A smile breaks across Danny’s face, deepening his scar, and the beam of his pearly white teeth snap me out of my mental debate. “I should have chosen my words better.” He squeezes my knees. “Gordon was partial to females of a certain variety.”
I’m frowning again, and Danny reaches up to my forehead and starts rubbing at the lines, trying to smooth them out. I’m lost. “Females of a certain variety?”
“Girls,” he says, the one-word clarification hitting me like a boulder in my stomach. I feel my body convulse, my mind being blitzed with unwanted memories. It’s Danny’s turn to frown, and I look away, certain that every image in my head is screening in my eyes for him to see. “Then I’m glad he’s dead.” I need to shut the hell up.
Danny’s hands slide up to my thighs beneath my dress, and I look out the corner of my eye to him. My expression should warn him not to ask. And, thankfully, he doesn’t. With one knowing flex of his grip on my flesh, he rises and takes a chair opposite me. I notice the waitress go to the restaurant door and unlock it, and so I glance over my shoulder to see the table we just vacated is now freshly laid. You’d never know a murder just happened there.
“So,” I say, returning my attention to Danny and taking a much-needed sip of my wine. “Do you kill here often?”
His mouth drops open momentarily, and then I’m left absolutely stunned when he bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Like the falling-apart, belly-clenching, body-spasm kind. He’s in pieces across the table from me, eyes watering. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I look across to his men, seeing they’re all having a similar reaction to me. Surprise. I shrug at them when they all look at me as if to ask what the hell has gotten into their boss. “Are you okay?”
Danny wipes at his eyes, sighing repeatedly, chuckling more, jerking constantly. “Oh, Rose.” Reaching for his wine, he takes a sip around another cute giggle. I’m surprised, yes, but I’m also awed. Danny Black having a laughing fit is irrefutably one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Five minutes ago, he was a menacing, murdering devil. Now, he’s a hysterical, chuckling god. Shaking his head to himself, he lays his forearms on the table, smiling across at me. “I kill here quite often.”
My smile can’t be held back. “And the owners just accept that?”
“The Italians like me.”
“Why?”
“You find it hard to believe that someone could like me?”
“Maybe,” I admit.
“I keep them in business.” He shrugs. “The local government wanted to kick the owners out when the lease expired five years ago. The restaurant has been here since 1902. I appreciate history and sentiment, so I bought the building.”
“And in return, they let you kill people in their establishment?” I ask, and he shrugs once again, passing me a menu.
“Technically, it’s my establishment.”
I accept the folder detailing the cuisine and set my wine down, but not before another quick sip. “Do you enjoy killing people?”
His smile is gone now, and I hold my wine in my mouth for a few seconds before swallowing hard. “I only enjoy killing people who deserve to die.”
Oh? “And how do you determine if they deserve to die?”
“I make executive decisions based on what I know to be fact. My instinct helps too.”
“Sounds like a well-thought-out process,” I muse quietly, scanning the endless pasta choices, all of which sound mouthwatering.
He reaches over and points to a seafood linguine on my menu. “Maybe I should adopt the same protocol when it comes to the women I fuck.”
My eyes jump to his, finding a glistening, almost playful stare. I’m reading between the lines. Is that what he’s doing with me? Thinking hard? “Maybe you should,” I reply, staring him down. “Are you saying you’re easy?”
“No, I’m very hard.” He shifts in his chair, cocking a cheeky eyebrow. He’s really playing. Is this his idea of a wind down after a kill? Chill-out time, so to speak? The indignant side of my female mind wants to cast his suggestive move aside. After all, he rejected me a few hours ago. But the sensible side of my female brain, the strongest side, realizes that this is exactly where I need him to be. My foot twitches under the table, wanting to lift and place itself around his groin area. Too much?
“We’ll have two of the seafood linguine,” Danny says to the waitress when she approaches, not taking his eyes off mine. “And oysters to start.”
My lips stretch unstoppably. I like suggestive Danny. I like the playful side of the cold-blooded killer. “You like oysters?” I ask as the waitress leaves us.
“No, hate them. Do you like them?”
“Not really. I never know whether to chew, suck, or swallow.”
