Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2)

by Holly Hart

  Alex hadn't done any of that. He'd answered arrogantly and confidently – but also honestly. It wasn't exactly how I'd have done it, but I had to admit I was impressed by his chutzpah.

  "Alex, Salvatore Navarro from the Sevilla Star. With talent like that, how come you didn't start today?"

  Alex smiled. I saw his quick mind flick into action as he considered the question. It was a minefield – especially sitting right next to the coach who had decided not to put him in the starting lineup. However he answered, it was bound to be front-page news the next day, especially in a city as soccer mad as Barcelona.

  "Tricky question, Salvatore." He laughed. The whole room laughed along with him. I began to revise my opinion – maybe he wasn't media polished in the traditional sense, but he seemed to have a natural air of confidence that allowed him to deal with a crowd of reporters all desperate to trick him into giving them a soundbite for a juicy story with consummate ease.

  "Honestly?"

  Salvatore nodded, and the whole room leaned forward as though expecting Alex to throw his coach under the bus. After his first answer, I certainly wasn't ruling it out…

  "It was my first game. Coach did everything right – you can't just throw a new player into the first game from the start. Much better to give me twenty minutes at the end." The crowd sank back, looking disappointed with Alex's diplomatic response to such a loaded question. "But…" he teased, causing them to lean straight back towards him. "I fully expect to be in the team next week, isn't that right, coach?" he said, turning to the middle-aged man sitting next to him.

  A flicker of irritation ran across the coach's face. "We'll see…" he grunted.

  "Another question?"

  I put my hand up. I'd watched the whole game from the press box, and I had a very good idea of what I was going to ask.

  Roberto pointed at me. "Diana Lopez," I said, to some surprise in the room as the assorted men – and they were mostly men – tried to work out why my skin was so pale with a name that Mexican, "from WBC Sports back home."

  For the first time, Alex looked rattled. I wasn't surprised; I would be, too, after discovering that someone I'd thought was nothing more than a tourist I was trying to hit on turned out to be a national sports journalist. Especially after what he'd told me…

  "Alex," I said softly, "when you were substituted on today, I couldn't help but notice that Ramon Garcia didn't look very happy to come off. Can you tell us whether there’s any tension in the locker room following your arrival?"

  If looks could kill, I'd be long dead. He took his time formulating a response, and when he did, he spoke coldly, sparing no effort to make me feel like scum. I guessed I kind of deserved it.

  "I respect Ramon, and I imagine he was disappointed, as I've been many times in a game. It was a hard fought match against tough opponents, but I'm sure Ramon was as happy as anyone when I scored."

  It was a pitch perfect deflection, one which any professional media consultant would have been proud to have written, and Alex came up with it on the spot. He wasn't just skilled with the ball at his feet, I realized, he was seriously clever as well. But he wasn't done responding – the last bit was aimed directly at me.

  "I hope that's enough for you, Miss Lopez," he said coldly, "because that's all I have to say on the matter."

  I watched as, visibly seething with anger, Alex dismissively waved for someone to ask the next question. In less than a second, his mood had changed from one of delight over his impressive debut to one of barely repressed rage. As I looked around, I noticed that the press pack were more than aware that they'd just witnessed something important. They were sitting up straighter, looking around at each other with questioning eyes as if to ask – "Did you see that, too?"

  I couldn't blame Alex for his anger – after all, I'd not only ambushed him, but potentially ruined the memory of what should be one of the happiest days of his life. Not only that, but by raising the question of whether there was a rift between Alex and his team captain in such a public setting, I'd most likely set him up for weeks of strenuous media cross-examination – the last thing any professional sportsman wanted to endure.

  The thing was, I thought, I'd burned every bridge with Alex coming this far, only to be met with the kind of boilerplate response that reporters got fobbed off with every day. As things stood, my question had been a disaster – certainly nothing I could report on live television later that evening. I felt terrible for ruining Alex's big day – but now that I'd done it, I wondered whether there was any point in stopping. If I didn't get a decent story out of it, I figured, then all this harm had been for nothing. It was a slippery slope, and I was falling down it fast.

