“Running.”
“I can see that.”
His eyes linger on the ghastly green bruise on the side of my face, the one I had before I met with Vincent. I’m sure that my eye is still purple, too. Good lord.
“I need your help.” My voice squeaks out, and I take a long draw of water to quell my nerves.
Johnny seems to pull away suddenly, his lips curling unpleasantly. “Look, I don’t know what you expected from me, but you’re mistaken if you think I’m going to help—”
“I have fifty grand in cash, and I need you to put a hit on a man.”
Suddenly his demeanor completely shifts. He leans forward, smiling, clasping his hands together. “If you have business to discuss, that’s a different story. His name?”
This is the part I’m worried about.
“Rafael Costa.”
Please don’t say no.
He takes a small notepad and pen from his jacket, writes down the name, and frowns at it. He recognizes it.
Please, please don’t say no.
My hands grip the edge of the table. “Please, Mr. Cravotta. I’m desperate.”
“He’s a made man. Part of Nicky’s crew in New York.” He taps the pen against the notepad restlessly as he looks at me. “He’s your boyfriend?”
The frown on his face deepens and I clench my teeth as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but the answer is no. You belong to him, and he’s a made guy. If you were related to someone in the family, we could arrange something, but…”
But my dad is a traitor.
“Seventy-five grand,” I whisper harshly. No, he can’t just do this to me. I’ll give it all, for fuck’s sake. Anything to save my life.
Pity. It’s all over his face. “I’m sorry, ma cherie, but I’m not going to start a war with New York because of some Yank.”
“I—I don’t understand! Why can’t you? I have the money!”
“I just told you that it’s not about the money. It’s politics.” He watches me seethe, his face blank. “Maybe you should call the police.”
Is he fucking crazy?
Besides the fact that they wouldn’t do anything, Raf would kill me the moment I waved the restraining order in his face. And if he didn’t, Vincent might.
“I knew your dad,” he says suddenly. “I liked him until he talked to the cops. He gave me a lot of problems.”
“I’m not my father!”
My voice rings out in the restaurant, momentarily cutting through the pleasant babble. Johnny’s face hardens.
“I still find the idea of helping you repugnant.” He nods to the men standing behind me, who grip my shoulders and lift me up.
“Please!” I scream to his rapidly disappearing face. “At least don’t tell him where I am!”
Johnny gives me an apologetic smile as they drag me from the table, shoving the small of my back until I’m practically thrown outside.
The cold engulfs me like fog, coming in at all sides, seeping into my skin and making my bones ache.
Is this it, then? I can’t go over Johnny’s head. He was my only shot. Game over.
No, I refuse to accept this. My dad didn’t raise a quitter, and I’ll be damned if I let some hopped-up jerk take my life because he can’t fucking handle that I don’t want to be with him anymore. I’ll buy a gun—I’ll buy an arsenal.
I’ll look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
The unfairness of it all seethes in my guts. I whirl back around at the restaurant, half-wanting to sprint inside and slap Johnny to make him understand how badly I need his help. Oh, he understands, but the asshole just doesn’t give a shit about me.
Who else is there? Think.
I chew my thumb viciously as I walk down the street aimlessly, my eyes searching each storefront as though I’ll see something or recognize someone, and after a while my legs tire and I’m just so fucking cold. I had no idea how cold it was here. My fingertips are numb and sharp pains shoot through my toes. I can’t stand it anymore.
The door to a nearby bar opens and I rush toward it, grabbing the handle and disappearing inside the dark interior. Warmth painfully unthaws my fingers and toes. It feels as though my blood splinters like ice. It’s a rustic bar—trendy, with battered wooden tables and clean, metal chairs. I pull one on the edge of the bar and sit down, cradling my head in my hands.
There aren’t many people in here at this time—it probably just opened. Someone enters the bar from the backroom, and a distinct New York accent suddenly makes my head snap up and my blood pound.
A hand curls around my shoulder, and I’m a second away from screaming. It’s Rafael. He caught up with me already.
“If you came here looking for revenge, I suggest you get in line,” he growls in my ear.
It’s not him, but I still recognize that voice.
I turn my head and recognize Tommy’s playful hazel eyes. God, he used to come over all the time. Dad loved him. Talked about him all the time. I haven’t seen him in months—I thought he was dead. Then my mind flicks to what he just said. Revenge for my father’s death? Heat strikes my chest. He must have had something to do with it, but so what? Everyone did.
“Do I look like I’m here for revenge?”
He releases me as if I’ve burned him and he steps back, disgust all over his face. “Raf did that to you?”
Tommy, of course, knew all about my relationship with Rafael. Hell, we had Christmas dinner together. We used to play cards. I always liked him, and he seemed to be devoted to my dad.
“Yeah. I just managed to escape.”
Pity shines all over Tommy’s face, and hope soars inside my chest like a balloon lifting to the sky.
“I know what you want to ask me. Johnny already called ahead. The answer’s still no. I’m sorry.”
He stands there, looking healthy and happy in his fucking two-piece suit, giving me a sad smile as though he wishes he could help me.
Fuck you.
