by Callie Hart
“Come on,” the guy says. “We need to get out of here before the cops show up. And, sweetheart, if you want to live, you won’t make a fuss about it, okay?”
I want to throat punch this bastard. He comes at me, hands out in front of him like he’s trying to calm a startled deer or something, and I snap. I am not a startled deer. I am the predator that springs the deer and rips its fucking throat out. This poor asshole can’t know that, though. He can’t know about the fourteen years of Krav Maga training I’ve had. He can’t know about the army training I received in my late teens and early twenties. He can’t know about the countless hours and hours I’ve spent at the range, shooting and throwing knives until missing is something I just don’t do anymore.
He finds out pretty quickly, though.
He’s reaching for my gun, like he thinks he’s just going to be able to pluck it straight out of my hands. I wait until he’s within arm’s distance, and then I spin the gun around in my hand, gripping it by the muzzle, and I coldcock him with it right in the face. Blood explodes from his nose, his head kicking back.
The sirens sound closer.
When the guy looks up at me, hands cupped over his nose, his eyes are wide with disbelief. “You’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”
“I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty good about it.” I shouldn’t be baiting him, but he’s an arrogant prick and I’m pretty sure he’s dead set on killing me once he has me safely out of the public’s eye. Stalking forward, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. It’s a Berretta, an old one with a scuffed muzzle—clearly he’s used a silencer on it once or twice before. No silencer now, though. He doesn’t seem to notice that we’re surrounded by people anymore. People with horrified expressions on their faces and cell phones in their hands, recording every single step we make. I watch his body, watch the way he moves. I’m trained to do that before I make assumptions about anyone. I come to the conclusion very quickly from the way he holds his gun, the way he holds himself—sure, confident, his weight over the back of his feet—that he’s trained too. The way he steps one foot over the other is a typical army training move that could mean he served or he’s just had the benefit of professional coaching. Either way, I don’t plan on underestimating him.
When he lunges for me, I’m ready. I deflect the hand he was going to grab me with, slapping it downward, and then I grab onto his wrist, pulling him off balance. He seesaws forward but then rips his wrist out of my hand. I don’t expect him to turn his slight fumble to his own advantage, but he does. Dropping to the floor, he rolls and kicks out, landing a solid strike to my leg. I have less than a second to brace myself before I’m hitting the concrete.
Then he’s on top of me. “Oh, this is fun, sweetheart. But I don’t really have time to be playing games with you right now.”
He’s reaching for my arms, about to pin me to the ground, but I jab, landing a solid hit with my extended fingertips right in the base of his throat, in his windpipe. He chokes, his body falling sideways, and then I’m on top of him. Through watering eyes and a clearly sore throat, the guy grins up at me, shaking his head. “Well, if you wanna fuck me, I guess I could make some time.” Thrusting upward, he tries to unseat me, but I know this is what’s coming and I’m ready again. I compensate, leaning forward, pressing my gun into the guy’s neck.
“Who are you?”
His body goes still, his hands lifting so they’re palm up in front of him. “You know who I am, sweetheart. I’m the enemy.”
“My boss has quite a few enemy camps. Which one do you belong to?”
“The biggest one,” the guy says, smiling. “The Italian one.”
“So you work for Barbieri?”
“I am a Barbieri.” Lightning fast, he snaps his hand out and clamps it around my throat. The move catches me off guard, has me panicking for the first time. My gun is gone, then, knocked to the ground, skittering away across the blacktop. The guy’s hand tightens around the column of my neck, threatening to squeeze even harder. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Feeling a little lightheaded?”
I break his hold over me, smashing my fist into his solar plexus, winding him for the second time. He’s good, though. We’re both on our feet in a heartbeat. Again, he’s already swinging his arm toward me, his fist clenched. I duck, but he leans back and kicks out, his shin striking me in the stomach, hard. He’s breathing hard now. So am I. I lash out—a backhander that hits him on the temple, sending him reeling. My knee comes up automatically. Not to kick him in the balls, but to push him back as I bring my elbow down on his shoulder as hard as I can. I follow up with a back kick, strong enough to force him to retreat a few paces.
