Page 19 of The Billionaire's Distraction

Tito’s brows furrowed.“What car?”

“She owns a fifteen-year-old vehicle,” Tony explained flatly.“A red Toyota Camry.”He knew because the dossier on her showed that she paid the annual registration and taxes on the car.

“Hell, that beat-up old piece of crap died about two months ago,” Tito explained.“She’s been taking the bus since.She made the mistake of dropping that POS off at Mike’s down on Pine Street.”

The reaction from the circle was immediate.Snorts.Groans.Muttered curses.

“Mike’s a cheat,” Tony snarled, his voice carrying a razor edge.He felt his jaw clench, fury scraping under his skin.“Why would she take it to him?”

“Because she didn’t think to ask us for a recommendation,” Tito muttered darkly, glancing around at his crew before adding more firmly, “But we look out for her when she’s walking.Don’t worry, Tony.”He grinned, flashing the gold tooth that marked him as a survivor of these streets.“No one’s gonna hurt her.”

Tony shoved his towel into his gym bag, his movements jerky.That wasn’t the point.Naomi shouldn’tneedstreet kids to protect her.

He slapped his palm into Tito’s, the familiar rhythm of their bro-hug grounding him for a moment, then went down the line with the others.“See you next week,” he called, his tone steady but his thoughts a storm.

Sliding into the back of the SUV, he took a deep steadying breath.“Home, boss?”the driver asked.

Tony leaned back, staring out the window.His mind spun, clawing for answers.Why the hell did she live here?He knew her salary.It wasn’t generous, but it was enough to escape this hellhole.Nobodychoseto live here.The people of this neighborhood were in survival mode twenty-four-seven—pavement cracked like broken teeth, liquor stores on every other corner, gunshots ringing throughout night like punctuation marks.Hell, he’d seen safer alleys in cartel territory.

And his sweet, beautiful Naomi was walking to the bus here.Alone.Every day.In a neighborhood where women regularly disappeared and were never seen again.

His chest burned with something uncomfortably close to fear.

He should have gone to the showers and changed into better clothes, should have checked in at his usual haunts, gathered the rumors, listened to the whispers from his sources in the government, industry and the hotel bartenders.That was the plan.That was what he did on these night trips into the city.

Instead, he snapped, “Head over to Mike’s auto shop.”

The order hung heavily in the car.His driver’s eyes flicked to the mirror, hesitant.Even the bodyguard in the front seat shifted, glancing back at him like he was wondering if he’d heard correctly.

Tony lifted an eyebrow.Suddenly, the SUV lurched into motion.

Ten minutes later, Tony was standing over Mike’s sagging bed in a cramped apartment that stank of whiskey and grease.The mechanic snored like a chainsaw until Tony’s boot connected with the frame, jolting him awake.

The man’s hand shot for the pillow.He froze when he found nothing.His bleary eyes widened, then focused on the Glock in Tony’s grip—the same one that had been under that pillow.

Mike sagged back, sweat already breaking out on his forehead.“What the hell do you want?”he snarled, voice rough from booze and fear.

“The red Toyota.”

Mike’s age was a lie told by his body.He wasn’t even fifty years old, but he looked older, with a salt-and-pepper beard matted against his jaw, bloodshot eyes, and a gut that had grown so large he couldn’t sleep on his stomach.His tee-shirt was stained, stretched across his bulbous belly, and a cigarette burn near the hem.

“What about it?”

“What’s wrong with it?”Tony demanded.

“Nuthin’,” Mike shot back quickly, scratching at his stomach.“I fixed it.Purrs like a kitten now.Just waiting on payment.The dumb bitch says she can’t afford it.”He smirked, yellowed teeth flashing.“Why?You wanna buy it?”He let out a greasy laugh.“Tell you what—I can sell it to you cheap.I’ll give it to ya for what she owes me.You get a deal, I get paid, everybody’s happy.”

Tony’s stomach twisted.Rage clawed up his spine, sharp and precise.He kept his tone even, each word sharpened to a blade.“How much does she owe you?”

“What’s it to you?”

Tony’s finger twitched against the trigger guard.His voice dropped another octave, colder than the steel in his hand.“How much?”

Mike’s bravado faltered.He licked his lips, shifting against the headboard, trying for casual.“I… I don’t know.I’d have to check my records.”

Tony grabbed a fistful of the mechanic’s grimy tee-shirt, and hauled him upright with one hand, accepting the fact that he was probably going to need a rabies shot after touching this ass.Maybe tetanus too.The man’s feet scrambled for balance, but Tony pulled him out of bed like he weighed nothing.He shoved him down the hall, each step punctuated by the dull scrape of bare feet on the warped floor.

Before they even reached the office, one of Tony’s guards came in, flipping through a thin stack of crumpled folders.“Boss,” he said with a smirk, “there’s no record of any work being done on Ms.Cross’s vehicle.”He held up a sheet, then shook his head.“Hell, what few records this man keeps are—” he snorted, disgusted—“barely worth the paper.”