Chapter 7 #2
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You can’t get out of the car faster than I can shoot you. You can’t draw a gun or knife faster than I can shoot you. And you can’t shove a needle in me faster than I can shoot you. Turn on the engine, put the car in drive, and go.”
I reach back for my seatbelt while I speak.
While I’d be more comfortable not having to hold up my arm that has the gun pressed to her ribs, I can do it for hours.
Another thing I was trained to do. The men in my family have the endurance of a woman in labor for seventy hours.
We’re trained to stay awake for days at a time.
To stand or squat for hours, holding our arms out to the side, in front of us, or overhead.
Sweaty palms or not, we can hang from a beam practically by our fingertips while a weight presses on them.
As the Cartel family for generations, we’d be an anthropologist’s wet dream.
“I suppose my choices are wait it out here until sundown when your men can drag me out of the car and stuff me in the trunk of another vehicle, or let them follow us, then drag me out.”
“I’d never let anyone stuff you in a trunk, chiquita.”
Her eyes widen a fraction at my adamance. Her gaze sweeps over me before she dips her chin.
“You’d torture me and confine me in some other kind of cage, just not the trunk of a car.”
“Depending on how things go from now on, you’ll discover whether you’re right. Drive, Tiffani with an i.”
“For fuck’s sake.” She mutters more than speaks, and I chuckle.
“If you don’t like me calling you that, give me another name. Who would you have been at the club? Who were you at the O’Rourkes’ gala?”
She swallows when I mention the last place I saw her.
She thought I hadn’t recognized her. I knew who she was the moment my gaze landed on her table.
Every syndicate man’s gaze sweeps our surroundings every couple of minutes.
No one lets their situational awareness dull, especially not when our women and children are around.
There aren’t any kids in my family—for now—but my mother, aunts, and cousins-in-law were there.
“Since I haven’t pretended not to know you, I suppose there’s little point in denying I was at either of those places.”
“There’s no point at all. So, Tiffani with an i, what would you rather I call you?”
“I was Giselle at the club and Liz at the gala.”
“Mmm. Giselle is certainly more fitting. Though, wouldn’t it be Gisella?”
Her left index finger curls a centimeter on her lap, but it’s a tell.
I’ve mostly ruled out her being Latina, though she could be Brazilian.
My guess is Italian or French, maybe Swiss.
With current syndicate geopolitics, I’m leaning heavily toward Italian.
It’s just a question of where. Naples? Venice? Calabria? Sicily? Apulia?
So many choices from so many people who’d love to kill me. As long of as none of them touch my pretty face.
I want to roll my eyes at myself.
Threats either taunt me about not marking my supposed best feature, or that’s the first thing they promise to shred. I’m more partial to my dick working than worrying about how straight my nose is. But if Cartel life doesn’t work out, there’s always GQ.
“Call me whatever you want. Will it really matter?”
“No, not since the only name that’ll be screamed is mine.”
She looks at me now. “You think we’re going to fuck?”
“Such a dirty mind, chica. Though you’ll be begging for mercy.”
“You going to tie me up?”
My lips twitch as I fight not to laugh. “Tsk, tsk. Still thinking about sex at a time like this. Do you have a gun fetish?”
“You’re the one talking about sex, not me, Alejandro.”
“Mmm. Say it again.”
“Se—”
“My name.” I lean over and whisper it in her ear like a puff of air.
“Fuck off.”
“There you go again. Sex, sex, sex. Is that all I’m good for? Uh-uh. My eyes are up here, chiquita.”
I flexed my pecks, and I knew she’d naturally look down at the distraction.
“Arrogant ass.”
“So, you’ve noticed that part of me too.”
“Shoot me already.”
“No. Drive.”
When she does nothing, I move the gun to press against her carotid artery.
A shot to the ribs wouldn’t automatically kill her, but a shot to this part of her neck…
That would definitely be messy. Her foot moves to the brake before she turns on the car, then her hands reach for the wheel, as she looks at me from the corner of her eye.
Her pupils dilate as her fight or flight instinct kicks in for real.
“I’m going to reach back for my belt.”
She eases her left hand off the wheel and reaches back.
When she pulls the belt across her chest, I cover her hand and guide it to the buckle.