He counters, coming at me with … with what looks like a length of black material. His tie? It was around his neck a minute ago and now it’s in his hands, one end wrapped around his fist. He surges forward, on the attack, his clenched fist rounding on me, landing on my jaw. The force of the blow sends me to the ground. Hurts like a fucking bitch. I could jump up, but I don’t. I wait for him, until he’s standing right in front of me, breathing hard, before I thrust both feet up, kicking him in the stomach. He comes down on top of me, hands scrambling to get hold of my arms, but I don’t stop moving. He can’t catch hold of me if I keep my body fluid. I wrap an arm around his neck from behind, determination sweeping through me. I have to end this. I have to—
He shifts quickly, lifting his arms, flicking something over my head. He loops his hands one more time and I realize what he’s done. He’s looped the goddamn tie around my neck. I move fast, working to get a handful of the material before he can tighten it, but it’s too late. He pulls, the narrow strip of silk constricting my airways, making it impossible to draw oxygen into my lungs.
I dig my knuckles into his groin—a seriously painful pressure point if you’re a dude—but he doesn’t let me go. He grunts, grinding his teeth, staring down at me as he keeps on pulling.
My head’s beginning to swim. I try jabbing my fists into his side, but still he doesn’t let go.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart. Thaaaat’s right. Ha! Holy fuck! Crazy bitch.” I can see the amusement in his eyes as my vision begins to fade. He knows he’s won, and yet he seems surprised. I can barely believe it, myself. The last sound I hear before I fall unconscious is the staccato blat blat blat of gunfire ringing out across the George Washington Bridge. That, and the terrified screaming of the people standing around us.
******
THEO
I take her back to the restaurant, even though it’s the worst fucking idea I’ve ever had. My knuckles are bleeding everywhere. They’re stinging like a motherfucker as I lead the girl through the back into Cucina Diavolo. It’d be suicide taking her in through the front door. My father would take one look at the girl I’m dragging behind me and realize that his sons had fucked up again. The girl would get a bullet between the eyes and then so would I. If I was lucky. If was unlucky, I’d be getting my throat cut and enjoying a ride out to the pig farm my father keeps in Ulster County to fatten up his pork.
That sounds fucked up, and it is. Pigs are an excellent way of clearing up a mess, though. They’ll eat anything. Accountants. Pimps. Prostitutes. Your progeny, if they crash a car on the George Washington Bridge and allow the teenaged daughter of your sworn enemy to escape.
Fuck.
The kitchen’s busy. Luca, the head chef of the Barbieri family restaurant, doesn’t look up as I drag my noncompliant friend through his workspace. His sous chef and the prep guys know the drill, too. I don’t need to worry about any of them. They know better than to acknowledge anything dangerous. Anything that could end up in them witnessing something that could get them killed.
“Hey. Hey! One of you assholes better call the fucking cops. Hey, you. You with the knife. Look at me, damn it! Hey!” The boys don’t listen as I pull the bodyguard through the exit and up the stairs that lead to the office and a number of storage rooms. I’ll be able to hide my mistake for a couple of
hours until I can figure out what to do next. I need to call my brother. Did he manage to find that stuck-up Irish bitch? Fuck knows. He better have, is all I can say.
Shoving the bodyguard into the room at the far end of the building, she swears under her breath, staggering as I let her go. I follow her inside and slam the door behind me. No one ever comes in here. It’s the secondary dry store—full of flour and spices and shit Luca would only need if the first dry store ran low. The girl glares at me, rubbing at her neck.
“The hell you gonna do with me now?” she asks. “Kill me?”
“Sure,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes, which is kind of sexy. She’s lethal with those fists of hers, but her expressions are designed to kill, too.
“You’re not going to kill me. You need me to tell you where Kaitlin would have gone.”
She’s right. I do need that from her. Sooner rather than later would be a bonus. “Why’d you bother asking, then?”
