That’s when I saw him. Across the street, leaning against a building. As soon as Bishop saw me, he nodded and pushed away from his perch to walk home.

He waited to see if I made it up to my room. The frustration that built as I’d made my way up the elevator and down the hall faded, and something warm filled my chest.

Unexpectedly sweet.

With happy thoughts filling my brain, I wasn’t prepared for a slap in the face from reality. The phone in my purse buzzed across the table.

A text.

I pulled it out and stared down at the screen.

UNKNOWN nUMBER: Lay low. Shit’s heatin up.

IF I WERE GOING To let the text control my every waking thought, I would have stayed in my room and had room service for breakfast. Maybe if I were smarter, I would have. But I couldn’t let the off chance that something was going to happen keep me inside this hotel room.

So after an amazing breakfast at Stanley near Jackson Square, I slipped into the lobby. My heart rate sped up when I saw two men in suits speaking to a front-desk clerk. One of the men sported a bulge that reminded me of Angelo when his shoulder holster hadn’t been adjusted to fit well under his jacket.

The men with guns have nothing to do with me, I told myself as I hurried to the elevator before they could turn and see me. I’m just paranoid because of that text.

But that didn’t stop me from rushing to my room and locking the door behind me. I pulled my phone from my purse. There’d been no more texts and no calls. Wouldn’t there be a more specific warning if they thought I was in danger?

I forced myself to act normally and pulled out my list to decide what I was going to tackle today, but the loud ringing of the hotel telephone startled me back into paranoid as a crazy person mode. Against my better judgment, I answered it.

“Ms. Madden?”

It took my brain a second to click into gear at the mention of the alias used on the credit card I’d given them for the room.

“Yes?”

“This is James at the front desk. We’ve had an issue with the authorization on your credit card.”

“What kind of issue?”

“A fraud notice. I’m afraid we’re going to need another form of payment.”

Fraud notice? Trepidation pooled in my belly, but I kept my tone confident. “I’m sure there’s some mistake. I’ll check into it and be right down.”

I hung up, dug the credit card out of my purse, and flipped it over to the number on the back.

Five minutes later, it was my stomach flipping. This card has been canceled due to fraud concerns, the helpful representative on the other end had informed me. However, we are unable to issue another card until certain issues have been fully investigated.

The second part sent my mind racing toward possibilities of what could be happening. The card was obviously tied to Dom’s business. Someone reported it as being suspected of fraud. Who? The FBI?

I pulled up a web browser and tried to log in to my bank account. We apologize for the inconvenience, but you are currently unable to access this account. Please call for further details.

What the hell?

I had to call the number Vincent had given me. I might not be bleeding or being held at gunpoint, but something felt totally off.

No one answered. I tried four more times and got the same generic voice-mail message.

A dark feeling of foreboding crept over me. Pulling up another window in the browser, I searched for New York City news.

I’d only had a bank account frozen once, and that had been courtesy of the FBI. My identity as Dom’s illegitimate daughter apparently wasn’t a secret with the Feds.

I didn’t have to scroll far to see the headline.

Dominic Casso Under Grand Jury Investigation

Holy. Shit.

Racketeering, conspiracy, money laundering . . . the list went on and on. I read the article word for word until I got to the line that explained everything. Inside sources tell us that all assets associated with Casso and his businesses have been frozen pending the completion of the investigation.

Jesus. H. Christ.

I dropped back onto the bed. What the hell was I going to do? If they’d canceled the credit card under my alias, undoubtedly the credit cards under my real name were also canceled, not that they’d do me much good in my safe in New York. Dammit, why did the FBI take such pleasure in making life as difficult as possible? Probably because my dad’s a criminal.

Shit. The guys in suits at the front desk.

Are they FBI? Are they looking for me?

The room phone rang again, and I froze.

Do I answer? Ignore it?

The obnoxious ringing continued, and I made a snap decision.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Madden, I’m sorry to bother you, but we really need you to come down and handle this credit card issue as soon as possible.” The front-desk clerk’s voice was sympathetic but firm.

“Uh, of course. I’ll be right down.”

“Great. We’ll be waiting.”

We’ll be waiting.

The hotel clerk . . . and the FBI?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What do I do? Or an even better question—what would Dom tell me to do?

Get the hell out of the hotel and away from law enforcement.

I dashed to the bathroom and gathered up my makeup before shoving it in my suitcase along with all my clothes.

I have to get out of here. I wheeled the suitcase out into the hallway and headed for the stairwell that would exit nearest the side door. I wasn’t taking a chance with the front lobby and the desk clerk.

Yes, I was going to run out on the bill they couldn’t charge to my credit card. I would have felt guilty if I wasn’t more worried about being taken in for questioning by the FBI.

What if they were expecting me to bolt? What if someone was covering each exit? Yes, my imagination was running wild, but what if I was right?

As I stepped out of the stairwell into the hallway, I looked to my left and froze.

Fire Alarm – Pull Down Here.

Oh Jesus. I was going to hell.

I grabbed the white handle and pulled.

WITH MY SUITCASE THUMPING AGAINST my thigh, I ran down the streets of the French Quarter away from the Royal Sonesta. I didn’t know where I was headed, but I turned the corner and kept running.

My arm and shoulder burned at the weight of my bag, and my lungs began to protest soon enough for me to realize that I was way out of shape. A glance over my shoulder told me I was probably attracting more attention with my running than if I’d just walked like a normal, sane person.