big-ass industrial oven.

There was no good reason for all the racks to be out of it.

I walked back, sure I was crazy for thinking she could be inside. But, objectively, it was big enough. A tight pinch, but in an emergency, I could see it working for a smaller person like Traveler.

Grabbing the handle, I yanked it down.

And there she was, scrunched up so tight that I wasn’t sure how she was breathing.

But there.

Alive.

Breathing.

Shaking like a fucking leaf.

“Hey, alright. It’s alright,” I said. I wasn’t great with comforting people. That wasn’t something that I was generally left to do. “They’re gone. But we gotta get gone too,” I said, placing my gun on the counter, so I could grab her and pull her out.

I wasn’t sure how the fuck she got herself in, because getting her out wasn’t easy. But, I guess, you could make yourself do all sorts of uncomfortable things in a pinch.

“Okay, you’re alright,” I assured her when she dropped to the floor. Where she didn’t even bother to unfold herself from her fetal position. “Traveler, come on. We have to go,” I said, trying to pry her arms down.

She had to get it together.

If people were after her, they would likely come back.

“Alright,” I said, striding toward the door, grabbing her bag, and tossing the long strap over my head, stuffing her keys in my pocket, then going back toward her, slipping my arms under her, and lifting her up into my arms.

She wasn’t hurt that I could tell.

But, clearly, her mental and emotional state wasn’t great.

I had nowhere to take her, but this was a big city. I imagined there would be an opening at some hotel somewhere until I could get her to calm down.

With that in mind, I tucked her into my passenger seat, keeping an eye on the random men suddenly around on the street who were clearly keeping an eye on me, then got in the car, and peeled off.

CHAPTER TWO

Traveler

“Why are those cookies called The Queen Mother?” a random man in a suit—likely one of the developers trying to take over the neighborhood—asked.

“Because they look like pussies,” I told him, barely holding back a smile at the way his eyes widened and his lips fell slightly open.

Oh, but it was so much fun to shock the menfolk.

But I was a little bored, so I went ahead and grabbed one of the cookies.


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