Break For Him: A Possessive Mafia Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  I drank the coffee and headed into the back. I only had an hour to try and get myself together before my first customer appeared. He was a skinny guy, bald head, black gloves.

  “Hey, uh—”

  I stood, walked to the duffel, and took out a bottle. I faced him and held out a hand.

  He looked around then dropped a stack of cash into my palm. I handed him the bottle.

  “Thanks. Have a nice day.” He turned and left.

  Addicts. Fucking polite addicts.

  I put the cash in a side pocket on the duffel and sat back down.

  The day went like that. I had six customers in the morning, and by mid-afternoon I felt worn out even though I did nothing more than walk to the table, collect money, and hand out pills. A couple guys tried to make small talk and one even lingered for a few minutes, but I made it clear I wasn’t interested in them, and soon they all disappeared back out into the world.

  I tried not to think about my brother dead on the floor.

  Between customers, I daydreamed. I pictured what my shop would look like one day after the renovations were though. I got a texted around three from Owain with a picture of Viktor doing work to the floor with the caption, “hard at work, just like you,” which both made me smile and pissed me off.

  That perfectly described my relationship with him.

  The day ended and another night passed. I drifted through the evening like I was afraid to break something.

  I didn’t go downstairs to sit with Owain. I wanted to, but I knew what he’d think.

  I didn’t want to give him that power.

  It went like that for a week. I sold drugs out the back of Sander’s bodega. I drank good coffee, ate lunch at the little table, and watched sitcom reruns. I tried to keep my distance from Owain, but I knew that only made him want me more.

  And it only made me wound up with the thought of his hands on my skin.

  Sander checked back on me that Monday afternoon. “Going out for lunch. You want anything?”

  “I’m okay. I’ll grab something from up front.”

  “Suit yourself. But you can’t live on fuckin’ hot dogs and candy forever.”

  “Watch me.”

  He laughed, waved, and disappeared. I flipped through the channels, feeling tired and bored. I barely slept the night before. I kept dreaming about Owain, an I didn’t want him in my head any more than he had to be.

  There had only been three customers so far. An older white guy in an expensive suit, a black guy with a denim jacket and a nice smile, and a skinny pale kid in cargo shorts. They came and went, drifting from my life like a bad dream.

  Like a dream of him.

  It was late afternoon when I heard the noise up front. I didn’t think much of it at first. Sander was always moving around, banging into things, restocking shelves, cursing to himself. Sometimes I sat up there with him and we’d talk about sports, or movies, or music, or he’d complain about the Philly Parking Authority. Apparently, he had a long-standing feud and despised the PPA so much that I thought he might have a heart attack every time they came up.

  So a little banging, some raised voices, they didn’t draw my attention right away. It didn’t stop though, and when Sander shouted my name, that’s when I finally decided to sit up straight and listen. I crept toward the door and peered out of the crack.

  Three guys in denim jackets stood surrounding Sander’s bullet proof case. He stood with his hands in the air, his eyes wide. One of the denim guys said something that made Sander shake his head.

  “I don’t know anyone named Leigh,” Sander said, talking as loud as he could. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Why the fuck is he yelling?” a pale guy with a bandana said. “Why the fuck are you yelling, fat man?”

  “I’m not yelling,” Sander said, clearly yelling. “I just talk this way.”

  “Fuck this.” The leader was a tall man, thick neck, muscular arms. A series of ugly scars and brands laced his forearms as he gestured toward Sander. “You keep playing dumb and I’ll cut your throat myself.”

  “I’m not playing anything. I’m just—”

  “Albert. Look.” The last guy pointed back toward me. He was younger than the others with dark eyes and an ugly hooked nose.

  Bandana looked back at me and barked a laugh. “There’s the little slut.”

  “Go,” Brands said. “Get her.”

  Bandana and Nose marched toward me. I stumbled back, slamming the door shut and slapping the lock into place. My heart hammered as I sprinted over to the table with the duffel bag and began to shove money and pills inside.

  They slammed up against the door and it jumped in its hinges. I heard someone curse, someone laugh, and someone slammed against the door again. I could barely breathe as the memory of the fire came rushing back to me. I’d almost died that night, nearly burned to death, or choked on smoke, or got a bullet in the head.

  Now they were back.

  I grabbed the duffel and ran to the back door. I threw it open as the other door cracked and buckled. Bandana kicked it one final time and it flew inwards, smashing up against the TV, sending it sprawling onto the ground.

  I threw myself into the back alley with the duffel under my arm.

  “Get the bitch!” Bandana yelled. “She’s going out the back.”

  “Find the fucking drugs,” Nose said, but Bandana was coming for me fast. I had one second to kick the back door shut, but there was no lock, and I didn’t wait to look.

  I ran as fast as I could down the alley. I stumble, nearly tripped over a board leaning up against a green dumpster, and barely managed to catch myself before slamming face-first into slime colored water that coated the concrete. I smelled puke and piss and my own fear, and the only sound I could hear was the constant bang-bang-bang of my heart.

