Break For Him: A Possessive Mafia Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m glad you understand.” I turned away. “We’re visiting your shop in an hour. So get yourself cleaned up, shower, and eat something.”

  She said nothing as I left and locked her door again.

  I touched my cheek. My fingers came back bloody. I pit my fingers in my mouth and sucked the blood away.

  What an incredible specimen. I leaned against the door and smiled to myself. She was going to be a lot of work, and I had a feeling she’d kick my ass soon enough. But god damn I wanted it.

  I wanted to see how much she could make it hurt.

  Leigh was willing in the car on the drive over. I couldn’t blame her though. From her perspective, I was ruining her life.

  From mine though, I was giving her a second chance.

  Shirtadelphia was a small store front on South Street crammed between an Irish bar and a tattoo parlor. I found a spot a block over and got out. I walked around to her side and opened the door.

  She climbed down without a word.

  “Lead the way.”

  I watched her ass in her tight dark jeans walk ahead of me back toward the store. Her gray t-shirt was a little baggy for my taste, but even if she was trying to hide her figure, she wasn’t doing a good job. Nothing could keep those curves from me, and the memory of her attacking me this morning only made my blood boil even more.

  Sometimes I surprised myself. I should’ve been pissed she ruined a favorite pair of suit pants. Instead, I was overjoyed that she’d shown some backbone.

  The sidewalk was damp from the night before and foot traffic was slow. Most shops were closed for the morning. A drycleaner’s neon lights flickered as we walked past. A young couple held hands and carried cardboard coffee cups. I wondered if Leigh secretly wanted to be like them.

  I walked behind her and enjoyed the view until we reached her store.

  She stared at it then looked back at me. “I don’t have my—”

  I took her key from my pocket and held it out.

  She took it without comment and unlocked the front.

  Shirtadelphia had a hip, bright interior. She flipped the lights on. The floors were polished, bright white tile. Each wall was covered in shirts, their fronts folded to show the graphic. Two long couches with gray, faded cushions sat in the center of the space facing an old mid-century coffee table with magazines on top. A flat screen TV hung in the back-left corner and a door led to the back. The counter looked like a trio of vintage washing machines in green, blue, and pale pink.

  She gestured around then turned to face me. “This is it. My whole freaking life.”

  “Beautiful.” I beamed at her then ran a hand down along the back of a couch. “Really, you have a great eye for this stuff.”

  “I’d say thanks, but also, fuck you.”

  I nodded. “You did all this yourself, didn’t you? Built everything? Designed it all?”

  “Mostly,” she said. “I had some help building the shelves and the counter. Otherwise it was all me.”

  “Very impressive.” I smiled at the shirt designs. Some were goofy, stupid jokey shirts with idiotic slogans like Blonde Gone Wild and U Coming At Me Bro mixed with Philadelphia-centric designs featuring the Liberty Bell and other iconic imagery. Then some were more abstract, a series of geometric shapes and overlapping circles in different colors and patterns.

  “I don’t know how you think this is going to work. Most of my clients are young, you know? Teenage kids. And I doubt you’re trying to sell pills to teenagers.”

  I shrugged. “Teenagers, preteens, children. Whoever wants it and can afford it, I’ll sell to them.”

  She stared at me. “Are you joking?”

  “Normally, no. But yes, right now I am joking.”

  She looked oddly relieved. “I know you’re an asshole, but I’m trying to decide if you’re a monster or not.”

  “Oh, I’m most certainly a monster.” I walked over and fingered a shirt featuring Ben Franklin riding a T-Rex. “But I don’t sell to kids and I don’t take stupid risks. Teenagers are inherently untrustworthy. And I’m not trying to get anyone killed. We’re selling to seasoned addicts with a proven track record of keeping their fucking mouth shut.”

  “Sounds great.” She walked over and stood behind the counter, arms crossed. “And meanwhile I’m supposed to run my business as usual?”

  “Perhaps not quite as usual, but yes, that’s the idea.”

  “Because I think someone’s going to notice a bunch of junkies coming in and out.”

  “You’d be surprised. Did you notice it when your brother was spiraling?”

  She glared at me and said nothing.

  “Truth is, my little diamond, junkies tend to look like normal people. Regular people that got hooked on a drug, but are generally high functioning. Sure, of course there are junkies living on the street, but we’re not looking for them. Pills aren’t cheap. Heroin’s much cheaper. We’re selling to upscale clients.”

  “Where’d you even get all the drugs anyway?”

  “China.”

  “Right. Specific.”

  I spread my heads. “I can’t tell you all my secrets yet, even if we are going into business together. Now, show me the back room.”

  She made a face and turned. I followed her through the door, down a short hall, past a bathroom and a supply closet, and into the back. She flipped on a light. It was a wide room with several tables and racks of shirts piled high. A small desk sat shoved against the far wall with a computer monitor and a pile of files and folders. I imagined her brother sitting right in that spot, slumped over and dead.

  “Not much to see. Computer has all our accounting and stuff. This is where we keep excess stock and pack and ship online orders.” She gestured at a pile of boxes and labels. “A lot of our orders come online. Right now, we’re at fifty-fifty, online and in store, but I’d like to sell more online soon.”