Lifting his fork, he taps the end of the prongs, his lips pouting. “All except chew. Suck and swallow to your heart’s content, but for Christ’s sake, don’t chew.” He peeks up at me, a smirk growing.
Laughter rises up from my toes and my head falls back, my amusement pure and real. I’ve never heard myself laugh before. Not real laughter. Not the kind that is overwhelming and rich and warming. Laughter sounds good on me. I drop my face and take more wine, unable to stop myself from relishing the sight of Danny’s soft features. Soft on hard. Happy on evil. “You’re quite nice when you’re funny.”
He lifts his glass. “Does that mean you like me?”
I tap the side of my glass to his. “I’m not allowed to like you. You’re keeping me against my will.”
All amusement vanishes from his face, stripping it of the softness. Now, he’s serious and regarding me carefully. “Am I?”
I tilt my head, thinking hard before I speak. “Are you telling me I could get up and walk out of here?”
“Do you want to?”
I feel like he’s testing me. Playing a game. Had he asked me the very same question this morning, I would have been gone faster than he pulled that gun on Gordon. Now? Now I’m in touch with Nox. That thought has me glancing out of the window, scanning the people in my sights. It’s stupid. If he’s there, he’ll make sure I can’t see him. “Do I want to?” I mimic on an exhale, refocusing my attention on my new target. My next move should be considered carefully. Say yes, then he might actually let me leave, and I can’t leave, not now. Say no, and that might rouse doubt in him. How could I go from wanting out to wanting in within a few hours? I ponder, weighing up each option while he watches me closely. I place my glass down. “I’d like to leave.”
“Then go.” He doesn’t hesitate a beat.
Uncertainty plagues me as I slowly rise from my chair, feeling all his men watching me too. I’ve said it now. I have to follow through or risk provoking suspicion. Because, why the hell would I want to stay?
Danny’s jaw is so tight it could pop, his body solid and still, his eyes now cold again as he watches me. I round the table and focus on the door, using all my strength to put one foot in front of the other. Fuck, how did I get myself into this? I need to stay. I need information. My head is in chaos, my body moving against my mind’s will. The door is close but miles away. But freedom isn’t beyond it. It’s just an extension of my prison. What’s beyond that door is punishment. Consequences. Hell.
I reach the door and take the handle, pulling it open. And then jump when his hand comes over my shoulder and slams it shut again. My heart works its way up to my mouth and wedges itself there. “But if you leave,” he whispers against my cheek, forcing me to close my eyes and find air. “You will be dead before you make it to the curbside.”
I exhale, feeling all the stress drain from my body. It’s crazy, since he’s just threatened to kill me, but Danny Black seems to do crazy things to me.
“So I suggest you get your arse back to the table.”
I hesitate for a second, just long enough to appear to have thought about it. Does he think I deserve to die? Would he kill me? I actually think not. But when he finds out I’m here to betray him . . .
I move, facing his
ominous frame crowding me. After a few seconds of him making sure I see the threat in his eyes—a threat I’m not sure is real—he moves aside and lets me walk back to the table. I retake my seat, and Danny joins me. Any light and easiness that was with us before is a distant memory. Now, I’m faced with the real Danny Black again.
I’m glad. This guy is easier to handle. I’m better equipped to deal with threats. And his sinister side seems far less dangerous to me than the wickedly charming Brit.
* * *
I picked my way through the seafood and skipped the oysters altogether. There’s been no conversation, just a thick, horrible silence, which leaves room for my mind to go to wild places. He’s angry. He told me to leave and didn’t think I would. So he threatened to kill me if I did. It’s one way to force someone to stay, I guess. Or is it his way to keep me? Either way, I’m still here, which is good because I need to be.
The restaurant is now full, every table around us occupied with families, couples, friends. Everyone seems to be enjoying their meal and company. Except me. I’ve spent the past hour avoiding his eyes, all my muscles tense, and my head is beginning to ache from thinking too much. I’ve felt him watching me throughout as I’ve silently contemplated what he may be thinking and how the hell I’m going to break him down and get what I need to survive this mess. “Excuse me,” I say, dropping my napkin on the table and standing. “I need the ladies’.”