Her hand’s warm but not clammy. It’s neither moist nor freezing from fear.
She still thinks she has control. When her left hand returns to the wheel, her right reaches for the shifter, putting the vehicle in drive.
I allow her to concentrate as she pulls out of the parking lot and merges onto the street.
My gaze sweeps over her, the windshield, and the side view mirrors over and over.
My arm still isn’t tired from holding up the gun, but it’s an awkward angle for someone whose shoulders are as broad and arms are as long as mine.
Woe is me.
I suppose it could be worse.
After all, I could be the one with the gun pointed at me.
Dios mío.
She would be staying in Bay Ridge, about as far from Jackson Heights—in Queens—as you can get in Brooklyn.
At best, this is a forty-five-minute drive.
Today, it’s close to an hour of silence.
Neither of us makes small talk, and discussing anything more important isn’t wise in a moving vehicle.
Hitting a nerve might mean hitting the median if I piss her off too much. She seems a bit temperamental today.
My guys follow us in cars and motorcycles, so they surround us when she pulls into a spot.
I’m not worried about her taking off while I get out of the car.
I don’t have “go, go Gadget” arms, and I’m not Gumbi, so I can’t keep the gun on her as we move in opposite directions.
Ah, the classic cartoons my parents let me watch.
No Pokémon for me. I was such an underprivileged child.
My men herd her around the front of the car and toward me.
I holster my gun at my lower back and slide my arm around her waist. My fingers slide beneath her shirt and the top seam of her jeans.
If I weren’t intimidating her, I’d appreciate how smooth her skin is.
But I press my fingers into the front of her waist while my thumb does the same from the back.
I’m not pinching, but I am steering her.
My guys hang back, and I know they’ll fan out to surround the building.
A couple will say they’re waiting to meet a friend in the lobby.
Not entirely a lie since they’ll wait for me to return.
We have this protection plan well-choreographed from years of practice.
The guys in the lobby will watch where the elevator stops and radio the guy in the stairwell to tell him where to meet us. He’ll stay by the emergency exit.
One of my guards searched her purse as we walked up to the building, so I already have her key card. When we’re at her door, I step behind her, reaching past her to swipe the piece of plastic against the sensor. I nudge her, and she presses down on the handle.
“You’re really going to use me as a human shield?”
“Do you fear going first?”
“Not very machismo of you.”
“Chiquita, I may want to fuck you, but I don’t love you. I’m not protecting a woman being paid to kill me.”
The words tumble out of my mouth, devoid of any softer sentiment, but I don’t mean them.
If I believed something on the other side of the door posed a threat, I wouldn’t let her go in first. But she doesn’t need to know that.
I might not willingly endanger any woman, but she doesn’t need to know that either.
She needs to believe I’m treating her like any other mercenary. I’d have killed most already.
The bathroom door and closet doors stand open; a safety measure she took to ensure she didn’t enter her room to a hidden surprise.
It makes it easy for me to assess the situation, seeing no threat.
I reach behind me and flip the deadbolt and latch.
It might keep my men from coming to my rescue, but it also means the fucker from the other night or anyone else isn’t coming to her defense.
She spins around, thinking she can take me by surprise as she attempts to wrap her ankle around the back of my lower calf to knock me off balance.
My arm’s still around her waist, so I merely lift her off her feet.
She kicks my shins, but I don’t flinch. I grew up playing soccer with cleats but not always shin guards.
What can I say? My cousins and I were dumbasses trying to prove our huevos had dropped.
I shift and lift her higher, guiding her legs around my waist. It presses her pussy against my cock.
Neither of us is surprised as I harden, but it keeps her from kicking me.
I consider taking her to the bed, but I don’t need her to panic.
Instead, I walk over to the chair she definitely moved away from the window.
With its arms and back curving as one piece, it traps her legs behind me. She’s not getting off unless I let her.
Double entendre intended.
“Tell me who sent you.”
Silence.
“Tell me you don’t want me.”
Silence.
My right hand trails up her thigh and slides around her hip to grasp her ass. She doesn’t react. I squeeze—hard. Her hips nudge a fraction of an inch forward before she stops herself. She plays it off as though she’s tempting me. She is, but I have control.