Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Hannah
It’s him. Armando . The one I used to lust after. This is not how I envisioned him reentering my store.
The scream gets stuck in my throat the moment reality sets in on what is actually happening before me. I’m too shocked to even move. For five long seconds, I just stand here like an idiot staring at the brutal fight.
Then I realize—I should do something.
Call someone.
I pick up my phone, not taking my eyes off the two men struggling on the floor.
Both appear to be fighting for their lives.
Armando is efficient and calm. He doesn’t make a sound as he grapples with the other guy, rolling until he gets on top.
Pummeling him into the ground. But then he loses his advantage and gets knocked backward into a shelf of plants.
I cover my mouth to keep in the cry of dismay at seeing my sweet inventory mauled. It’s not like I have the money to replace even a single pot if they break one.
Armando catches sight of me. “End the call,” he grits as he wrestles the guy to the floor in a headlock. The command in his voice is deadly. Scary enough to make me drop my phone to the counter with a clatter.
“I said end it, ” he snarls. They’re on the floor still, a writhing mass. This is not the nice man I remember who came into the store to buy flowers for his woman. This is a beast before me.
“I never dialed!” I protest, picking the phone up to flash him the screen.
He’s not watching because the other guy produced a pocket knife.
Armando narrowly misses getting sliced. There’s a practiced precision to his movements like instead of being a mobster, he’s actually a secret agent, a James Bond style superspy.
Maybe it’s the total lack of panic. He doesn’t appear to be a man fighting for his life.
He comes at his opponent like some angel of death sent to finish this guy.
Armando punches him hard in the face, follows to punch him again. The guy slashes with the knife at the same time, causing Armando to skirt to the side. Plants clatter from the table, pots crashing.
I whimper my dismay.
Armando picks one up and smashes it over the guy’s head. The guy goes down, and Armando follows, his fingers around the guy’s throat with one hand while he holds down the knife-wielding arm with the other. “Who sent you?” he demands.
The guy makes a gurgling sound but gets his arm away.
I scream when he stabs in the direction of Armando’s face. Armando shifts in time but loses his advantage. The other guy scrambles up and smashes a pot from my metal plant stand into Armando’s temple. He goes down hard, the crack of his skull against my tile floor making me cry out again.
I dial 9-1-1 on the phone but forget to press send because the guy launches himself at Armando with the knife.
In a gasp-worthy move, Armando somehow makes it back up just in time, swinging the heavy metal plant stand at the guy’s head. The guy goes down hard and stays there.
In case you ever wondered, there’s no mistaking death when you see it.
The shape his body takes is so completely askew. His neck is clearly broken.
Armando’s hands tremble as he takes in the sight of the man lying motionless before him. I feel a chill go down my spine as shock paralyzes me in place.
Armando looks around the room, as if expecting to see more enemies coming for him, and I do the same.
What’s coming next? What was that? What the fuck was that?
This can’t be happening. Is this really happening?
Is there a bloody man lying dead in the middle of my florist shop?
The room is silent but for the sound of a ticking clock and the ringing in my ears.
Armando curses and drops to his knees, checking the guy’s pulse.
Then he moves quickly—all efficiency and practice. He locks my door, closes the blinds and turns the sign to closed. He picks up the gun then drags the body past the counter toward the back. “Don’t move,” he tells me as he passes.
Don’t move.
I don’t know why, but until that moment, I hadn’t considered my life might be in danger.
I was an observer, and I was rooting for one side to win.
My pick won the round.
But now it sets in that we’re not going to be slapping high fives here. A guy just got killed in my shop, and I witnessed it.
I’m the only witness.
And the killer told me not to move. Which means I should definitely move.
Armando drags the body into my cooler. He’s going to come out here and deal with me next.
That’s a problem. I grab my purse and quietly, quickly walk past the cooler.
I sense Armando near, but I don’t stop. I know if I do, it will be my last mistake.
My heart pounds, and I can feel the sweat on my palms. I’m almost halfway to freedom when I hear a noise from the back of the shop.
I spin to see Armando walking slowly towards me, gun in hand and a menacing look on his face.
He’s not going to let me go this easily.
He takes a few more steps towards me, and I know I’m not going to make it out alive.
I turn back towards the door, but it’s too late.
He’s almost at me now, and there’s no escape.
“Stop. I said don’t fucking move!” That voice. He does command so well, every cell in my body wants to obey.
But that would be stupid, so I break into a run.
“Hannah.”
Surprise that he remembered my name makes me falter. The hesitation costs me. He’s on me in a flash, grabbing my elbow and whipping me around.
“I said, don’t move .”