Danny clicks his fingers, and the guy who helped Ringo carry Gordon’s dead body out of the restaurant motions the way. He’s not as ugly as Ringo, but he’s a close second. His jet-black hair is too long and secured tightly at the nape of his neck, and his lips look like they’re constantly sneering. “Watson will accompany you,” Danny says.
I don’t question it and start walking, Danny’s man following. He holds court outside the ladies’ while I use the toilet and check myself in the mirror, giving my cheeks a few smacks to get some color back into them. I look like a ghost—pale, troubled, and stressed.
I get back to the table to find the bill has been paid and Danny is standing, waiting for me. “No dessert, then?” I quip, slipping my purse under my arm.
“We’ll get dessert at home.”
“I’ve suddenly lost my sweet tooth,” I mutter, ignoring the heat of his hand on the center of my back as he guides me out.
“Who said anything about it being sweet?” Danny stops me just before the door, looking across to a table of three men. “Wait.”
Quickly, Brad is beside us, as well as Ringo and Watson. “What’s up?” Brad asks, slightly bewildered, his hand moving to underneath his suit jacket.
“An old friend.” Danny redirects us toward the table, bringing us to a stop at the edge. Their meal interrupted, they all look up at us. I expect them all to balk in horror by who’s approached, but they just look blankly at Danny, and a quick peek out the corner of my eye tells me Danny doesn’t seem surprised by this. “Pedro?” Danny says, smiling. It’s not a genuine smile. This is a fake smile. A dangerous smile. Like the smile he gave Perry that night in the Aria before he took me.
“Yeah . . .” The guy sets his beer down, clearly thrown. “Sorry, you are?”
“Danny.” His hand extends across the table to Pedro, whoever Pedro is, and he takes it and shakes.
“Of course, Danny. Good to see you, my friend.” The delight on Pedro’s face is as fake as Danny’s smile. Pedro doesn’t have a clue who Danny is, and something tells me he should. And he should also probably be shitting himself.
“What are you doing in Miami?” Danny asks, keeping his smile fixed.
“Just visiting family. Back to London next week.” He stabs at his dish and lifts a piece of ham. “We were told this is the best Italian in Miami.”
“It really is.” Danny takes my hand and pulls me close, forcing me to snuggle into his side. The three men all take me in, and I smile nervously, as bewildered as they are. “We just finished, and it was sublime.” Danny looks down at me. “Wasn’t it, sweetheart?”
Don’t scowl, don’t scowl. “Stunning,” I confirm, matching his false beam. “And now we’re going home for dessert,” I add.
Danny laughs lightly. That’s false too. “It’s fate, Pedro. You here in Miami, us in the same restaurant.”
Pedro nods around a mouthful of pasta. “It was good to see you.” That’s a polite way of ending a conversation, if ever I’ve heard one, and I inwardly shake my head at Pedro. Silly man really doesn’t know who he’s speaking to. But how does Danny know him?
“And you,” Danny says quietly, menacingly, and starts to tug me away.
“I don’t think he recognized you,” I murmur, looking back over my shoulder, seeing Pedro shrugging at his friends, clearly still clueless.
“He soon will.” Danny opens the door and takes my neck, directing me onto the sidewalk.
A nasty feeling comes over me as I’m led to the Mercedes and helped into the seat. Danny shuts me in the car and walks off, turning down an alleyway a few yards up the street with his men in tow. My hand reaches for the handle of the door and pulls. It opens. Why would he leave it open? Just leave me here unattended, free to run if I choose?
But I can’t run.
I get out and walk to the entrance of the alleyway, finding Brad standing quietly to the side with five more of Danny’s men. Danny’s eyes are on the concrete under his dress shoes, his fists opening and clenching by his sides. Rage is building, polluting the already stale air in the alley. He looks up and spots me, and he slowly shakes his head. He’s telling me to go.
Brad sees me and comes over, trying to usher me away. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Fucked if I know, but he doesn’t want you here.”
Brad is halted from trying to shift me when Ringo appears, dragging a bewildered-looking Pedro with him. “What the fuck, man?” Pedro yells, stumbling along.
