Hostage of the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  “El Raval,” he answers quickly, throwing open the passenger side door of the car and helping me in, then tossing the duffel bag into the backseat before settling in behind the wheel.

  “Okay… is that, like, a hotel or something?” I press him, shaking my head slowly, waiting for him to elaborate. He jams the keys into the ignition and throws the car into gear as the engine roars to life. I cross my arms a little petulantly, staring at him with my eyebrows raised. I hate when he makes me wait. I’ve never been an especially patient person.

  “It’s a slum,” Darios corrects me, reaching over my lap to open the dashboard compartment. He withdraws two sets of slick designer sunglasses and a rolled-up floral scarf, tossing one pair of glasses and the scarf to me while he puts on the other pair of shades. “Put on the glasses and use the scarf to cover your hair. This will disguise us somewhat for the time being.”

  “A slum?” I repeat, horrified. He glances over the console at me and even though his shades completely obscure his eyes, I know instinctively that he’s glaring.

  “Yes, we are going there to lay low for a while,” he replies. He taps the wheel impatiently and adds, “Hurry up, put it on.”

  “Okay, okay! I’m doing it,” I shoot back, clumsily unrolling the scarf and wrapping it rather inexpertly over my head to conceal my hair and neck. Then I put on the sunglasses and turn to look at Darios expectantly. “Happy now?”

  He reaches over to take my hand, a surprisingly tender gesture that knocks me off-kilter for a moment. “Yes. I do not want to risk anything happening to you,” he says, his voice low and controlled. I blink at him in shock, expecting him to qualify his sweet statement with some undercutting remark, but it never comes.

  “Oh,” I say lamely, after a moment. “Okay.”

  We drive on in silence for several hours, first through the countryside and then passing within the boundaries of Barcelona, weaving through the city high-rises, lush green parks, and historical buildings.

  The scenery outside my window starts to change as we move from the wealthier neighborhoods into a less-maintained area. It becomes obvious that this place isn’t as cared for as the others. The buildings surrounded us on all sides down the narrow streets are still clearly ancient, pieces of history which for some reason have not been as delicately preserved. Graffiti tags mar the peeling, stained walls on either side of us, with long, spindly clothes lines hung from window to window overhead. Despite the fact that this part of the city is not given the same resources as the rest, there is still something lovely about it. Something poetic and genuine in its simple, unadorned beauty.

  “Is this the place?” I ask quietly, my eyes wide as I look around.

  “Yes,” Darios answers simply.

  We drive on for a bit longer down the tiny streets wedged between imposing structures on either side, with the occasional motorbike whizzing noisily past us, coming dangerously close to side-swiping the car. But none of this seems to bother Darios in the least, his focus totally trained on the task at hand. Meanwhile, my hands fidget nervously in my lap.

  Finally, we come to a stop behind a tall, rundown building that looks to be at least fractionally leaning to one side. Worryingly so. But then Darios gets out and grabs the duffel bag, waving for me to follow him, and a feeling of heavy dread comes over me as it dawns on me that this is where we’re going to be staying.

  “Do you know someone here?” I ask softly, following close behind him as he pushes through the weathered door to the building.

  “I know the building owner. She’s an old friend. I pay her a monthly rent to maintain a small apartment here for emergency purposes,” he answers with surprising candor.

  “You pay rent for a place you only live in occasionally?” I question, furrowing my brow. Darios nods and leads me up several flights of rickety metal stairs. I’m thankful for my years of cheerleading, because without my athleticism this would be one hell of a journey.

  “I pay for the building,” he corrects, without a single fluctuation in tone.

  “What?!” I burst out. “You pay for this whole rundown place? Why?”

  He looks back at me over his shoulder and says, “I told you, the owner is an old friend.”

  “Well, if you’re paying for it, aren’t you the owner?” I press, totally confused by the whole situation. Darios sighs and we finally stop climbing the stairs, having apparently reached our floor. He leads us down to a room at the end of the hall and takes a key out of his pocket to unlock the door.

