by Frankie Love
I should know. All my family are mob guys.
While he cooks, I take a look around. The windows are all locked. Naturally. And the doors to the outside.
He’s got a bedroom that doesn’t look particularly comfortable. Furnished out of a warehouse like the rest of the place. The only thing it has going for it is some books. I like his taste in reading.
I use the bathroom that’s off his room.. My white shirt is all messed up, so when I get out of the shower, I take a look in the wardrobe. He has a couple more of those nice black shirts. I take one and try it on.
It looks pretty hot on me. I wear it with most of the buttons undone. It looks a riot without my pants. But I’m not rocking that look for him.
That wouldn’t fit the plan.
The steak smells great. The fries are perfect and he serves me a lovely fresh salad to go with it.
“If it’s my last meal, though, shouldn’t I get to choose it?”
“You really don’t trust me.”
I shrug.
“What’s an honest, hardworking kidnapper to do?”
He offers me beer or red wine. I take water. He has a beer.
After I taste the steak, I tell him, “This is great. You really can cook.”
“The trick is kosher salt. You give it a dusting, rub it in. Ideally, you should leave it in the fridge a couple of hours.”
“I like that you serve it rare, though. I hate overcooked steak.”
“I’m loving my shirt on you.”
I smile. “You like it? I love these on you, too. I love it especially with you jacket. Mind if I try that on, too?”
He smiles, “Sure. Try it. I’m not letting you keep my jacket.” But he says, “You can keep the shirt. You’ll make me and it very happy.”
He really is a nice guy. That’s going to make it hard.
I step out to the garage to get his jacket. It’s a beautifully made leather coat. It fits me pretty well.
I do what I need, I walk back into the kitchen, and I give him a twirl before I sit down to finish my steak.
He looks me up and down, approving.
“It looks pretty fucking good on you. I’d love to get you one made up. I don’t know how the hood you’re supposed to marry would feel about that.”
“Drago doesn’t feel things. Anyway, I’m not going to marry him. I thought I was clear on that.”
“So what are your plans?”
“I’ve really enjoyed working in Poppy’s bridal store. But what I want is to go to college and study art.”
“You want to be an artist?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Are your family not okay with that?”
“They’re not big on education. Not for anyone, but especially not for girls.”
He’s watching me. I feel good, looking back into his eyes. Like we’re coming to a kind of an understanding. I feel good with him. He’s smart, he’s hot, I love his sense of humor, though there’s no way I’m letting him know that. And he’s thrillingly strong.
Then his phone rings. He tenses up as he stands and turns from the table.
The mood breaks.
After a short conversation that I don’t hear any of, he tells me, “Liam wants me to take you straight to Lucas.”
“Oh.”
“About that,” his eyes narrow. “I don’t want to give you back.”
“No?” I swallow.
“I’m kind of crazy about you.”
I wasn’t ready for that. “Seriously?”
He looks in my eye and I’m melting again. “Seriously,” he says. “Of all the people you’re determined not to marry, where would I come on the list?”
“Wow! Whoever said the spirit of romance was dead?” My stomach dropped through the floor. “But I never thought of you as on the list at all.”
“Well, good. Then you can put me on the list of people you’re not not going to marry.”
“What, you just decided that? This afternoon?”
“I guess I’ve been working up to it. I love how you handle yourself at a poker table. I love how you handle yourself generally.”
“Are you insane?”
“Obviously. I would have to be. But I’ve realized I would have to be more insane not to want to marry you. You’re brilliant. And you’re gorgeous. And I totally fucking adore you. Even though you look better in my clothes than I do.” His eyes narrow, “I can’t deny it, that is a serious black mark.”
Then he says, “But mainly, I really, desperately want to fuck you and fuck you and fuck you until little replicas of you pop out. And then I want to do it some more.” He cocks his head to one side. “How does that sound to you?”
I swallow again. “It sounds fucking insane. Obviously.” It should. It doesn’t. But I’ll ignore that. “Maybe I should have a glass of red wine after all. It might help me take all of this in.”
He’s not taken in. Insane he may well be, but he’s not any kind of a fool. I jump up as he’s opening the bottle - and I barge into him “Oh, I am so sorry.”
Red wine splashes over his shirt. He pours two glasses and says, “No problem. I have another shirt. As you know. I’ll just drop this one in water.”
And I feel shitty.
Chapter Twelve
Finn
The cold water in the sink bleeds red as soon as I drop the shirt in. I go to my wardrobe and I’ve got a bounce in my step. I know I’m not thinking straight.
And I have a nagging feeling that I’m missing something obvious. Something’s not right.
Something besides the fact that the magical sex witch mafia princess is not really going to crack and marry a guy like me. She is so many leagues out of my league,
Okay, she let me be her first, but it really doesn’t mean anything. Not to her. It would be delusional to think anything else. She said it, man.
Maybe this is all a setup. She’s going to wait by the door. Whack me with the red hot cast iron broiling pan I used for the steak. Better be careful going back in.
I slip on the shirt. Damn, she looks fine in the other one. And in my jacket.
Ding, ding.
What, this is an elaborate ruse to steal my jacket?
