Chapter Twenty-Three
Mindy
(Three Weeks Later)
The grocery store smells like cinnamon and pine cleaner, and fresh bleach. I can barely get through the aisles without some nitwit bumping into me, glaring at me like it’s my fault.
Christmas is everywhere no matter where I go, and for some reason, it just doesn’t feel that happy and joyful to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not actually safe. I’m marked, my body sold to the highest bidder the second the ball drops.
A red bow sways as I open one of the freezers, grabbing the whipped cream inside. All these decorations should feel comforting. Normal. But even in a place where nothing bad is allowed to exist, I still feel the omen like it’s breathing down my neck, waiting for me to fall.
I grip the handle of the cart harder than necessary, mindlessly grabbing items for the upcoming celebration, not exactly knowing what to make.
So, I buy everything. Eggs, flour, butter, chocolate chips…
anything and everything I’d need to make the perfect Christmas cookies.
It's the least I can do for the people who have taken me under their wing and welcomed me to their home.
I’m reaching for a bag of sugar when I feel it—the strange shift in the air, like someone’s watching me…following me. Even during the day, there’s no way to feel safe.
I straighten, heart ticking faster as I turn my head in the direction of a familiar voice coming down the aisle.
“Careful with that brand,” Moseley says mockingly. “It can be too grainy. It ruins the texture.”
My hand shakes, retreating from the bag of sugar as he comes to a stop next to me, and two of his men appear at the ends of the aisles on both sides. They pretend to be looking at food, but they’re really just blocking my escape.
My stomach drops.
He stands close enough that his sleeve brushes mine, dressed in clothes most people wouldn’t notice. A fedora hat, a festive sweater, and a red scarf that looks like something his grandmother made. He’s morphed into the kind of man people trust without thinking twice, blending into the crowd.
“Mr. Moseley, how are you today?”
He shrugs, handing me another brand of sugar just out of my reach.
“I’m running a few errands,” he says casually, but the hint in his tone is prevalent. “Making sure my contacts know what’s expected of them after the new year.” He raises a brow, that stupid mustache slightly twitching. “You making cookies?”
I nod, gulping in fear. “Have a Christmas party coming up.”
“Good. Good. You know, Ms. St. John, I’ve missed your smiling face around the shop. I was sad to see that closed sign on your door.”
“I’m rebranding,” I lie.
He laughs. “Is that what you call it? Do you think you’re protected with him? That I won’t find you wherever you are?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“That’s what they always say before they run.”
A woman hums to herself as she passes by us, her child whining for cereal he can’t reach in the cart. She shushes him and apologizes for his behavior as she passes us by.
Moseley smiles warmly at the woman, tipping his hat to her. “Cute kid.”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile. She’s completely oblivious of what’s going on.
“Christmas party, huh? And why wasn’t I invited?” he asks casually, dropping the sugar into my cart like he belongs there.
“You know why.”
He smirks, enjoying how uncomfortable I am. “How lovely,” he says, mouth setting flatly. “I hope you enjoy your little party while you can.” His voice lowers just enough so only I can hear the next part. “Especially since it’s the last one you’ll get to enjoy as a free woman.”
My fingers go numb as I push the cart forward, hoping he won’t follow.
He does.
We move further up the baking aisle side by side, like old friends shopping together. I reach for a bottle on the shelf, side-eyeing him to anticipate his next move.
“Vanilla extract,” he says thoughtfully. “Don’t cheap out on that. Real vanilla makes a difference.”
“I’m aware,” I reply flatly, grabbing the bottle with a shaking hand.
He chuckles softly. “Of course you are. You’ve always taken pride in your work.”
A man appears out of nowhere, reaching between us for a jar of nutmeg. Moseley steps back politely, smiling. “Excuse us,” he says kindly as the man quickly grabs the spice and disappears down the aisle.
Then, without looking at me, he says, “Running would be a mistake, Ms. St. John.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I’m not—” I start, but he cuts me off, his hand stopping my cart from moving even though he’s not even looking my way. When he finally turns to me, his gaze darkens, mouth pinching tight.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t try to lie. It insults us both.”