  The alley mouth was just ahead. It would spit me out onto the sidewalk. I could turn left, head toward a more densely populated section of the city. I had to hope those bastards either wouldn’t follow me there, or wouldn’t kill me in front of witnesses.

  As I reached the end of the alley, someone stepped out from the shadows.

  A single scream tore from my throat. I threw up my hands in self-defense. The duffel flew from my grasp and scattered bottles on the ground.

  Rolan caught me as I barreled into him. He grunted, but held me until I came to a stop. “Easy girl,” he said, pushing me aside and dropping to one knee.

  Bandana flew into the alley behind me. He barely had time to open his mouth as Rolan squeezed the trigger and put a bullet in his head. Blood splashed onto the wall behind him as he dropped and the deafening pop of the gun set my ears ringing.

  “Come on.” Rolan grabbed my wrist and tugged me away.

  “Wait. The pills.”

  “Fuck the pills. We’ll get the rest.” He pulled me onto the sidewalk and I stumbled after him.

  “Where’s Owain?”

  “Nearby.” He took out a cellphone and tapped at the screen. He must’ve sent a text, because he slipped it back into his pocket. “I was on duty when they went in.”

  “There are two more inside with Sander. Please, you have to help Sander.”

  “Fuck Sander.” Rolan pushed me toward a boxy black sedan. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

  “But, wait, they’ll get the pills. And Sander’s still in there.”

  “Get in the fucking car,” he growled.

  I ripped my hand away from him. “Those pills are money in my pocket. You don’t give a shit if we lose them, but I do.”

  “Wait,” he said as I turned to head back to the alley.

  I knew I was being stupid. There were plenty more pills to sell and my cut of what was lost back in that alley wouldn’t amount to all that much. But my ears rang and my hands shook, and I kept thinking over and over that if I couldn’t sell the pills then this would all be for nothing, and Sander was still in there, and I couldn’t abandon him, and—

  A car came sc
reaming to a halt behind me as I reached the mouth of the alley.

  Bandana’s corpse lay in a spreading pool of blood. Nose stood over him, gaping down at his dead comrade. He turned to stare at me and raised a gun.

  I saw it all in slow motion. Nose couldn’t be older than twenty. Acne covered his right cheek, and a scar ran down his left. I wondered how he’d gotten it, how he ended up in that motorcycle gang at such a young age. He looked like a baby with softness still in his cheeks.

  The gun he lifted was too big for him. The silver barrel was long and polished. I wondered how many times he’d fired it and if he was a good shot. A snarl ripped across his lips as his other hand came up to grip the handle. He fell into a firing position and I took a single step backwards. That was all I had time to do as Nose took aim at me.

  He wanted to kill me. He was going to do it. He wanted revenge for his dead friend and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  I was stupid. So, so stupid, and I hated myself for it.

  Nose pulled the trigger a split second after something slammed into me from behind.

  I heard the gun go off at the same time I heard a grunt of pain. I felt the wall smashed up against my shoulder and I let out a shocked breath. Owain was there, big and angry, a red gash on his arm. He spun, dropped down to his knees, and fired off two shots. Nose staggered back as red bloomed across his chest. Nose fired wildly and the bullets ricocheted off the alley floor as he staggered back then fell on top of Bandana’s corpse.

  Owain stood and moved forward. “Stay there,” he said.

  I gripped the corner of the building and stared as he walked down the alley with his gun ready like a predator.

  Rolan appeared at my back. “I told you not to move,” he said. “You fucking asshole.”

  “I couldn’t leave them.” The words felt weak coming out of my lips and I wished I could shove them back in.

  “He’s going to blame me for this.” There was an edge of fear in his tone.

  Owain stood over the bodies and fired his gun one more time before turning. He ducked to the left as gunshots rang out from inside.

  The third man.

  “Owain!” I yelled and took a few steps forward.

  “Stay there,” he said, voice angry, and ducked down then fired into the room. He fired five times then moved into the room. Three was a long silence then one more gun shot.

  He came back out a few seconds later and tucked his gun back into his waistband as he walked toward me. His eyes burned with a strange, cold anger.

  “Clean this up,” he barked at Rolan. “Make sure Sander’s alive and has his story straight.”

  “Got it.” He walked off without another word.

  Owain stood there staring at me, his hulking body tense, his eyes cold and dead.

  The eyes of a killer.

  “Get in the car.”

  There was no discussion. I didn’t bother trying to argue. I let him lead me away, back into the street. I got into the passenger side and leaned my head back as he got behind the wheel and drove back home.

  13

  Owain

  I managed to keep my temper in check until I got her out of the car and into the house.

  Which was a small miracle.

  Because I was pissed beyond all reason.

  She stumbled inside and managed to make it to the couch before she dropped down. I knew she was in shock. I could see it written all over her face. She wasn’t used to that kind of shit and watching someone get killed in front of her wasn’t easy, no matter how many times it happened.

  Even still.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  She looked up at me. “What?”

  “When you went back to the alley. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  She shifted a little. “I was thinking… the pills. I had to get them, right? That’s my money.”