  “No. She owns it, but I pay for it. And she maintains it,” he clarifies, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.

  Before I can stop myself, a sardonic comment comes out of my mouth: “Does she? This place doesn’t look like anyone is maintaining it, to be honest. If this is what you’re paying her for, you might want to reconsider your arrangement.”

  Darios rounds on me instantly, giving me a cold look that sends a shiver down my spine, and I immediately regret my words. He pushes the door open and nudges me inside, tossing the duffel bag onto the floor and locking us in.

  “My old friend is in her late sixties and she is the heart and soul of this neighborhood. She works her ass off keeping this place running. I understand that it may not live up to your spoiled daddy’s girl sensibilities, and it may not be a ritzy hotel, but this is the safest place for us right now. And I will be damned if I let some snobbish American brat undermine all the hard work my friend has done here,” Darios says, taking off the sunglasses to reveal his dark eyes blazing underneath.

  There’s less malice in his voice than expected, though, and I get the sense that he is more disappointed than he is angry. Which, in a way, is almost worse. Rage I can handle. But the idea of doing anything to make Darios think less of me is almost too painful to bear.

  “No, you’re right,” I reply quickly. “I’m sorry. That was really ugly of me to say. I-I guess I’m just a little scared, that’s all.” And that isn’t a lie. I’m self-aware enough to know that the majority of my sarcasm and icy demeanor is just a guard that goes up whenever I’m uncomfortable in a situation. I don’t intend to be mean. I just don’t know how to respond to stress in a healthier way.

  “I know,” Darios says, a little more gently. “But you must learn that not all the world even wants to live the way you live. This place may not look like the pictures in your glossy travel magazines, but this is the real world, and this is where people live. I may have developed a soft spot for you, patara gogona, but I cannot tolerate unearned smugness.”

  “I understand. I’ll work on it,” I promise him earnestly, feeling sheepish. He flashes me a rare, charming smile and suddenly everything feels a thousand times better. “So, how about you give me a tour of the place,” I suggest brightly.

  Darios laughs. “This is about it.”

  I try to conceal my discomfort as I look around at our substantially reduced new digs. The apartment is essentially a studio, with a mattress on the floor in the corner, a sheer green curtain hanging over the one wide window, a miniature kitchenette with no refrigerator and only two stove burners, and a tiny bathroom with no shower, only a peeling old bathtub.

  “It’s, um, got a kind of quaint charm to it, doesn’t it?” I comment, forcing myself to smile. Darios walks over and drapes an arm around my shoulders.

  “That’s the spirit,” he replies. “Now, it’s time we get you into some different clothes. You’ll stand out here wearing that. Besides, I assume you might be a little tired of wearing the same black dress every day.”

  I nod vigorously. “Yes. Oh god, yes.”

  “Well, then, let’s go,” he announces. “We need to retrieve some things to make our stay a little more enjoyable, I believe.”

  The two of us head out into the neighborhood to visit a local market square. We spend the afternoon weaving in and out of thrift shops and discount stores, picking up soap, old linens, some towels, and toiletries for the apartment. I’ve been thrift shopping before, but
only in the swanky hipster-esque regions of Savannah and Atlanta, so this is a whole new world for me. Darios selects some raggedy, earthy-colored clothing for me to wear while we’re in the city, explaining that our best bet to stay safe is to make ourselves as unobtrusive as possible.

  Besides, I have to admit that these clothes are more comfortable than the laced-up, skin-tight designer clothing I always kept in my closet back home. And by the way Darios looks at me when I change into a brown linen peasant skirt and form-fitting, vintage white blouse, I get the feeling that he prefers me this way. Soft. Simple.

