Chapter 2 Chiara
Chiara
One year later
For fuck’s sake. I huff with irritation as I check Mack’s books for the tenth time. The guy owns a popular bar, yet he is clueless about admin.
He can barely maintain his purchase ledger, let alone file his taxes correctly. He really ought to hand it all over to a CPA, but not only is he a cheap bastard who doesn’t want to pay a professional’s rates, he’s also cleaning dirty money through the bar’s takings.
So instead, he added it to my job description when he hired me.
Luckily for him, tidying up his books is well within my wheelhouse.
It’s pretty fucking easy most of the time. I have a head for numbers and enjoy spotting patterns and irregularities in columns of figures.
When I first started working for Mack, I quickly discovered he was paying suppliers for products they weren’t sending and also underpaying some of the staff. Not that he appreciated the second revelation.
Right now, I’m tearing my hair out because, yet again, he’s handed me a pile of invoices and asked me to check them against the figures he inputted while drunk.
And of course he’s transposed figures all over the place, so it’s a goddamn mess.
To make matters even worse, he keeps his accounting software on a computer so old it’s practically a Jurassic relic. The stupid thing freezes every ten minutes and routinely crashes if I try to open a web page alongside the accounting software.
It’s a fucking nightmare, but a step up from the crusty paper ledger and plastic bag of receipts he gave me on day one of my new role.
I’ve tried to persuade him to upgrade his shitty computer more than once, but the man is a die-hard technophobe convinced Big Tech is out to harvest all his data.
To be fair, they are, but as I went to great lengths to point out, he’s in more danger from the IRS getting nosy than Mark Zuckerberg giving two fucks about which weird porno sites he likes to visit.
Spoiler alert: orc porn is a thing.
I know this after logging in one evening to find a video paused on a particularly disturbing scene. I bleached my eyeballs that night.
“Mack! You’re an idiot!” I holler through the open door after fixing his latest mess.
“I should sack you, you ungrateful bitch,” he grumbles when he sticks his head around the door.
“Yeah, but who would sort this crap out?” I grin and take the coffee he hands me, noting he’s forgotten the creamer…again.
There isn’t much he can say, and we both know it. Not that I want him to sack me. The guy’s done me a solid. I arrived with hardly any cash, and he gave me a job, no questions asked.
“I try my best. It’s not my fault I have dyslexia, Toni.”
He pretends to look affronted as I snort with amusement. “Drunk more like.”
“When you’re done, can you help behind the bar? Tasha’s called in sick.”
“Again? She’s the one that needs sacking, not me,” I point out. Tasha always calls in sick after a hot date. Fucking her latest boy toy is more fun than working here. Not that I blame her. It’s been so long since I got laid that my vagina doesn’t remember what an actual dick feels like.
My dear husband probably assumes I’m dead.
“I’ll be there in a minute. Just need to finish this.”
Mack scratches his ample belly, nods, and heads back into the bar.
The place is moderately busy tonight. There’s a big NFL game on, so all the sports fans huddle around the gigantic flat-screen on the wall, eagerly watching the action. I scan the bar as I always do, alert for anyone who looks suspicious, but the only faces I see are the regulars.
An hour in, I’m partway through a sudoku puzzle when a tall guy in a puffer jacket and plaid shirt walks through the door. He strolls to the end of the bar and orders a beer from Lorraine while I tap my pencil thoughtfully. I watch as she flirts with him and he smiles back.
At first glance, he’s just another good-time guy with his tight jeans, broad chest, and a chiseled jaw. When he slips his jacket off, rolled-up shirt sleeves reveal corded forearms decorated with ink.
Definitely my type.
The type I’d love to take home to my shitty apartment and ride all night long.
But I pause because even though my vagina is keen to get to know his dick, something’s triggering my danger alarm. His gaze slides in my direction just as I finish my puzzle. Our eyes meet, and there’s a spark.
The Black Dog Sports Bar attracts a certain type. Men and women who like cheap beer, a decent game on the flat-screen, and the chance of indulging in a fight on a Friday night.
The floor is stone, making it easy to mop up spilled beer and blood, and the bar staff give no shits if someone drinks and drives.
Mr. Hot Stuff is not a regular. I’d have remembered him. So why’s a guy like him slumming it in a shithole like this?
From the way he’s built, he can handle himself. No doubt about that. But the watch on his wrist tells me he’s not dirt poor, and the shiny new leather cowboy boots he’s sporting look like he purchased them yesterday.
My paranoia goes into full swing as I place a clean glass on the shelf and step into the back room. Mack’s busy lugging some crates of beer up from the basement storeroom. He ignores me when I slip into the office to grab my coat.
Maybe I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t think so. Running was always a risk. No matter how careful I’ve been, I knew one day my husband’s men would find me.
Angelo and I are still married, which makes me a loose end.
If he wants to take another wife, a more cooperative one, I’ll need to sign the divorce papers or conveniently die before wedding number two.
Angelo is no doubt pissed at me for skipping out after our wedding, but my stepmother would have had just as much to lose.
Nobody bothered telling me the nuts and bolts of their deal. All I knew was that big, bad, mafia heir Angelo Di Rossi needed a pliant little wife, and I was on the hook.
Mack is going to have to deal with my leaving early. I’ll spin him some yarn about women’s problems, and no doubt he’ll retch a little, cuss a lot, and we’ll both get over it.
There’s no way I’m sticking around if that guy in there is one of my husband’s sniffer dogs on my trail. The last thing I need is to be hauled back and locked inside a mansion.
The back door squeaks as I slip out, but nobody stops me from leaving. I hustle across the parking lot, wishing for a full moon to dispel the shadows.
I’m almost at the street when someone grabs me around the waist and presses a gun against my temple.
The delicious scent of peppery cologne has my nipples perking up under my jacket.
Under different circumstances, Mr. Wrong pulling a gun on me would be the sort of foreplay that gets my motor running.
We’d fight, he’d do his best to dominate me, and I’d get off on it.
But I have a feeling this thirst trap isn’t looking to get laid, despite the erection I can feel jutting against my hip.
“Is that another gun in your pocket, or are you excited to see me?” I purr while assessing my options.
Red Flag Guy chuckles. “I like a woman with attitude,” he says. “Pity you’re married to my best friend or I might have let you go.”
“I’m not averse to sharing,” I say. Offering this guy sexual favors in return for him letting me escape would hardly be a chore.
He sighs, sounding regretful. “No can do, sugar.”
I take a moment to mourn what could have been the best night of my life before slamming my head back against his nose. He curses up a storm and tightens his grip around my neck. I struggle harder, but it’s no use. The guy’s got moves, and I’m out of practice.
There’s a sharp pain in my neck before everything goes black.