5. Blake
5
BLAKE
T he wrong man? Oh shit.
My heart drops into my stomach. That can’t be possible. I could never do something so stupid. My track record is flawless. Utterly impeccable. He has to be lying, trying to make me doubt myself and the situation. He’s just a rat looking for a way to escape before I hand him over.
“Nice try,” I say, my fingers still wrapped around the gun. “I saw the name on your gym bag.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name isn’t on my bag.”
“It says John Grady right on the tag, asshole, so quit lying to me,” I snap. How did I find this man attractive earlier? He’s nothing but a huge pain in my ass and I can’t wait to unload him.
“Again, not me,” he insists rather smugly.
“Why would I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?” I place a hand on my hip and tilt my head.
He narrows those deep, dark eyes at me then lifts his chin. “Check my driver’s license and credit cards. They’re in my wallet.”
“Which would be located where? In the gym bag that belongs to John Grady?” I can’t help but ask in a snarky tone.
He snorts out a laugh. “You’re really something else, you know that?”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
For a long moment we just stare at each other, neither of us backing down and, I swear, the air around us heats up.
Not good, I think. Not good at all. I have never been attracted to a target before and this is completely throwing me off of my game.
“My back pocket,” he finally says.
“What?” It takes me a second to snap out of the spell he’s casting over me.
“My wallet is in my back pocket.” He enunciates every word as though talking to a child.
I make a face at him and move closer. But first, I set the gun aside and make sure it’s out of his reach. Despite his long-ass arms. “If this is a trick, I will hurt you,” I promise him in a lethal voice.
“The proof of my identity is in the back pocket of my shorts,” he repeats stubbornly. “Once you see you’re wrong, you can let me go. Although, take your time, kitten.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“Because I’m going to thoroughly enjoy your hand on my ass.”
I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat and shake my head. “Just lean forward so I can grab the wallet out, funny guy.”
He tosses me a flirty smile and leans over while I walk around, looking down at where his ass is on the seat. Crouching down, making sure I stay well out of his reach or at least as much as I can, I slide my hand into his back pocket. The tips of my fingers brush a leather wallet and I bite my lip. I’m trying really hard not to come into contact with his very firm behind.
“Don’t be shy. Get in there good and deep,” he encourages me and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
Gritting my teeth, I shove my hand in hard and he jerks forward. I yank the wallet out hard and flip it open. My mouth drops open and I’m glad I’m standing behind him so he can’t see my shocked expression.
The picture on the license is obviously him and, damn him, it’s a really good picture. I mean, who actually looks good in their driver’s license photo? It’s super annoying. But what bothers me the most is the name I read: Angelo Rossi.
Not John Grady.
Fuck me. This isn’t good. Who the hell is this guy? And where in God’s name is John Grady?
“Told you,” he says, and I clench my free hand into a fist, trying to stifle the urge to punch something. To punch him right upside his stupid, non-Grady head.
I never get the wrong target. Ever.
Suddenly, this job has become way more trouble than it’s worth. How did it all get so screwed up? Why does this guy here—Angelo—have Grady’s bag? My head is spinning with questions and I feel a headache begin to pound to life.
“What? Nothing to say now?” he goads.
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
I need to figure out how to fix my mistake before shit goes completely off the rails.
Releasing my pent-up breath, I consider my options: Let this idiot go and keep trying to call Fox seems like the best solution. But there’s still the slightest possibility that he’s lying, trying to trick me. The more I consider it, though, the less it makes sense. Grady didn’t know I was coming for him. And maybe the bag swap was an honest mixup.
Something about the whole thing doesn’t sit right with me, but I can’t quite place my finger on what’s bothering me.
“How did you get John Grady’s bag?” I ask, walking around so I can study his face, see if it looks like he’s lying. Not that he has any reason to if he is who he says.
He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Think hard,” I say, unable to hide my sarcasm.
“I went straight to the racquetball courts to meet my sister, set my bag down in the little room and that was it. Why would anyone else go in there and purposely swap bags?”
Why indeed?
And, I couldn’t miss how he called the gorgeous woman with him his sister. It shouldn’t make any difference to me who she is, but I can’t help but feel a twinge happy about the revelation. With hindsight, I totally see it.
“Wait a minute,” he says slowly, eyeing me closely, “are you saying you think someone purposely switched bags with me?”
Before I can respond, my phone starts buzzing and I check the screen to see Fox’s name. “Thank God,” I grumble and swipe the bar over. “Fox, I’ve been calling you forever.”
“You called me twice,” he states, “and I couldn’t answer because the shit just hit the fan.”
My stomach sinks in dread. “What happened?”
“Well, for starters, you grabbed the wrong guy.”
Shit, shit, shit. My gaze locks onto not-Grady. Hell, my brain is so scattered right now, I don’t even remember hottie’s real name. Andrew? No. Something like that, though.