  I nodded and looked around. “Makes sense. You set up the online portal?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Good. That might be useful. Could be an easy way to take orders.”

  She made a face. “That’s a terrible idea. You want to pay taxes on your drugs?”

  “Yes, actually. That’s a problem with drug money. It’s not legit if you can’t pay taxes on it. So you can’t spend it without raising eyebrows. The IRS and the Feds pay attention to shit like that. But if sales came in through your online store, say, for a t-shirt that doesn’t exist, we could pay taxes on that money and make it legitimate. That’s called laundering.”

  “Thank you for the lesson on how to be a drug dealer. I really appreciate it.”

  I beamed at her. “You’d better learn, because that’s what you are now.”

  She threw up her hands. “I don’t understand this at all. Why me? Why this store?”

  I put my hand on a t-shirt rack and pushed against it. The whole thing wobbled a bit, but not too much. I could already see the place would need some improvements. Her brother was a waste of a man.

  “This store gets enough street traffic that it wouldn’t be unusual if it bumped up by a small percentage. And your brother was in my pocket. It’s simple, really. You’re convenient.”

  She made a face and paced toward the back door. I watched her, curious about how she’d take it. But she turned and paced back toward me.

  “So I do this for a while. I sell all your pills. Then what.”

  “Like I told you. Then you choose if you want to stay and continue running the store and selling for me, or you walk away. Maybe if you do well, you walk away with a financial bonus.”

  “You’ll really just let me leave? Even though I know so much about you and your operation?”

  I chuckled and felt a strange stab of pride. The girl was smarter than I gave her credit for.

  “Seems stupid, doesn’t it?”

  “Seems like you’d never really let me leave.”

  “Here’s the thing, little diamond. For most
men, that would be true. Most men would kill you before they let you walk. But I’m not most men.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

  I shrugged. “Believe what you want. I’ll say this though, I think that after we’re through, you won’t want to walk. And if you do, then you won’t want to turn me in. Because you’ll know me by then, and you’ll know that I’ll find you and cut your throat and murder your mother and make sure your life was a living hell, at least for your last moments.”

  She glared at me but I saw that glimmer of fear again.

  I hated threatening her. It wasn’t elegant and it wasn’t my style. But she had to understand that this wasn’t some kind of game I was playing. A lot depended on me, all my guys looked to me for leadership, and nothing was going to get in my way.

  The crew was growing and we were going to take over the city. I had my role to play, and I wasn’t going to let Hedeon or anyone else down.

  “Whatever,” she said finally, but she sounded uncertain.

  “For today, you’re going to work. Normal day, like any other.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Really. All alone, too. I don’t think you need a leash when you know what the consequences of running away would be.”

  She took a breath. “So I just sell shirts like usual?”

  “Sure. Ship your online orders. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll check on you later.”

  “This is another test, isn’t it?”

  I tilted my head. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you’re weird. And you’re smiling.”

  I laughed. Damn it, I couldn’t help myself.

  “Just sell your shirts, my little diamond. I’ll be back later to pick you up.”

  She said nothing as I turned and left her store.

  I couldn’t wait to get started. But she was right, I had to put her through one more test.

  This was her chance to try something stupid. She’ll spend all day thinking about it, weighing her options, making up plans. She might even follow through with something. Before I actually began selling out of here, I had to be sure she wouldn’t make this difficult.

  So I dangled freedom in front of her and let her figure out what path she wanted to take.

  I was an optimist. I believed she’d do the right thing and keep her mouth shut. But I’ve been wrong in the past, and I might be wrong again.

  That was the fun of it. She might let me down, or she might not.

  Only one way to find out.

  I left the store, walked to my SUV, and drove off.

  4

  Leigh

  The first ten minutes alone in my store were surreal.

  It almost felt normal, like it was any other day.

  Except of course it was anything but normal, since I started the morning as a captive, and likely would end it that way, too.

  Owain played games. I could see it already. He liked it when I attacked him because it proved something to him. He wanted me to lash out and he wanted me to fight.

  He thought it was fun.

  I had to use that against him.

  I didn’t know how though. He still held all the cards. He knew I’d do anting for my mother, and all he had to do was keep threatening her life to keep me in line. So I spent the afternoon trying to come up with ways to get out of this.

  Customers came and went. A woman tried to bring her dog inside and I had to kick her out. Some kids bought shirts with Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangster on the front in white lettering. I wondered if their parents would even care.

  Time slipped past, morning turned to afternoon. I took cash from the register and bought lunch at the deli a couple doors down. The guy behind the counter was overweight and balding, and he smiled at me. “Sell a lot of shirts?” he asked, and I laughed, although he said that to me every time I stopped in.

  After lunch I packed shirts in the back. Late afternoon was always slow. As I finished getting the online orders ready to go out, I realized that I’d stopped thinking about Owain and let myself settle into my normal daily routine.