  I let a growl escape my throat. The fucking pills. That was the dumbest shit I’d ever heard. There were a few hundred dollars worth in that bag and her cut would’ve been miniscule. She risked her life for something like eighty or ninety bucks.

  “God damn it, Leigh.” I clenched my fists. “I’m trying to keep you alive. You realize that, right?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Trying to keep me alive? You’re dangling me out like bait.”

  I took a step closer. I felt my anger spike again as her words washed over me. I knew she was right, but it wasn’t that simple.

  “You know what we’re trying to do here. Don’t pretend like this is something new I’m asking of you.”

  “What do you even care? You got what you wanted. Three dead Jackals.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you got killed in the process.” I shook my head and wanted to shout at her, but I restrained myself. “It’s one thing to put you in the minimum amount of danger. But it’s a totally different thing for you to go running back toward a bunch of angry killers just for some fucking pills.”

  “What do you want me to say then Owain?” A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “You want me to get on my knees and apologize?”

  I walked over to her, reached down, and grabbed her arm. I pulled her up off the couch with a grunt as she struggled against me.

  “Come here,” I said, growling at her.

  “Get the hell off me.”

  I dragged her to the steps and she stopped fighting so much when she realized there was no use. I got her up the steps and shoved her into her room. She whirled on me, rage lighting up her face.

  “What, are you going to lock me up?” she asked, practically shouting at me.

  “No,” I said. “You need a shower. And I need you to stitch my arm.”

  Her mouth opened like she wanted to fight me but her eyes moved down to the wound in my arm. It bled freely, though not bad. It was a graze, a deep one, but still just a graze. It wasn’t life threatening but it needed to be closed up sooner rather than later.

  “Stitch your arm?” She shook her head. “You’re fucking insane. You know that, right?”

  I grinned at her, showing her all my teeth like an angry lion. “God damn right I am. Stay there.”

  I left her room and stomped into my bathroom. I had a medical kit in my close. I pulled it down, made sure I had everything I needed, and brought it back into her room. She paced around like a caged tiger.

  “I’m not stitching your arm. Call that doctor.”

  I held up the kit. “You’re doing it. Get in the bathroom.”

  “No. Call the doctor, you psycho. I don’t know how to stitch up a wound.”

  “I’ll walk you through it.” I marched into her bathroom, opened her shower, and turned on the water. I unbuttoned my shirt then slowly peeled it off.

  She lingered in the doorway behind me. I felt her eyes on my body as I dropped the bloody shirt on the ground. Blood rolled down my muscle as I opened the kit up and pulled out some clean gauze. I sprayed the wound with an antiseptic and began to dab along its edges and its middle, cleaning it as best I could.

  “Don’t just stand there. Needle and thread’s inside.”

  “It’s going to hurt. I’ll fuck it up and leave a scar.”

  “I don’t give a damn about a scar.” I grinned at her and half turned to face her. I had plenty of scars on my body, scars from knives and worse littering my chest and abs. She stared at them like she wanted to catalogue each one, like she wanted to understand the pain that had followed them all.

  She had no clue what I’d been through and she’d never understand it.

  “Come on, Owain. This is stupid.”

  “If you care so damn much, there are pills in the kit. Get them out for me.”

  She hesitated, but then finally moved with a frustrated grunt. There was a bottle of Percocet at the bottom. She grabbed them, popped off the top, and gave me two.

  I dry swallowed them then showed her the wound.

  “Get to work, little diamond.”

  “Is this another one of your insane
tests?’

  “Could be, or maybe not. One way to find out.”

  “Fuck.” She closed her eyes. The bathroom began to fill with steam from the shower. “Fuck you’re insane. You really are crazy.”

  “Sew my arm before you piss me off.”

  She cursed again but found the needle and thread in the kit, opened the packaging that kept them sterile, and stared at me.

  “Well, walk me through it then.”

  I laughed, took a deep breath, and began to give her instructions. By the time she got the thread ready, the pills kicked in, and the first jab into my arm was only mildly excruciating.

  She did a shit job. But of course she did. She was still in shock and barely functioning. But the simple task of sewing up my arm wound took her arm off the trauma of what happened long enough to snap her out of it, at least a little bit. She had to stop and start a few times, and I was sure that a lesser man would’ve howled in pain, but she kept her cool and concentrated, and eventually the wound was closed.

  She sat down on the toilet. Her hands shook as she took out a bandage. I knelt down in front of her and took her hands in mine. Her chin lifted and she met my gaze.

  “You’re okay.”

  “Yeah. I know. You’re the one with the stitches.”

  I tilted my head and let a smile tug at my lips. “You’re really okay, Leigh. You’re fine. You made it through.”

  She chewed her lip. “I know.”

  “You’re going to be okay. I promise. You’re okay.”

  I leaned forward and pulled her against me. I held her tight for a long moment and let her body press tight against mine.

  She didn’t cry. But she didn’t need to. I felt her slowly relax in my embrace. I felt her fear and pent up emotions and the shock that threatened to overwhelm her at any moment drift off into the air. Her muscles lost their rigidity and her breathing slowed down to a normal pace.

  I pulled back and looked into her clear eyes.