Page 6 of Fatal Scheme

“A girl needs protection. What’s with the gun in your waistband? You got enemies I should know about?” She fires back, her hand resting on the butt of my weapon tucked underneath my shirt.

“All my enemies are dead, Principessina.” I tilt her chin upward with my finger, leaning down until I’m hovering above her lips, daring her to make a move.

“I don’t kiss strangers.” She pushes off of me, flipping her curls in my face as she walks away, but this time, I let her go, not ashamed to stare at her ass as she leaves.

Pretty, smart, and dangerous.

A recipe for disaster, but with her, I might just lean into my likely obliteration.

Carter Ruby Cassina.

That’s the mysterious girl I met at the party last weekend, and after some digging around the admissions office, I was able to access her school files.

She’s from upstate New York, transferring from a small city college, and living a few streets over in an off-campus apartment, but beyond that, she’s a ghost.

The issue is, I can’t dig up any social media accounts, family members, or a past besides the college she attended.

More than ever, I’m determined to crack the code and learn everything there is to know about her, including why she’s impossible to find online.

I’ve made it my personal mission to understand every single piece of her, and she has absolutely no idea. I’ve staked out her house a couple of times, noting that she doesn’t leave often, only for classes or coffee runs.

Her schedule is easy to follow, considering she takes business courses and electives, none of which adds up according to the classes she took upstate.

It’s as if she became a completely different student at Emory, a stark change from the various arts and English courses listed on the transcripts from her last school.

“Are you still online stalking that chick?” Tyson asks, letting himself into my room without knocking, one of my biggest pet peeves.

“It doesn’t make any sense. What girl doesn’t have an Instagram?”

“The kind that likes privacy, maybe? I don’t have an Instagram,” he says, flopping down on my bed and lighting a cigarette.

“I don’t know, Ty. There’s something about her, I can’t place it, and I’m not stopping until I figure it out. For all we know, she could be a plant from the Ricci Family in an attempt to take us out,” I say, slamming my laptop shut and reaching for a pre-rolled joint – courtesy of the local dispensary – from the case on my bed.

Admittedly, I’m being a little over the top, but nobody else needs to hear that confession, especially Tyson, since I’ll never hear the end of it.

When you’re preparing to go to war, anything is a possibility, and everyone is a threat.

“I highly doubt they’d send in a lone twenty-something girl to kill us, Massi. You need to stop being so paranoid.” He reaches for the joint, puffing it a few times before coughing, the smoke clouds billowing in the air.

Tyson only thinks with the utmost logic, and behind his back, I roll my eyes at his words, not following in his path of rationality.

Refusing to ignore my gut instinct is not something I do often, and right now, it’s screaming at me to find out what Carter is hiding, so rather than go back and forth on her true intentions, I check my watch, noting that her afternoon class is about to end, and I want to be there when it’s over.

Making a mad dash for the door, I snatch my keys off the desk, and thankfully, Tyson doesn’t say a word, only shaking his head as I scramble to gather my stuff.

Luckily, the main campus is only a quick drive, and I park in a staff-only space, intent on getting a front row seat to wherever it is she’s going.

I’m in the mood to play, so I get out, leaning against the hood of my car, letting her see me, and hoping the message I’m trying to convey comes across crystal fucking clear.

The best way to ensure someone makes a mistake, or slips up, is to let them know you’re watching, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

She seems to be the type that loves games, so let’s play.

Right on cue, she walks out of the main building, looking absolutely perfect, like a pretty little nightmare.

She’s wearing a Nirvana t-shirt, tied off in the front to let her belly show, and black leggings that hug every curve on her body. There’s no chance she’s wearing a sheath today, as the outline would clearly be visible, but something tells me she’s always carrying a weapon somewhere on her body.

Her dark curls are pinned up in a simple ponytail, and I catch myself thinking how good it’d look wrapped around my fist.