“You owe me—”
“I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
I can’t believe how cold his voice is, how devoid of human emotion it is. Why is it that every one of my dad’s friends treats me as a parasitic extension of my father? Did I talk to the cops? No.
It hurts more than it should.
“I don’t understand why you would do this to me.” The pain breaks through my voice and emotion finally cracks through his hard gaze. “Fine, hate my dad, but don’t I deserve your help? We practically grew up together, and—you’re just going—you’re going to let him kill me?”
The anguish of being abandoned by virtually everyone I know twists my heart, and I dig my nails into my flesh. He flinches at the word “kill” and uncrosses his arms, looking at a loss.
Fine.
“Elena, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can fucking do.”
Nothing?
“That sounds like bullshit.”
“If I touched a hair on his head, I’d be dead,” he says flatly. “Those are the rules.”
I search his desperate eyes.
“Give me a job here.”
“What?”
I said it without really thinking, but the idea grows in my head. It’s a connected bar. Someone’s bound to have a gun at all times here.
“Please. I’ll feel safer if I’m surrounded by—guys like you.”
“You don’t know the language, hon.”
“Neither do you!”
He gives me a wry smile. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“Tommy, please.”
The plea in my voice gets through to him and he frowns, sighing. “Fine. I’ll get you set up, but I don’t want you to come in until you’ve healed. You look like hell. You’ll scare my customers.”
“Thank you, Tommy. Thank you.”
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
“Tommy, I need to ask you something else.”
He moans and rubs his face hard. “What?”
&nbs
p; “I have money that I need you to keep safe for me.”
At once his face brightens. “How much are we talking about?”
I lower my voice. “About a hundred grand.”
“I’ll be happy to do that for a small fee. Ten percent.”
Ten percent? That’s ten thousand dollars!
Not like I have a choice.
“Fine.”
“I’ll send some guys to pick it up. What’s your address?” He frowns when I give it to him. “Raf will be able to find that, easily.”
I don’t know what he expects me to do about it.
Chapter Three
Elena
Even after all this shit with my ex, I can’t stop thinking about that man in the bar. Here I am, sitting in my new apartment in Montreal, fantasizing about another man.
There are bigger fucking problems in my life, but I can’t stop thinking about his rugged face—so different from Rafael’s—and his five o’clock shadow, which gave him the perfect balance of disheveled and sexy. He’s the kind of guy who haunts your dreams after only one glance. Tall, dark, and handsome, but so gentle with his hands. He said things to me that I should hate for how fucking rude they were, but they gave me such a thrill from his honest voice. There’s something really sexy about a man who knows what he wants and doesn’t hesitate to go after it.
Tony was a breath of fresh air right when I needed it. He told me I was beautiful, promised to make me come on his tongue, and I wanted to let him. It was like feeling a ray of sunshine after a really long winter. I wanted to feel desired by a guy like that. Who wouldn’t?
But I panicked.
I slapped the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, and I can’t stop obsessing over it. It’s ridiculous. My ex-boyfriend wants me dead and this is what my brain chooses to obsess over.
I fantasize about that sexy bastard while I get ready for work in the apartment Tommy hooked me up with, hoping that Tony will be there.
No, stay the fuck away. Rafael was a nightmare, remember?
A grim sort of satisfaction stretches my face when I look in the mirror. Maria would be so proud. Here I am, making the same mistakes over and over again. The last thing I want to do is start dating, but when I think about how it felt to have Tony’s hands squeeze my tits, all reason flies out the window.
Maybe Rafael moved on. All week he’s been silent.
I eye the dark phone sitting on the white sink. A thrill of apprehension runs through me when I pick it up and turn it on. He hasn’t left any messages for days, but then I see a new voice mail and it’s from my sister.
I play it.
“Elena, where the fuck are you? Your psycho boyfriend has been over here three times—he’s completely out of his mind. What the fuck were you thinking, just leaving like this? You can’t just—”
I end the message, breathing hard as I stare at my whitened face in the mirror. My hands grip the edge of the sink and blood pounds in my ears. I never meant anything like this to happen. Why can’t he just leave me alone?
My phone rings on the hard counter, and I watch it like a bomb. Even though I deleted his name from my contact list, the numbers don’t lie. It’s him.
I need to talk to him—to explain to him that it’s over. Maybe then he’ll leave me alone. A stab of fear clenches my heart painfully, and I pick up the phone gingerly. It’s going to explode in my hands. I accept the call, cringing as I press it to my ear.
“I just got out of jail. Your cunt of a sister called the cops on me—Where the fuck have you been?”
So that explains his silence over the last few days. Fuck.
“Raf, it’s over. I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
“So this is how you do it, you dumb fucking bitch? You just get up and leave in the middle of the night like some coward?”
Fuck him.
“Right, I’m the coward. You’re the one beating on a defenseless woman. Go fuck yourself!”
“What the fuck did you just say to me, bitch? I’ll cut your fucking tongue out!”
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
The phone trembles in my hand. His voice strikes me to my very marrow, infecting me with fear. It’s as though he’s standing right outside my bathroom.