Danny’s eyes jump from me to his old friend. And he smiles. Wide, bright . . . and one thousand percent deadly. Brad’s spare hand goes to his hip, resting on his gun, ready to draw.
“Pedro,” Danny sings, arms extended in front of him, as if inviting him in for a hug. “I’m just so fucking pleased to see you.”
Pedro still looks clueless, his worried eyes bouncing between Danny and his men. “What is this?”
Danny steps forward, and Pedro starts to retreat, only getting a few paces before he backs into Ringo. “I’m just gutted you don’t remember me.” Danny reaches for his cheek and draws a line down his scar. “How could you forget me, Pedro?”
My lungs drain, my hand coming up to my mouth to try and push back my gasp.
“Oh fuck,” Brad breathes, confirming what I think I know. He moves in front of me, blocking my view. No. Something sick and disgusting inside me wants to see this. I step to the side, bringing Danny back into my sights. His blue eyes are dancing, pure joy mixed with hatred. The penny has dropped for Pedro. His eyes are wide. His body tense, ready to fight. I pity him.
“We were kids, Danny.”
“Just kids.” Danny nods, pulling something from his jacket pocket. A switchblade. He releases the blade and inspects it. “I think mine’s sharper.” He looks up and smirks.
Pedro’s hands come up, his body moving back until Ringo shoves him forward. My eyes are burning with the need to blink, yet they refuse, as if scared they’re going to miss it. But I’m forced to turn when Pedro’s friends crash into the alleyway. They skid to a stop. Take in the scene. Then hold their hands up, backing away when Brad pulls his gun out. “You should have stayed in the restaurant, boys.” Brad nods to Ringo, who moves in, along with a few more of Danny’s men.
“No, wait,” one guy says, tripping up a trash bag as he backs away. The other turns to run and gets no farther than the end of the alleyway. Both men are seized, and I watch in silence as they’re held against the wall by guns to their foreheads.
“Come to watch?” Danny asks, pulling my attention back his way.
“I�
�m sorry,” Pedro whimpers.
“I’m not.” Danny steps forward calmly and lashes the blade across Pedro’s forehead, opening up his flesh with one long slash.
The squeal of pain is piercing, his hands shooting up to his head. Another slash, this one across the back of his hand, slicing through muscles, tendons and probably even bone. His hands drop and Danny’s arm moves so fast, it’s a mere blur, though accurate, slicing up Pedro’s face from his chin, through his nose, his eye, and crossing the gash on his forehead. He drops to his knees, screaming, his bloody hands slipping across his face. And still, I don’t take my eyes off the gruesome sight. Danny rounds Pedro’s kneeling frame, coming in close behind him. Taking his hair, he yanks his head back so he’s forced to look the man who’s about to kill him in the eye. Danny’s face is a picture of pure evil. Pedro’s is a picture of pure fear.
“Please,” he sobs.
The smirk that crosses Danny’s face multiplies that evil by a million. “I was ten. I didn’t cry, and here you are, a grown, dribbling man, begging for it to stop.” He bends and gets up close. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for years. I’ve imagined all the ways and all the places I’d cut you.” Holding him in a headlock, he takes the blade to his cheek and starts carving a circle while Pedro screams and begs for mercy. I don’t realize my feet are moving forward until Brad takes hold of my arm, stopping me, and I look up, seeing him shaking his head mildly.
“What is he doing?” I ask, casting my eyes back to Danny, who’s now flicking the knife out from the edges of the circle, like he could be adding flashes of color to a painting.
“He’s carving the family emblem,” Brad answers.
Pedro is quiet now, and when Danny releases him and he falls face-forward to the concrete, I realize he’s passed out. Danny wipes the blooded knife across the back of the lifeless man’s jeans and slips it into his pocket, pulling his suit jacket in before turning and striding toward us. “Finish it,” he says to one of his men as he passes, collecting me from Brad. “And get rid of the witnesses.” With his hand in the center of my back, he guides me back to the car. I’m quiet and willing, constantly checking his deadpan face for any hint of emotion. There’s nothing.
The Brit Page 14