Come on, Finn. Even by my standards, that’s totally nuts. No. Not the jacket… the… oh, fuck.
I’m already running.
From the far side of the house, it’s easy to hear the Harley Davidson engine crack and roar into life.
I grab the car keys and I run.
By the time I get the Toyota skidding out, onto the road, I can hear the bike in the distance, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
When she told me she never rode a motorcycle, I swallowed it. Like a total idiot.
I left the keys in the bike. The beeper for the garage was in my jacket.
This little Toyota is not going to catch my Harley Sportster. Not if she has any idea how to ride it. And I’m damned sure she can ride. The way she can drive? If I thought about it for one second, I would realized.
I catch sight of her, way off in the distance. She’s already heading under the Historic Westside bridge, Flat out, the Toyota has no change of keeping up with the Harley. Not through traffic.
I just about keep her in sight past the Fremont Street Experience and into the downtown jostle, but after that, I’ve got no chance.
I have to make a guess. Only two places I can think of she might be making for.
One would be the O’Malley compound, where her sister lives. The other would be a lot more dangerous for her.
Chapter Thirteen
Mia
I can’t stay out on the street too long, or I’ll get picked up by the cops for riding without a helmet. Thundering through Downtown on his Sportster with the wind in my hair feels so good, though.
Excitement in my gut tingles with panic. I don’t know where I can safely go now. Nowhere is ever going to be completely safe for me. I wish that I could have stayed with mob guy. I want to trust him and I feel like I can.
But it’s such a risk.
And everybody betrays me. It’s the life. I never expected anything else. My father wanting to practically trade me to Drago was a shock, but it’s how things are done. Outside the law, you have to use whatever assets you can. It’s as simple as that.
Still, Daddy putting me in that position threw me. It confused me. He was so upset after we lost Giulietta, it was like he was living under a cloud for a year after that. So I was stunned that he seemed ready to lose me, too.
I still can’t believe it. But it’s just the way things are. He taught me and protected me and took care of me until I was eighteen. Now, he would expect me to be able to look after myself. To find a way to deal with any situation I was in.
Or maybe my younger-sister instinct was right after all. He loved Giulietta more than he loved me.
Oh, even at a time like this, my inner brat can still rise up, poke her head out and whine like a princess. Whenever I think I’ve straightened her out, she’s just waiting, red-faced with a shoe in her hand.
When I was little, I used to call her Rapunzel. Always waiting for the perfect prince to climb the outside a tower for her and risk her father’s sword or falling to his death. Like a mean, introspective version of Goldilocks. ‘Too hot,’ ‘too lumpy.’ ‘Too hairy.’ Oh, now I’m thinking of Red Riding-hood.
Now everything seems clearer.
The clearest thing of all is that I want him. Finn. My mob guy. But if I can’t trust my own family, how could I ever trust him?
Much as I love riding the bike, the highway through the desert is dull. Juddering along a straight, flat road with wind and grit in my face is not fun. Especially after the spiky weaving cut and thrust, jamming through gaps in traffic around the casinos.
I’ll stop at Poppy’s store. Say hi, catch up. Pick up my car. I wish I’d found out where he put the tracker. Then I realize, I liked him hunting me down. Excitement simmers in my gut just thinking about it.
I want him to track me. I want him to find me. Take me. Again.
Shame you can’t always get what you want. I can’t be at Poppy’s place for too long. It seems like half of Vegas is after me now. I wonder what Giovani’s deal is. If he is just trying to please Daddy, which would not be like him, or if he has some agenda of his own.
I know one thing. He’ll be mad as hell about his Ferrari. He loves that stupid toy. Always in the shop, always hemorrhaging money. But he always makes excuses for it. That boy needs a woman.
As I finally swerve into Poppy’s parking lot, her face through the window is a picture of total shock. I figure it’s because she hasn’t seen me or pictured me high up on a huge motorcycle before.
It’s only when I’m right in front of the store, when I smile and wave, then sling my leg over the bike to get off, and I see him.
Them.
Drago.
I could just fire the bike back up and run, but I know Drago. He would take it out on Poppy before he came after me. He’s standing too close to Poppy. I can’t tell if he’s actually holding her. Her hands are behind her back.
Drago’s leer hots up as I step into the store. He has four hefty goons spread around the showroom.
“Mia!” His ugly grin splits his face. “Love of my life. We were wondering where you had got to. Your friend here was just telling me that your brother Giovani came looking for you. But you left with a friend. Come in and sit down. Tell me about your new friend. I think I would like to meet him.” Then he gives me his slimy, sly look. “Is that his jacket you’re wearing? It looks well on you. But anything would look better on you.” His eyes narrow. “Most especially, me.”
My skin crawls.
“I’m so glad you came back. Now we don’t have to cause any more trouble or inconvenience to anyone.” He throws back his head as he laughs. “We can be married straight away. Vegas is so wonderful, isn’t it? You’re never more than a couple of blocks from somewhere you can get married at once.” His head dips and his lips shine as his voice lowers, “And then you’re no more than a few steps from a hotel room, where the happy union can be fully and exhaustingly consummated.”