  "Alex," I shouted out in English, a language I hoped that most in the press room would speak sparingly, if at all, "one last follow-up question – can you comment on speculation that you had a bust-up with Ramon Garcia–?"

  "That's it, I'm done," Alex hissed, batting away the microphone that sat on the table with the back of his right hand. It fell to the ground, and a loud squeal and a series of thuds played through the room's speakers.

  Roberto stood up, trying to calm Alex down, but the player wasn't in any mood to listen. Wary that he was, if anything, contributing to the scene in front of media from all over Spain – and in fact, like me, all over the world, the press officer quickly stopped. The sound team quickly killed the offending microphone, thankfully silencing the ghastly dirge, but by this point, Alex was already on his way out, each long stride emphasizing the length of his powerful legs.

  The press officer clicked his fingers, urgently indicating he needed another microphone. It was quickly handed over.

  "Apologies for that, ladies and gentlemen," he stalled, desperately eyeing up the door in the hope that Alex might return. After a few seconds, when it was clear that Alex had no such intentions, he continued. "Alejandro has had a, uh, dramatic day. I imagine he's still riding high off the adrenaline of scoring his first goal for this historic club…"

  The press conference erupted, three dozen journalists, news anchors and reporters all competing to ask the next question, while the clacking sound of camera shutters closing bounced off every wall. I stood in the middle of the room, clutching my Dictaphone like a lifeline, shell-shocked at how badly my first ever press conference had gone.

  "No more questions, I'm afraid," the press officer shouted over the clamor of the baying crowd. Even so, he was assailed by the press until he also left the conference room. I needed to get out, because suddenly, I felt hot and claustrophobic – not just because of the heat of the lights and the dozens of bodies in close proximity to me, but because I felt ashamed of how I'd acted.

  I'd always hoped that I wouldn't be an ambush-style reporter – hoped that I would trust in my journalism skills and track down the story, rather than trying to beat it out of my subject with force.

  And yet, the first time that vow was truly put the test, I failed.

  I pushed through the crowd, hot tears pricking my eyes. I caught a couple of curses muttered at me in Spanish as I stepped on toes and bumped into people on my way out, but I couldn't have cared less. I was almost out the door when my path was blocked.

  "Where do you think you're going, missy?"

  I looked up, wiping the wetness away from my eyes surreptitiously. "Who – who are you?" I asked as not one, but two men came into focus. My eyes bugged as they finally did, because they both looked preposterous, in entirely different ways. To my right stood a gentleman, well over six feet tall, whose gut bulged over his trousers in a way that was noticeable even on his truly massive frame and was scarcely contained by a stained, mustard-yellow jacket.

  To his right, and my left, his companion was so different that it barely seemed credible. He was entirely average – dark hair, somewhat pale skin, perhaps five-foot-nine, but was wearing a cream Cuban-style linen suit and held a straw panama hat under one arm.

  "Frank," the fat man bellowed. "And this here's Ken," he said,
jutting his thumb towards his friend.

  "Okay…" I said, completely confused. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

  The thin man, Ken, started chuckling. It was a high-pitched, keening laugh that sent shivers running down my spine. For a man whose appearance was generally inoffensive, other than his grandiose style of dress, the laugh was enough to immediately kill any sense that I might ever be friends with him.

  "No, girl," he began.

  Girl!

  "I think you'd remember if you'd met us," he said arrogantly.

  "Well," I hesitated, off-balance, "who are you then?"

  "We're journalists," fat Frank said condescendingly.

  I really wasn't sure how I was supposed to respond to that. Of course they were both press – after all, why else would they be in a press conference?

  "Congratulations," I said dryly. "It’s been great meeting you both. If you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry to file my story," I lied.

  "Actually," Ken said, twirling his panama hat ostentatiously, "we do mind. Frank and I were talking, and you know what, Diana?" he said lasciviously.