“To see if you were gonna flinch away from it. And since you didn’t, I’m guessing you’ve got no problem with hurting women?”
“You aren’t a damsel in distress, sweetheart. You nearly killed me.”
“You wanna go another round? I feel like I was a little off my game before. What with having just been in a car crash and all.”
“I think I’ll pass. How about you sit down,” I point to the drum of olive oil propped on one end against the wall, “and you and I can have that chat?”
“I don’t know where she’s gone. You should save your breath. And Paddy won’t stump up ransom for me, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s like the American government. He doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. Not for me. Not for his own daughter. Not for anyone.”
“We don’t want money.”
“Then you must simply want to die. He’s going to kill you all for this. You and your brother—I’m assuming he’s your brother?—could leave the state right now, this second, and it wouldn’t make a difference. He’ll find you and he’ll skin you alive.”
“Sal and I aren’t going anywhere.”
“Then enjoy what’s left of your life, moron.”
“Gladly.” I pull out my cell and hit the speed dial for Sal, waiting with bated breath for him to pick up. He doesn’t, though. I let it ring and ring and ring, but I get no answer. What the hell is he doing? We agreed a long time ago that we’d maintain contact in situations like this. How bad is it that we have an action plan in case of kidnappings gone wrong? Like this happens every goddamn weekend. “Where the fuck are you, man?” I growl under my breath.
“Boyfriend not picking up?” Tall and Beautiful asks.
“Shut up and sit your ass down,” I snap. I haven’t turned my back on her. She’s dangerous and she knows how to fight. I don’t intend on giving her the opportunity to hand my ass to me, escape the storeroom and vault out of a window or some shit. I’ve known her for all of five seconds but I feel like it’s something she would do. I give up on the phone and slide it back into my pocket, giving her my full attention. “What’s your name?”
“Why the hell should I tell you that?”
“Because I can find out easily enough, and you know not telling me would be a massive waste of time. The quicker we get through this, the quicker you can go.”
She shakes her head, looking away. “You must think I’m mentally challenged.”
“Are you? Most people who find themselves in this situation are less mouthy.”
“Oh, honey. I’ve been in this situation more times than I can count. I’m not gonna dissolve into tears and start begging for my life.”
“That’s a pity. I do love when a woman begs me for things. And please … feel free to call me honey again. I like how that sounds, too.”
She probably meant to barb me with the name, to condescend me, but I wasn’t lying. Her using that name on me sounded really fucking good. Like, way too good. I need to keep my focus here, but it’s not easy with her covered in blood and sweat and her clothes clinging to her, looking sexy as all get out. If Sal were here, he’d have probably already cut off three of her fingers but we’d know her social security number, bra size, the name of her childhood family dog, the works. I could hazard a guess at her bra size—34C?—but other than that …
“My name is Gracie O’Connor,” she says, her voice turning cold. “Patrick McLaughlin has been taking care of me since I was a kid. You could say he considers me his blood. So the sooner you figure out what you’re going to do with me and do it, the better. And by the way,” she says, lifting her eyebrows. “You look at my chest one more time and we’re gonna be having words.”
I’m about to give her a few when I’m cut short by a knock at the door. So much for no one ever coming back here. Fuck. I press my shoulder against the wood, praying it’s not Billie or Joseppi, or any of my father’s other half-witted lackeys. Gracie O’Connor is giving me an unimpressed look when I shoot her a warning glance. “Do not make a fucking sound,” I tell her.
“I’m trapped in enemy territory with Roberto Barbieri’s men at every turn. I’m not a complete idiot,” she hisses back.
“Theo? Theo, baby, I know you’re in there. Come on, open the door.”
Fuck. Shandi. Yeah, that’s right, Shandi, like the drink but with an I instead of a Y. Total stripper name, which is exactly what Shandi was before my father decided to give her a job as a waitress in the restaurant. She wanted to clean up and Pops wanted a hot piece of ass working the floor to distract the diners from the comings and goings of New York City’s underworld elite. I’ve fucked her a few times here in this very room, which is what she must be looking for now—a quick roll to make the day a little more interesting.