“Yeah, I just realized that,” I admit, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. “I can let him go and?—”
“Butterfly, listen up and listen closely,” Fox interrupts. “You messed up big-time and now you’re in a shit-ton of trouble. You both are.”
I frown, not liking where this conversation is going. “What do you mean we both are?”
Tall, dark and handsome locks gazes with me. “What’s going on?” he asks, but I shush him.
“You both have a price on your head.”
“What?” I yell, completely shocked by what he said. “How? Why? Who the hell did it?”
I’m so flustered, I can barely see straight and I start pacing back and forth across the room. How did this happen and, better yet, who had the balls to do it? I need answers so I can attempt to fix this disaster.
“My sources say Grady got tipped off that someone was after him and he outsmarted you.”
“By swapping the gym bags,” I say to no one in particular, the pieces clicking together.
“I don’t know. All I know is there’s a new player in town—a mafia guy named Carmine Gallo. He’s friends with Grady and when Grady found out what was going on, he ran to Gallo for help, and he’s the one who put a price on your head. And we’re not talking a price for bounty hunters.”
Oh, my God. As the meaning of his words sink in, the horrible significance, I struggle to draw in a breath. This entire thing has spiraled out of control and I swallow down the rising lump of panic in my throat. “Assassins,” I whisper.
“Yeah. You and your new friend are currently at the top of the Kill List.”
I suck in a sharp breath and look over at the man I was supposed to deliver, alive, for a decent paycheck. Now, he’s in as much trouble as me. Because I know there’s no way off the infamous Kill List until one of the many assassins in NYC puts a bullet in your head.
There has to be something I can do. “I need help, Fox.” I hate the slight edge of desperation lacing my voice, but this is serious. Deadly serious. Something I’ve never faced before and I’m not sure what to do. For the first time in my life, I need help.
“Look, I’m sorry, Butterfly, but it’s out of my hands now. There’s no way I can protect you without this shitshow coming back and fucking me over. That’s not something I can afford to do. Not even for you.”
Gee, thanks a lot. Although, what did I expect? “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
He’s not sorry; he’s just worried about himself. But can I blame him?
“Good luck.” He hangs up and I want to throw my phone across the room and scream until my lungs ache. But that’s not going to solve anything. I’ve always been a woman of action and I’m smart enough to figure a way out of this predicament. I just didn’t expect to have anyone in the passenger seat as I made my getaway.
I finally stop pacing and cross my arms, staring into my captive’s amazing, dark irises. “We have a problem,” I state without preamble.
“Yeah, I kind of got that impression from your side of the conversation.”
How do I explain to this guy that I fucked up so badly that we both now have to run for our lives?
“Shit,” I hiss and start pacing all over again.
“Look, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad,” he says, and I throw my head back and laugh. “Tell me what’s going on and I’ll help get us out of it.”
“You?” I scoff. “And just how do you plan to do that?”
I don’t mean to sound so condescending, but there’s no way this Joe Nobody can fix this shitstorm. Right now I need a miracle.
“Let’s just say I know people. The right people.”
I shake my head, dismissing him, and rack my brain for a solution. There has to be some way out of this and I will figure it out. I’ve always been good in a bind and I excel at challenges. And that’s all this is, I try to convince myself. Just a challenge to be overcome.
“What? You don’t believe me?” He lays the arm not handcuffed on the edge of the chair and my attention dips to his forearms. I lick my lips wondering why in the world I find his forearms so damn attractive? And especially at such an inopportune moment like this?
“Look, I’m sure a guy like you hangs out with plenty of local celebrities and jetsetting billionaires, but that isn’t going to help us right now.” I can’t help my sarcastic tone, but he’s starting to get on my last damn nerve. I have to think and he’s distracting me in every possible way.
“I’m not talking about celebrities. Although, I do know a few,” he adds.
“You’re making my headache worse,” I lament and rub my fingers against my temples.
“Kitten, you may not realize it, but you grabbed more than just a good-looking guy with six-pack abs who can play a mean game of racquetball.”
“Oh, my God. You did not just say that.” He gives me a mischievous grin, waiting for me to ask. With a sigh, I knowingly take the bait. “Fine. Who exactly did I grab?”
“You kidnapped a mafia prince.”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. He catches me off my game and I just stare at him, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He has to be joking. Right? Suddenly, it feels like my stomach is full of lead and I have the urge to puke all over his tennis shoes. Placing my hands on my hips, I lift my chin and demand, “Who are you?”
“Clearly you don’t remember even though you checked out my ID, but I’m Angelo Rossi. As in the Five Families Rossi.”
Oh, no. My heart sinks, dropping right down into my lead-filled belly. As if things couldn’t get any worse, I’m not only going to have bounty hunters and assassins after me, but also the freaking mafia.
I am so screwed.