  "What?" I sighed, more than aware of what was going on. This was far from the first time a man had tried to tell me how to do my job. In fact, I was beginning to notice that it was something of a trend with middle-aged men.

  "You do know," Frank picked up, "how badly you screwed up in there, don't you?"

  I did, but I sure as hell wasn't going to admit it – especially not to these intrusive assholes. "I'm sure you're about to enlighten me…"

  "We don't like," Ken continued, pointing back to Frank, "rookies like you coming in in giving the rest of us," the pointing intensified, "a bad name. You know how hard it is to make a career as an American journalist in Spain?"

  He jabbed his finger threateningly in my direction, though not to the point of actually making contact.

  "I guess not," I said noncommittally, doing my best to sidle past my two unexpected assailants. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up – it felt like I was experiencing a fight or flight reaction to the unexpected situation. I wasn't scared so much as…uncomfortable.

  "Oh, you'll learn," Frank said, picking up where his partner had left off. "If you last, that is – and looking at you," he said, making a point to pass his eyes up and down the entire length of my body – lingering on the chest, "I don't expect you'll make the cut."

  I was beginning to get annoyed. In fact, annoyed didn't really cover it: I was getting angry, especially as my brain had finally computed the fact that there was absolutely no way, even with my slender frame, that I was getting past Frank's bulk. I guessed theoretically I could possibly have fit in between his rounded gut and the door frame, but I definitely didn't want to risk the unappetizing prospect of having to touch his doughy flesh. It wasn't his size that bothered me – it was his creepy demeanor.

  "Are you going to get out of my way?" I asked firmly. "Because I've got a story to file."

  The two men looked at each other and chuckled. "Oh, that's funny," Frank gurgled over the sound of his belly laugh, "so would we – if you hadn't just torpedoed that press conference. We don't get paid to sit around on our asses, you know."

  "What do you want from me?" I asked desperately. I knew I'd fucked up – and badly. Not only had I turned Alex, who could have been a useful source if only I had treated him with basic respect, against me, but it also seemed like I'd created a rift amongst the entire press pack. Except I was the only member of one of the sides.

  "What we want," Ken said, looking at Frank for approval, "is for you to keep your mouth shut from now on, got it?"

  "How am I supposed to do my job like that?" I asked, the stress hormones my brain was pumping into my bloodstream making me feel hot under my clothes.

  "We don't care," Frank continued, picking up where Ken had left off. It was like they were twins, able to finish each other's sentences – when in reality they were nothing more than two-bit thugs dressed up as journalists. "But the whole of that room has a job to do, and when you come in like a wrecking ball, it hurts all of us."

  "Yeah, little girl," Ken said, jabbing his finger into my chest. I felt he was taking just a little bit too much pleasure in the contact, and the salacious grin on his face confirmed it. "Why don't you act your age, and your—"

  "Ken!" Frank warned, silencing his colleague with a word, his eyes flicking towards an oncoming Spanish journalist. Ken pulled me to the side, smiling graciously until the oncoming man's curious eyes had passed us, and he disappeared through to the other side of the door.

  "Like I was saying," Ken whispered into my ear, his foul breath wrinkling my nose, "it's bad enough that these Spanish papers have women running around playing at being journalists. I never thought I'd see the day when an American network would join in."

  "Get away from me, you creep!" I said, my brain finally deciding to stop prevaricating. This was beginning to cross the line – hell, it had crossed the line minutes ago.

  My cry drew a few curious eyes from the working journalists, and Ken and Frank smiled and waved at them obsequiously until their curiosity was satisfied. I'd spoken in English, and it didn't seem like many in the room spoke it, or at least not well enough to know there was something wrong.

  "I'm warning you," I said breathlessly, "I'll make a scene."

  "Typical," Frank scoffed. "A little girl like you relying on some brave prince coming in and saving her instead of having a little bit of professional pride."