Random mob guy must have had some guns. Why didn’t I stay around longer and get a gun?
I’m glad I got here to Poppy before anything terrible happened to her, though.
But Drago says, “Your little friend here can be your bridesmaid.”
Her face tells me that his hand is not just resting behind her back.
He turns to her, “You must have a wonderful wedding dress for my lovely bride.”
I have an idea. “Poppy, we said the wonderful ivory dress you were making up for Nora Bryghte could easily be taken in to fit me. I think it would be perfect for my wedding, don’t you?”
With a puzzled frown, she nods. “Uh… y-yes. of course. Whatever you…”
“You could fit it for me right now. Couldn’t you. It would make me a beautiful bride for Drago.”
I can see that she’s totally baffled. I nod and say, “Yes! We could fit it right now.”
Poppy is still not getting it. “If we take it in the fitting room.” I look from Poppy to the small fitting room.
The main area for fitting is the most luxurious part of the showroom. Padded and upholstered with throws and pillows, seats for bridesmaids, the bride’s mother and other friends and relatives.
“Sure,” she says. “Of course.”
“Just one of my men will go into the fitting room with you.” He chuckles. It sounds like a song a rattlesnake might sing. “One man will be enough, I think.”
Poppy says, “The fitting room is too tiny. There’s room for us, or for one of these guys. Not both.” I think she’s getting it. “If they wait just outside, though, they can pass scissors and pins and things in to us.”
Drago does not look like a happy man. But then, does he ever?
All I know is, the little closet that Poppy often uses for informal fittings has a metal worktable we could use to jam the door, and a window we might get out of.
“No,” Drago says, “I see you got all these nice decorative screens about the place. All very romantic. No need to close yourselves in a tiny room. You can do your changing and fitting behind a couple of them.”
Chapter Fourteen
Finn
Mia’s friend Poppy steps out of the bridal store in a blood red bridesmaid’s gown.
My stomach drops and I’m super pumped when I see, behind her, my beautiful Mia. Tall, proud, and gorgeous in an ivory wedding dress, with my black leather jacket over the top.
But the real shocker is the four identi-goons in the doorway behind her. Following them, a guy who looks like the ogre in Shrek’s much uglier, gnarly uncle.
I step out of the car and stride toward the group.
The ugly guy shouts, “I do believe it’s Liam O’Malley’s poodle.” The girls part and Drago’s goons surround me.
All of them are pulling out their guns.
Mr. Ugly says, “Welcome to the celebration. You’re just in time. You can be our witness.”
I shake my head and tell him, “You’re definitely looking at marrying up in the style league.”
The nearest goon gets the side of my closed fist under his ear as I kick back hard at the liver of the one behind me. He crumples, but he’s not out of the game. Not like his pal. The one in front of me has his gun up.
I slap my palm into his wrist and twist his gun hand back, then grip the hand and wrench the gun around.
His knuckles make a sickening noise. A wet rip as the gun comes loose in my hand. His thumb droops. He howls. I drive a side kick and crack his knee as I spin for the goon behind. I smash the butt of the gun into his face, then hammer my hand hard into his ear, and again into his side.
I eject the magazine from the gun and toss it.
The goon I gave the liver kick to, he’s doubled over. He still has his gun, but I can see he doesn’t want to fight. I drive a haymaker up into his chin so he can sleep it off.
As he goes down, I take his gun.
Turning back, I jab the automatic hard between Drago’s eyes.
“I really despise guns,” I snarl at him. “Are you going to ruin my day and make me use this one?”
While he thinks about it, I kick him in his balls. His face is red and his eyes bulge as he drops, curled up tight on the ground.
I call Liam. Tell him the score and what I want to do. He asks if I have the nerve to repeat what I said to Lucas Moretti.
“Sure,” I tell him. “I’m not sure I have his number, though.”
Liam texts me the number. I call Lucas, the head of the Moretti crime family.
“Mr. Moretti? I was asked to assist in finding your daughter. And I’m very glad to say that she’s here.” I turn the camera to show him. “So that’s good news, right?”
Lucas Moretti does not reply, and he doesn’t look like a man who enjoys casual banter.
Still. I go on. “I believe Mr. Drago was hoping to marry the lovely Mia. But now he seems unwell, and it maybe some time before he could fulfill the duties of a husband. Perhaps more important, though, I understand from your daughter that he’s a loathsome slug and she would rather eat hedgehogs than marry him.”
I look over at Mia and hold the phone so her father can see her. She keeps her face straight as she nods.
“Mr. Moretti, we haven’t met and you don’t know me at all, but Liam O’Malley can tell you whatever you would want to know about me. I very much want your lovely daughter Mia to marry me, as I believe I am in most ways far less loathsome, and I think its fair to say, hardly slug-like at all. Oh, also, my wedding tackle is in great working order.”
It would be fair to say he does not look happy.
I press on. “So far, Mr. Moretti, the lovely Mia has been sensible enough to refuse my proposal. But I would like to try one more time to ask her. I would be so happy if I could persuade her. But I thought, since I have this opportunity, I thought it only polite to ask if you would have any objection.”
