Gemma #2
He does not smile or confirm or deny. He just keeps staring at me with that heavy, fracturing focus. The clinical operator from two minutes ago is gone. The man standing in front of me is no longer a tactical commander; he is a feral predator who just found something he intends to keep.
"What is your name?" he asks.
"None of your business."
"Your name." The gravel in his tone leaves absolutely no room for argument.
I lift my chin. "Gemma. Gemma Torres."
He repeats it. Just a faint rumble in his broad chest. "Gemma."
He looks at the truck. He looks at the bullet holes. He looks at the smeared salsa on my apron. The tactical assessment returns, but it is no longer directed at the street. It is directed at the threat to me.
He reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a heavy, matte-black phone. He dials a single number, holding the device to his ear. He does not look away from me.
"Send the cleaners to the South Side intersection," he orders into the phone. "Bring a flatbed. Tow a pink food truck to the secure lot at the compound. Nobody touches the interior."
He hangs up. He slides the phone back into his pocket.
"Excuse me?" I demand, my hands dropping to my hips. "You are not towing my truck anywhere. I need to call my insurance. I need to file a police report."
"The police are not coming, Gemma."
"They are literally sirens right now."
"They are being rerouted." He takes the final step, closing the distance. His thick frame eclipses the streetlamp. "Your truck belongs to my family's lot now. Your insurance will not cover an organized crime drive-by. You will get zero dollars from them."
"Then I will sue the city. I will sue you. I will sue the Bellantis."
"You will do none of those things." His dark eyes track the movement of my lips. "The Bellantis will circle back. They left a job unfinished. They do not leave witnesses."
The fight in my chest stutters. Just for a fraction of a second. "I am a taco vendor. Not a witness."
"You saw the cars. You are alive in the crossfire.
" His thick chest rises and falls. The oversized gold watch glints as he raises his hand.
For a wild second, I think he is going to touch my face.
His fingers, rough and calloused, hover just an inch from my cheek.
He traces the air over the smear of flour.
"They will come back to finish the job."
"Then I will go home. Lock my doors."
"A wooden door will not stop automatic gunfire." He finally drops his hand. The loss of his body heat from that hovering touch leaves my skin cold. "You are coming with me."
"I am absolutely not getting into a black SUV with a mafia enforcer."
"I am not an enforcer. I am the guard."
"I do not care if you are the Pope. I am staying right here."
He tilts his head. The messy beard shifts.
A tendon pulls taut along his neck. The clinical edge is completely wiped away.
The man looking at me now is operating on a dangerous, feral instinct.
The kind of instinct that ruins lives. The kind of instinct that takes over an entire street and commands a private army.
"You have two choices, Gemma Torres," he states softly. The quietness of his voice is infinitely more terrifying than a shout. "You get in the vehicle under your own power. Or I put you over my shoulder and secure you in the vehicle myself. Make the choice."
I stare at the massive width of his shoulders. I look at the dark, unyielding ink of the skull and roses on his left arm. I look at the dark eyes promising absolute violence to anyone who steps in his path.
He is not bluffing. He thinks he can just bark an order and I will fall in line?
"I will scream," I warn him.
"Scream," he agrees. "My men will not care. The street is empty. You are wasting time."
I grind my teeth together. "You are a lunatic."
"I am the man keeping you alive tonight." He steps to the side, gesturing toward the lead SUV. A man in a suit immediately opens the rear door.
I look at the ruined metal of my food truck. I look at the smashed salsa containers. The smell of cumin and gun oil twists together in the night air. He is right about one thing. The police are not here. The sirens have faded. The street belongs to the Costas.
And right now, apparently, so do I.
I step past him. The heat radiating off his massive frame catches my skin. I do not look back at him as I climb into the heavy, leather-scented interior of the SUV. The doors are thick. Armored. The windows are pitch black.
The heavy door slams shut behind me.
The guard climbs into the front seat. He barks an order in rapid, harsh Italian. The convoy slams into gear. The tires squeal against the asphalt.
We leave the ruined shell of La Diosa behind in the dark. We speed away from the South Side, plunging deep into the neon-lit arteries of the Chicago skyline. I sit in the back, arms crossed tightly over my chest, staring at the back of his dark, short hair.
I have absolutely no reason to trust a Costa. I have every reason to run.
But as The armored SUV merges onto the expressway, taking me away from the only life I have built, running is no longer an option.
The guard has locked me down.
And the war has just begun.
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