God, he’s still devastatingly handsome. Square jaw. Aquiline nose. Hazel eyes with long lashes. He’s so close, I smell the scent of Rocco’s shaving cream on him. He’s in a crisp, expensive blue button-down, open at the throat to reveal a clean white undershirt.
“I’m on your side,” I say on exhale.
I’m not sure if it’s self-preservation that makes me say the words or if it’s the actual truth. I know Armando. I actually always liked the man… maybe a little too much.
I am on his side. I am.
He pivots me to face the wall, tugging one of my hands to pin there.
“I told you not to move.” This is the voice of a mad man. Of the mafia. A killer. I need to remember that.
“I’m not going to say a thing.” The famous last words of people before they are killed.
This is it. I’m dead.
I expect the knife to come to my throat. Instead, he smacks my ass.
I squeak in surprise. It was a hard smack—punitive, not playful—and for some reason, it turns me on.
I turn my head to look over my shoulder at him. An ass-smack isn’t a real threat. It’s something hot. Sexual. The cold in my veins evaporates.
He smacks my ass again, the other cheek this time.
Hello.
I don’t have a clue what we’re doing here, but I’m getting more excited than scared.
I must be confusing adrenaline for lust. Yes, that must be it.
Or is this insanity kicking in? Am I so terrified of dying that my body is confused by the foreign sensation, and?—
He slaps my ass one more time, harder than the last.
My body responds. Warmth radiates from my core, and I can’t help but moan in pleasure. It’s embarrassing that I can’t control emotions that I should keep hidden from him. I feel my heart racing, my skin tingling, and I’m growing wetter by the second.
He slides his hands down my sides, tracing a path of heat as he goes.
He then grabs a roll of floral tape from my apron pocket.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” He twists my arms behind my back and ties my wrists together with the floral tape.
It’s flexible, but he wraps it a dozen times and makes it tight, so I can’t twist enough to get it off.
“You’re going to stay right here, facing this wall, until I get back.
You’re not going to move. You’re not going to make a sound. Capisce ?”
I nod my head quickly. “Yeah, okay.” I sound breathless.
I’m scared. Scared shitless. But there’s also something crazy churning inside me. Some spiraling heat, a tingling awareness.
I don’t know if it’s because I had a crush on this guy before or because he slapped my ass and woke up an erogenous area, but liquid heat pools between my legs.
He steps in front of me, and I feel his breath on my skin. He leans close and whispers in my ear. “Follow the rules, Flowers. Follow them or else.” His voice is low, possessive. His hot breath tickles my skin, sending pleasure coursing through me.
He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face up to his. He pulls away slightly, and I gasp for breath, my heart thudding in my chest.
He traces his finger along my jaw and down my throat. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t move.”
Armando then takes a step back and looks me up and down, his gaze burning with what I hope is desire. His eyes linger for a moment on the tightness of the floral tape binding my wrists, and then he gives a faint smirk. “Be a good girl,” he warns, before turning and walking away.
Am I reading him wrong? And have I lost my fucking mind? I shouldn’t be feeling anything but the overwhelming need to run and run fast. I should be fighting, screaming, and most definitely be terrified.
And yet, I stand here with my heart pounding and… my body on fire with desire. The heat between my legs grows stronger with each passing second, and a strange thrill of excitement shoots through me.
My body aches with anticipation. I’m still bound and helpless, but this time my fear has been replaced by something else. Something exciting. I can’t help but wonder—maybe even fantasize—what will happen when Armando returns.
I listen as he steps back into my cooler. I hear the sound of his voice speaking in short, clipped sentences. He must be on the phone.
Who is he talking to?
What is he saying?
Oh Jesus, is he calling more of the mafia to come and help him with this… situation ? Is Garden of Eden about to become even more of a blood bath than it already is but with my blood?
If I were smart, I wouldn’t stick around to figure out what he’s going to do with me. I’d somehow find a way to escape. I’m not the stupid girl who falls for the bad boy. I’ve never been weak. I’ve never been the damsel in distress. So why in the hell am I even standing here?
And just as I’m starting to think about inching toward the back door, he returns and spins me around. With my wrists bound behind my back, my double D’s thrust forward and spread. “All right, Flowers. What am I going to do with you?”
Maybe it’s self-preservation. Maybe it’s the crush. Or the way my ass still tingles where he slapped it, but I do the only thing I can think of, which is to lean forward and kiss his mouth.
His lips press against mine, stealing my breath away. His tongue slips inside, coaxing mine into a slow, dizzying dance. I moan into his mouth, my hips shifting against his mass, like some new north star.
Armando’s hands slide lower, over my hips and down my thighs. His fingers brush against the fabric of my clothes, and I shudder. He cups my ass in his hands, kneading and squeezing, sending fire into every nerve ending. This kiss…