  Despite the fact that what he was saying was patently ridiculous, I flushed red with embarrassment. I was embarrassed because even though I'd never in a million years treat anyone the way these two men had treated me, when it came down to it, I understood why they were doing what they were doing.

  I was embarrassed by the way I had acted – not because I had harmed these two odious men's chances of filing their stories, but because I'd sacrificed my own journalistic integrity for the sake of one lousy story which, most likely, no one would remember in a week's time.

  "Have it your way," I mumbled. I wasn't giving in so much as compromising. Frank and Ken were so hopped up on their own self-importance, and so invested in the idea of their superiority over me – a mere woman, that there would be no reasoning with them.

  Ken smirked, clearly ecstatic that he'd managed to impose his will upon a defenseless young cub reporter like me. "Good, that's all we wanted," he said smugly, now all smiles.

  I felt dirty, perhaps even violated by the way he was looking at me. His eyes were raking my skin like he was undressing me in his head, and a tiny but nevertheless noticeable bulge in his light linen trousers told me that he liked what he saw.

  "We done?" I asked, feeling sick to my stomach at the pair of them. I didn't wait for an answer, just put my shoulder down and barged my way through, tears once more prickling my eyes.

  I'd hoped that this was going to be my Spanish dream – the start of a long and famous career in sports casting. Instead, it was quickly becoming a nightmare.

  6

  Alex

  My blood was still boiling as I left the stadium, a plain blue baseball cap pulled down low over my face completing a non-descript outfit – a favorite old, battered leather jacket I'd picked up at a yard sale in college for ten bucks over a plain white tee and blue jeans. I could be any one of the thousands of native Catalans roaming the area around the ground even now, hours after the game, fueled by alcohol and chanting and singing the names of their favorite players late into the night.

  That was exactly how I wanted it. I flung my arm skywards to hail a taxi, and within seconds one of the many black and yellow cabs roaming the streets hoping to pick up a fare flashed its lights at me and swerved dangerously towards the curb.

  I was just weighing up whether to take a cautious hop backwards when the old car chugged to a stumbling, choking halt in front of me.

  "On vas?" The cab driver, a man in his fifties with hair that had long ago turned grey asked me in his
native Catalan, the local dialect. It was close enough to the Latin American Spanish that I'd been brought up with that it didn't pose a problem. I climbed into the back of the cab.

  "I need a drink," I said in Spanish, knowing he'd speak it. The Catalans were a proud race of people, and every single person in the city would rather speak their native tongue than the language of the hated Madrid, who they saw as having pillaged the hard-working city for years, increasing taxes and taking as much money out of the region as possible, only for it to be spent in the capital.

  "You want to go to a bar, my friend?" my driver asked, switching to Spanish. He could probably tell I wasn't a Madridista from my accent and didn't seem to harbor any resentment.

  "You bet," I agreed. "Tough day."

  "My friend, you must be new here; there are no tough days when Barcelona wins!" He smiled, laughing gruffly.

  "Did you watch the game?" I inquired curiously. There was absolutely no chance he'd recognized me – I'd taken enough precautions, and I was hardly a household name in the city, even if I hoped that would change soon enough.

  "No, no, my friend – but I listened on the radio," he said, indicating the old radio set in the dashboard of his taxi. Rapid, quiet Spanish was still emanating from the speakers, and at a speed that even I – almost a native speaker – had to pay attention to in order to understand.

  "But you enjoyed it?" I asked. I’d been so wrapped up in my head before the coach sent me on that I'd barely paid attention to the game – only glancing up from time to time to observe where the defender stood, on the off chance that I'd be needed.

  "I enjoy every game," he said, "because Barcelona wins every game."

  I laughed.

  "This game," he turned to face me, swerving through the traffic without paying attention, "it was not so good. My friend, you didn't tell me – where do you want to drink?"

  "What's your name, my friend?" I asked.

  "Adria," he said, luckily turning back to face the road. "It's Catalan, you like it?"