When reach the end of the aisle, I stop my cart, pretending to check a list I no longer need.
“What do you want, Mr. Moseley?”
He sighs, like I’ve asked something tiresome. “To remind you of our contract,” he says. “The New Year is approaching, and your ownership transfers over to Mr. Nostra directly at midnight.
I swallow nervously.
“Don’t think you can get out of this, Ms. St. John. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
My throat tightens.
A teenage employee walks by, placing some forgotten items onto shelves. He barely acknowledges us as he passes, just keeps working, not even realizing the man in front of me is threatening my life in the middle of a grocery store.
Moseley lowers his voice even more, his tone riddled with frustration. “He’s very excited,” he mumbles. “He doesn’t like to be disappointed, so you better not try anything stupid.”
My hands begin to tremble, so I shove them into the pockets of my coat, refusing to show fear. “I don’t belong to anyone,” I whisper.
He laughs quietly. “I’ve got your signature. You always seem to forget that part.”
We move again, passing by the frozen food section that I’ve already been by twice.
He grabs a box of puff pastry and holds it up for me to see. “These are excellent,” he says firmly. “Perfect for appetizers. You could make little pinwheels. People will love them.”
A couple walks by, laughing. Neither of them sees the terror in my eyes, or my silent cry for help.
“Such a happy time of year,” he declares, stepping away from me for the first time. “Just remember, Ms. St. John. If you try to disappear, I’ll find you.”
Ice floods my veins.
“I have friends everywhere,” he continues. “Borders don’t matter. Safe houses don’t matter. Beastly Bikers don’t matter.”
I stop walking, his threat clear.
“You think hiding with that filthy biker protects you?” he asks, still smiling. “Men like him attract attention. That makes you easier to find, not harder.”
My vision blurs.
“Finish your shopping,” he says kindly. “Go home and enjoy Christmas.” He leans in closer, breath stale like cigars as it hits my cheek and crawls across it. “It may be your last.”
Then he steps away, turning down another aisle like this conversation never happened.
But it did, and the fact that he could find me in the middle of a grocery store, makes me wonder how easily he could find me anywhere.
My cart suddenly feels too heavy to push, and I barely make it to the register, pay for my groceries, and out to my car, before the tears start to fall.
By the time I make it to Krampus’ place, my hands are numb, my chest aches like my heart is a lemon being squeezed, and I can’t take a steady breath without stopping.
I barely remember the drive. Hell, I don’t even remember parking. But the second I see his face standing in the doorway, I’m running, rushing into his arms, until I’m in the safety of his embrace.
“What happened?” he demands.
I collapse against him, tears soaking the fabric of his shirt, my fingers trembling as they clutch the lapels of his leather cut.
“He found me,” I declare, words spilling out broken and muddled. “Mr. Moseley. He cornered me at the grocery store.”
“What the held did he say to you?”
“He said—he said once the new year hits, I belong to R—Rico, and I better not run,” I stutter out, barely able to contain my cries of desperation.
Krampus’s body goes rigid. “I’ll protect you,” he affirms immediately. “I swear to you, Mindy, nobody’s going to fucking touch you.”
Even his swears can’t stop the numbness, the hollowness that aches in my chest, the fear that doesn’t ease.
“I don’t feel safe anymore,” I whisper. “Not anywhere. Not even here. He’ll find us. I know he will. It feels like I’m running out of time.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face.
“You’re not,” he says firmly. But I see it in his eyes. Even he knows this is bigger than broken promises he can’t keep.
“Come with me,” he says suddenly. “To Italy. When I go.”
I frown. “Rich—”
“Please,” he begs. “They can’t touch you there. Something bad will happen if to you if you stay here.” The words hang between us, terrifying us both in their certainty.
I nod because I don’t think I’ll make it to next Christmas without him. “Okay.”
He cups my face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down my cheeks.
“You’ll be safe,” he says. “I won’t let them take you.”
I want to believe him, but as I cling to him, the smell of cinnamon still clinging to my coat, I can’t shake the feeling that the holiday season is closing in on me.
Like Christmas is coming, but something nefarious is coming with it.