She won’t go away. I know she won’t. Gracie’s eyebrows are arched, showing her disapproval. Shandi, on the other side of the door, somehow says the worst thing she possibly could say. She has a talent for that. “Come on, Theo, open the door. I wanna suck that beautiful dick, baby. My pussy’s wet and you haven’t licked her in a while.”
I hate when women refer to their pussies as her. Gracie bites back laughter, rolling her eyes. “Please, lover boy. Don’t stand on ceremony on my account. By all means, go right ahead.”
FOUR
SAL
I can feel it in the way my hands are fidgeting, the nervous dread locked in my gut like cement.
I’m about to lose my shit over this broad.
“Come on, smartass,” I say, flicking my eyes over her. She’s short, small tits, but they’re perky underneath that ill-fitting sack she’s wearing. Not so small that you couldn’t stick your dick between them and go to town. “Where is she?”
Not that I’m thinking about that right now. Nope. This chick might be the hottest thing I’ve seen in a long time, dark hair and hazel-green eyes set just right in her pretty, heart-shaped face. But—and there’s always a but—she looks like she’s got a screw loose somewhere in there, and, oh yeah, she just lost my fucking mark. Kaitlin is probably halfway back to Hell’s Kitchen by now, ready to tell Papa Paddy what we just did.
We’re dead, the both of us. Me and Theo. Motherfucker! We should’ve just gone with my plan—chloroform the bitches the second they stepped off that plane. But Theo, man, he’s always gotta do things his way.
And now we’re completely fucking fucked.
I grind my teeth together, so hard I think they’re going to crack under the pressure. Wouldn’t be the first time. My dentist says I carry all my stress in my jaw.
I lean in real close to her, crowding her. How we’re still the only two people in this room, I have no frigging clue. I can only guess the manager woman I saw out the front doesn’t want cops poking around the back of her diner and has pointed them off in some other direction. Still, doesn’t explain why nobody else has come looking. When I ran back here, chasing the Irish bitch that slipped through my fingers, the whole diner seemed to turn and gawk as I flew through. I mean, I’m not exactly easy to miss. All six-four of me, and espe
cially since I’m still wearing the goddamn driver’s suit and hat. How it didn’t fall off in the crash is anyone’s guess.
“Where. Is. She?” I demand, enunciating every word, every syllable, because I’m this close to smashing her face in, woman or not. Every second she screws around and bats her eyelashes at me is a second Kaitlin McLaughlin is running her blonde ass further away, and taking with her any hopes of my brother and I making it out of this fix unscathed.
Briefly, I wonder which one of them will kill us. Roberto or Paddy. Our father or hers. Maybe they’ll take one each. A bullet in the head, a nice swim in the Hudson with our feet encased in quick-set concrete. We’ll sink like stones to the bottom of the dirty river, frozen like caricatures of our former selves, while the fish eat out our eyes and our flesh sloughs off with rot and the shifting tides. Until finally, we’re two skeletons standing at the bottom of the deep brown riverbed, our bones gently swaying in the wake of the ferries that cut across the harbor every few minutes, our skulls grinning maniacally without flesh to hide our teeth.
“Suck my dick,” she says, her eyes alight with something—with satisfaction? What a strange creature she is. Most other women in this situation would scream and cry and beg, but not this one. She’s got this aura about her that makes me wonder what happened to her, how exactly life crushed her. Yeah. That’s it. She looks crushed. She looks … empty.
I pull my head back a little, certain what I heard isn’t what she said.
“Pardon me?” I ask, fighting the urge to laugh. She didn’t say that. Words like that don’t come out of mouths as perfect as hers. God, where do I know her from?
She smiles, but the gesture is completely devoid of warmth. For the first time since I ran into this bathroom stall, I’m beginning to wonder what exactly the fuck I’m dealing with here. There is something seriously off about this chick.