  Afterward, we head to an open-air market to collect fresh fruits and vegetables, a loaf of home-baked artisan bread flavored with rosemary, and a wheel of hard, dry cheese. Darios buys an unlabeled bottle of wine from a woman in a tiny booth tucked away into an alley and I dare not question him, even though I’m a little concerned that we’re probably buying the Spanish equivalent of bathtub moonshine. But the woman who sells it to us is so sweet and smiley that I can’t help but trust her.

  We head back to the apartment and spend the night eating wholesome, cheap food and settling into our new residence. Around midnight, we crack into the bottle of wine, which tastes like sugared berries and moonlight, and before long the two of us fall onto the mattress together, kissing passionately until we finally drift to sleep.

  Over the next few days, Darios’s guards slowly trickle back into our life, secretly moving into other apartments in the building, passing us in the hallway occasionally. Despite the fact that we’re in hiding, the two of us spend most of our time outside, winding down the serpentine streets and meeting all sorts of wonderful characters. As it turns out, Darios has many friends in this part of the city, from farmers to fishermen to seamstresses. All of them seem to regard Darios with a degree of warm fondness and reverence, and a couple of them explain to me in broken Spanglish that he is somewhat of a local hero, pouring much-needed money and support into the neighborhood. Never once does Darios talk down to anyone, (except physically, because that’s unavoidable with him being about the tallest man I’ve ever known) and I begin to see a different side of him I’ve only caught glimpses of before. He is kind, generous, and understanding. He listens intently to every piece of banal news and each pointless story with the same intensity I would have given a harrowing action movie. He kisses the old ladies on their cheeks, the kids on their foreheads, and shakes the hand of every older gentleman who greets him.

  I find myself falling desperately, irretrievably in love with this man.

  We’re finally settling into the slow, simple groove of life here in El Raval when one night I leave the apartment alone to collect our clothes from the laundromat down the street. On the way back, I pass a couple of the guards standing in the doorway of one of the apartments, and overhear a whispered conversation between them.

  “Mosmena,” hisses one of the men. “Have you heard about what happened?”

  “What? What is it? I have a pot of water boiling, make it fast.”

  I slip into the shadows to eavesdrop, balancing the bag of clean laundry on my hip.

  “About the parents who disappeared? The ones we were supposed to ransom the brunette back to? They’re gone.”

  “The one named Caitlin? What do you mean gone?”

  “They’re nowhere to be found. I heard somebody, you know, ‘took care’ of them.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “No, it’s true. I don’t know what happened to the girl, but her parents are gone.”

  My heart sinks and I start to feel nauseated. I hurriedly pass by without making eye contact with either of the guards, nearly forgetting the bag of laundry in my rush to get back to the apartment. I burst into the room and Darios looks up, instantly sensing my mood.

  “What’s going on? Did they overcharge you or something?” he asks, looking up from the map in his hands. I hurry over to him, dropping the bag of laundry by the door.

  “I just overheard two of your guards talking about Caitlin’s parents going missing! Why the hell haven’t you told me about this? What else are you hiding?” I shout, tears stinging in my eyes. “What happened to them? What happened to Cait? If her parents are missing, then who the hell did you ransom her out to?”

  Darios gets to his feet immediately, putting his hands on my shoulders and holding me still as though to calm me down. But I can’t be calmed, not when I know there’s something terrible going on and my friend is in danger.

  “I’m sure you must have misheard them, Delaney,” he says coolly, but I detect a hint of suspicion in his tone, all the same.

  “No. I didn’t. Now, tell me what’s going on!” I demand, stomping my foot like a bratty child.

  “Delaney, listen to me. I have no idea what you’re talking about. This… this wasn’t my order. If something has happened to your friend or her parents, well, it wasn’t sanctioned by me,” Darios admits, a look of darkness coming over his handsome face.

  There’s a moment of quiet before I erupt into righteous fury, ripping out of his hands and crying out, “You told me not to worry! You said it was fine and I was overreacting, but I was right, wasn’t I? There’s another traitor out there doing this, and it’s someone you know and trust, Darios. I tried to warn you. I knew something was wrong, but you just pushed me aside!”