  It felt easy to do. I’d been coming to work and going through these same motions for months now. It was comfortable, and right now I craved comfort and something normal more than anything else. I could so easy see how I could fall into his trap.

  Selling his pills wouldn’t be hard. I could fit it into my typical day. Not much would change in my life and I could drift along on an eddy of routine and easy comfort until he got what he wanted and didn’t need me anymore.

  He said he’d let me go. But I knew better.

  There was no way out. If I ran, my mom died. If I tried to bring her with me, we’d both get caught, and we’d both die. If I stayed, I was dead sooner or later.

  By the time four o’clock rolled around and I had three hours until closing, the realization hit me like a punch to the gut.

  I had to kill him.

  There was no other option.

  If I killed Owain, there’d be nobody to hunt me. Maybe his men might take it up, but I had a feeling they’d be too busy fighting with each other to try and avenge their leader. I could be wrong about that, but I didn’t see any other options.

  I had to kill him. And I had to do it today, this evening, right at seven, right at closing. Otherwise I’d never do it.

  I sat down in the back on the computer chair and stared at the shelving racks and the shirts in neat piles. My heart beat so fast I felt like I might hyperventilate and pass out. Sweat beaded along my back.

  I never killed anyone before. I’d never been in a fight. Killing a man, even a man like Owain, felt horrible. It felt like the end of the world, like the end of myself.

  But I had to do it. I had to do it if I wanted to survive and if I wanted to save my mother.

  I needed a weapon. My eyes scanned the room. Owain was way bigger and stronger. Attacking him like I did that morning wouldn’t work. I needed an edge.

  The racks. They were made of long metal tubes. I remembered how heavy they were from when I built them with Jason all those long months ago.

  I walked to the nearest one, cleared off the shirts, and began to take it apart. I only needed to remove the top most shelf since I only needed a single support strut. I unscrewed it and got it off in about ten minutes then stood there weighing the long metal rod in my hand.

  It was solid and heavy. I swung it and made a satisfying whistle through the air.

  I pictured slamming it into Owain’s head over and over and over until he stopped moving.

  My stomach twisted into bits, but I made myself close my eyes and picture it again.

  Hitting him, in the head, over and over, until his skull broke and he died.

  I gagged. I was so cared I thought I might cry.

  I was going to do it.

  Time slipped past. I sold some more shirts up front. A few online orders trickled in. I filled them, even though I didn’t think I’d ever get to the post office again after today.

  I was going to murder someone.

  Five came, then six. I kept the metal rod leaning against the counter. I looked down at it every few minutes and tried to see myself hitting Owain in the face until he died.

  Six-thirty rolled around. A young guy with a buzzed head and his hippie girlfriend laughed at some of the really lame shirt slogans and ended up buying some of my geometric designs. The girl complimented the shop but I just smiled at her and barely heard it.

  When they left, I locked up and went into the back.

  Owain would come soon. I sat in the computer chair and tried to stay calm. I held the rod in my lap and ran my fingers along its smooth tube. I was going to use it to kill him. I was going to bash him in the face until he was dead.

  I shut my eyes then opened hem again.

  It was time.

  I got up and hid right where the door would open. I was going to use the same trick on him again, since I figured he wouldn’t expect it twice. I stayed still a
nd quiet with the lights off.

  Soon I heard something up front. The door opened then closed. Of course he had the spare key. He’d infected my entire world and had taken it over like a virus. My palms were sweating and I had to wipe them on my jeans. I gripped the metal rod tight in both hands.

  I heard his footsteps in the hallway. He walked slow and deliberately. I knew it was him from his gait, it just had to be him.

  The door opened. I wanted to scream. I was so scared that I might not go through with it, scared that I might chicken out at the last minute.

  He stepped inside. I saw him from behind: tall, muscular, broad, light colored hair. Handsome as all hell.

  I had to murder him.

  He turned in my direction. I stepped forward and swung the rod as hard as I could at his face.

  And connected.

  His head snapped back and he grunted in pain. His hands came up to his nose. A satisfying spurt of blood smacked onto the ground.

  “Fuck,” he said. “The fu—”

  I came at him again. I hit him hard in the shoulder then aimed for the head. He stumbled back, nose bend and bleeding, eyes wild with rage. The rod hit him in face again, but it was just a glancing blow. It ripped a hole on his left cheek to match the claw marks on the other side.

  I swung hard, aiming for his head, but he lifted an arm and blocked it. He growled in pain and I could only imagine how much that hurt. He moved fast, coming at me. I stumbled backwards, trying to get space. I swung again and hit him in the side but it didn’t even slow him down.

  He smashed me against the wall. I gasped in pain and arched my back. He grabbed the rod and ripped it from my hand. It made a clattering sound as it bounced along the floor. His fist gripped my throat and he breathed hard staring into my eyes as blood ripped down his nose and cheek.

  He didn’t smile this time.

  I stared back at him, defiant and angry and so scared I thought I might pass out. He didn’t squeeze my neck hard enough to choke me, but I could feel the power there. I knew he could kill me whenever he wanted.

  He could rip me to pieces.

  In that moment, I realized it was hopeless.