“Did you really think you could hide from me in Montreal? Did you really think that would work, that I wouldn’t fucking find out? I’m on my way right now, and when I get there you better have my fucking money—”
“I’m not giving you anything—it’s my money, so you can go fuck off and find some other bitch to beat up on!”
“FUCK YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—!”
I rip the phone away from my ear and end the call, tossing the phone away from me as though it’s a live snake. The bathroom echoes with my gulping breaths, which sound unnaturally loud.
Don’t fucking cry.
The room spins and I stumble to the toilet, sitting down hard as blood rushes to my face. It’s over—it’s all fucking over. He’s going to go straight to Johnny, who will tell him exactly where I am, and there’s no defending against him. I’m fucked. Fucked!
The loud, buzzing sound of my phone vibrates in my ears as if it’s inside my head. On silent, the phone rattles against the sink and finally falls to the floor. I have the strangest impulse to smash it—to kill it.
I can’t spend the night here. That’s an easy enough problem to fix, isn’t it? I could find a hotel or something easily.
But if he finds you there, you’re just as fucked as you are here.
I slowly deflate, thinking hard. It shames me to admit it, but I need someone to protect me. For tonight, that’ll be easy enough, right? Just find someone at the bar—and—
You’re that fucking desperate?
The pale shadow of a bruise stretches down my white face.
Yeah, I am.
It takes me three minutes to remove my boots and put my heels on until I realize I’m trying to put them on the wrong foot. Rafael is coming for me. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out exactly where I am. I need to be in another place, but more than that, I need to be protected.
Basically, I need to go home with a guy.
My face burns as I stare at myself in the mirror, imagining my sister’s voice.
Typical Elena. Always relying on someone else to fix your problems.
This plan is so fucking pathetic. One night isn’t enough.
The horrible, clenching feeling inside me trembles and almost breaks. A sob rises in my throat and I stamp it down.
No. Do not do this. Do not give up yet.
I want to give up.
You can do this.
But that voice sounds weak.
I’m wearing a lovely blouse I picked up with a diving neckline and leggings tight enough so that they won’t miss a curve. High heels. Hair teased into a dark, messy mane.
It’s a funny thing. When your life is in danger, you really stop giving a shit about everything else. Pride. Ego. Decency. Whatever. All you care about is making it through the next day.
The panic pulses inside me, fighting to claw its way out of the clenched muscles around my stomach. I shouldn’t be here. I should be miles away, running for my life.
Fuck’s sake—just go to work.
With a shaky sigh, I turn the knob and leave the bathroom, passing by the office on the way to the bar. Tommy does a double take from his desk and gives me a friendly smile. It warms me for a moment and then I feel a swooping, guilty sensation.
“You’ll get nice tips tonight.”
“Tommy,” I say in a heavy voice. “We might have trouble.”
He frowns and sits up straighter. Before he can say anything else, I head out into the bar, limbs shaking.
It isn’t packed, but it’s getting there. Men in business suits hang out near the counter, talking in rapid French. Young guys dressed in casual clothes leer at me as I walk by.
A different sort of fear makes me grin a little too widely. Growing up, I never had this kin
d of attention from men. It’s intimidating and flattering at the same time.
“Ey, Pitoune! Viens ici’t!”
A voice calls out from my left, and I’ve learned enough French to realize that this probably means: Hey, baby. C’mere!
Or something like that.
I turn toward the obnoxious voice. He leans against the wall and shakes his Molson beer.
“Un autre.” Another one.
A sweet smile spreads across my face as I slowly size him up. He might be connected—he’s not wearing a suit, but he looks too young anyway.
I gaze at the men, completely alien to the way men are when no one knows who I am or who my father was. It’s strange to feel so many eyes on me like this. I keep scanning the crowd, but deep down there’s really only one guy who made an impression on me. My heart pounds, thinking about how confident Tony was when he kissed me. He knew I had an ex-boyfriend in the mob, and he didn’t care.
He wanted me anyway.
The energy in the bar is warm and rowdy. I scan the crowd as I give out drink orders, stumbling through French and English to find out what they want. The hours fly by, and the bar slows down. I remember why I’m here and I peek at my phone, seeing another barrage of text messages from Rafael. My throat closes up as Tommy peers into the bar, looking surprised to see me.
“Elena, your shift ended an hour ago.”
I grit my teeth and look into his unconcerned eyes. “Please—I don’t want to go home. Just let me work.”
The edges of his lips lift slightly and he nods. “All right.” He gives me another long look and disappears into the back. I know that if I’m here when Tommy’s around, I’ll be safe.
What the fuck am I going to do when the bar closes?
Genevieve, the bartender, flies around me with drink orders as I scan the men sitting there. In sheer desperation, I study them. Some of them don’t even glance at me. They’re too busy texting on their phones. Then my gaze almost skips over him.
Tony.
The man who I slapped just a few days ago.
He’s the biggest guy in the bar by far and he sits in his seat, twirling his cocktail with a small smile as he looks across the beer taps, right at me. His eyes strike at me with the force of a javelin. I feel immediately warm, and my face flushes as I smile back at him.
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