  Anger mingled with regret flashes across his features and he takes an aggressive step forward.

  “Delaney, listen to me—”

  “No!” I interrupt, giving him a cold stare. “You underestimated me just like everyone else does. I thought you were different, but you’re not. You just see some stupid little girl when you look at me, don’t you?”

  “You know that’s not true,” Darios counters, softening his voice as he lets his arms fall to his sides. “But you’re right. I should have listened to you. I didn’t want to admit there could be someone working for me, one of my old loyalist crew from the war, not one of the new hired mercs, who would dare defy my orders. I let my pride blind me to the truth, and I’m sorry.”

  I pause, stopping myself before I could yell at him some more. The genuine apology in his voice halts me in my tracks, and I feel my rage melting away. I can’t stay mad at him. Everyone has a blind spot. Even someone as powerful and imposing as Darios. I can’t fault him for that.

  “Okay. Fine. I-I accept your apology,” I say, less bitterly than before. “But what the hell are we gonna do, Darios? I can’t just stand around not knowing what Caitlin’s going through.”

  He steps forward and pulls me into his arms, and this time I don’t fight it. We stand this way for a couple minutes, just breathing in each other’s comforting warmth. Then he says solemnly, “We’re going to do the only thing there is to do: we’re going to save your friend.”

  19

  Darios

  I hoist myself up the ladder rung by rung, making less sound than the stray cat in the alley below me as it digs through trash in the dumpster on the side of this run-down apartment complex.

  If someone wants to call the south side of El Raval a slum, they can point to a building like the one I’m scaling in the middle of the night. An American eye would still recognize a European charm to it — the outside is a tan stone with very old engravings along the columns, under windows and balconies. They’re simple, but distinctly Catalan. A nearby tiny balcony or window opening sports a small planter, their contents threatening to overgrow their boundaries. When the sunlight hits it just right, it might be mistaken for a decent place.

  But the sunlight rarely ever hits this cramped patch of city block, and close inspection dispels all notions of prosperity. The wiring and plumbing running along the side of the building is outdated and rusted, and there are visible patches of recent repair here and there. There’s grime and stains from smoke along most of the walls, and the smell is… not pleasant. Laundry is hanging on innumerable lines between the apartment buildings. Gang graffiti is everywhere, various bands of youths making their marks on the pla
ce in invisible turf wars.

  It’s almost a shame to bring more violence to such a quaint Spanish slum.

  The residents are not to blame for the worn down block — they never are. And the gangs are just a symptom of the real root of the problem. There is a slumlord who runs this place, leeching money off his tenants like a mosquito, leaving behind a virulent and bothersome sore. His name is Juan Palomo, and he’s a step above most of the slum lords that infest El Raval like a plague.

  He’s my target tonight.

  Palomo is well known even as far out as my villa. He got his start running predatory lending offices like payday loan operations. If the transition from lender to local crime lord can be called a transition at all, Palomo’s was quick and seamless. His loan sharks got a reputation for brutality under Palomo’s orders, and they soon became his enforcers. From there, it was a small step to start demanding protection money from local businesses, all from his penthouse in this trash heap of an apartment, trapping the residents under him.

  He’s one of the local politicians now, who’s been calling for a crackdown on organized crime, amusingly enough. What a joke! Which makes me suspect him as the most likely culprit for funding the attacks on me, to secure the funding for his own anti-mob army.

  A little while ago, I thought of myself as a traitor to my roots for getting such an unquenchable desire to fuck Delaney to the point of exhaustion, a hunger I still feel amidst all this squalor. But when I look at people like Palomo, I see the true class traitors — people who claw their way to the top to stand on the rubble of their fellow people.

  I’ve studied this place from the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, and I know the routines of the gangbangers Palomo employs up on the roof of the building. As I near the lip of the roof, I ready the long knife at my side, waiting for the sound of footsteps approaching.