11. Chapter 11
Tony grabbed the ball and spun around, sensing someone behind him. He pivoted hard, then twisted in the opposite direction, launching the ball high. For a brief moment, the whole court held its breath. Then came the soft swish as the ball slipped clean through the hoop.
Cheers erupted, the sound of teenage voices filling the heavy air with raucous laughter.
“That’s the game, my boys!” Tito hollered, high-fiving his crew as they swaggered off the court. “Thanks for coming out, Tony.”
Tony nodded once, his expression neutral as his eyes constantly scanned the edges of the court.
His guards were scattered along the perimeter, blending in with the crowd.
Not well enough, though. These kids—sharp-eyed, street-smart—had already spotted them.
Inner city teens could always tell who didn’t belong.
Tony understood too well what they were walking through every day.
These boys could play ball with NBA level talent, but most of them hadn’t eaten breakfast. They were balancing on a razor’s edge, one bad choice away from selling product or falling into addiction themselves.
And if they started selling? It would only be a matter of time before curiosity turned into a habit, and that habit would kill them.
So, Tony threw money at them when he could.
Paid tuition for college, for trade school.
Slipped cash to their mothers when the rent came due and funds were low.
He wasn’t here to save anyone—that kind of thinking was foolish.
But if he could keep even a handful of them out of the gutter, it would be enough.
That’s when he saw her.
He caught sight of the pony tail first. A long, dark sweep of hair bouncing against a woman’s back as she walked along the street. His body tightened instantly, his mind preparing to welcome the distraction of someone—anyone—who wasn’t Naomi Cross.
But then his gaze followed the ponytail down to the hips. The sway. The familiar curve of an ass he’d been trying not to think about for three damn days.
Tony’s chest constricted. Of course. Fate wasn’t merciful. It was her.
“Don’t be looking at Ms. Naomi, Tony,” Tito said suddenly, stepping into his line of sight.
Tony turned toward the younger man, his brows lifting. He rose slowly to his full height, towering over the kid. “Excuse me?” His voice was calm, but the weight of it silenced half the court.
To his credit, Tito didn’t back down. Other men had died for less. But this boy—this half-grown street soldier—held his ground. “That’s Ms. Naomi. She’s under our protection.”
Tony blinked, momentarily disoriented by the words. “She’s what?”
“She helped my little sister with her math homework,” Tito explained, chin lifted in defiance.
“She helped my cousin get his GED,” another kid shouted from behind him.
“She babysits my little brother when my mom’s on a bender,” another added.
Tony looked around, his sharp eyes moving from one earnest face to the next. Every one nodded. Every one vouched for her.
“She’s good,” Tito declared firmly, punctuating the words with a sharp gesture. “She doesn’t belong here, but she’s ours. So, yeah. She’s under our protection.”
Against his will, Tony felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Subtle, but there. That seemed to be happening too damn often around her. He pushed it down quickly, trying to piece together what he was hearing.
“She’s a nanny,” he said flatly. “For some asshole across town.” He glanced back to Naomi just as she pushed through the glass doors of a grimy apartment building. His gut clenched. “What the hell is she doing down here?”
“She lives here,” Tito replied, matter-of-fact. “Moved in about three years ago.”
The words landed like a gut punch.
Tony’s expression didn’t change, but inside he was reeling.
He’d had his people look. They couldn’t find an address.
He had assumed she lived in some modest suburb, somewhere quiet and probably renting a room out of another house.
But here? In this neighborhood where gunfire after dark was as common as sirens, where every stoop had a story soaked in blood?
It explained things. Why she didn’t leave a trail. Why she looked tired sometimes. Why she held herself like someone who had learned to survive on grit.
But it didn’t explain how the hell she was still alive, walking these streets at night.
“Where’s her car?” Tony demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.
Tito’s brows furrowed. “What car?”
“She owns a fifteen-year-old vehicle,” Tony explained flatly. “A red Toyota Camry.” He knew because the dossier on her showed that she paid the annual registration and taxes on the car.
“Hell, that beat-up old piece of crap died about two months ago,” Tito explained. “She’s been taking the bus since. She made the mistake of dropping that POS off at Mike’s down on Pine Street.”
The reaction from the circle was immediate. Snorts. Groans. Muttered curses.
“Mike’s a cheat,” Tony snarled, his voice carrying a razor edge. He felt his jaw clench, fury scraping under his skin. “Why would she take it to him?”
“Because she didn’t think to ask us for a recommendation,” Tito muttered darkly, glancing around at his crew before adding more firmly, “But we look out for her when she’s walking.
Don’t worry, Tony.” He grinned, flashing the gold tooth that marked him as a survivor of these streets. “No one’s gonna hurt her.”
Tony shoved his towel into his gym bag, his movements jerky. That wasn’t the point. Naomi shouldn’t need street kids to protect her.
He slapped his palm into Tito’s, the familiar rhythm of their bro-hug grounding him for a moment, then went down the line with the others. “See you next week,” he called, his tone steady but his thoughts a storm.
Sliding into the back of the SUV, he took a deep steadying breath. “Home, boss?” the driver asked.
Tony leaned back, staring out the window.
His mind spun, clawing for answers. Why the hell did she live here?
He knew her salary. It wasn’t generous, but it was enough to escape this hellhole.
Nobody chose to live here. The people of this neighborhood were in survival mode twenty-four-seven—pavement cracked like broken teeth, liquor stores on every other corner, gunshots ringing throughout night like punctuation marks.
Hell, he’d seen safer alleys in cartel territory.
And his sweet, beautiful Naomi was walking to the bus here. Alone. Every day. In a neighborhood where women regularly disappeared and were never seen again.
His chest burned with something uncomfortably close to fear.
He should have gone to the showers and changed into better clothes, should have checked in at his usual haunts, gathered the rumors, listened to the whispers from his sources in the government, industry and the hotel bartenders.
That was the plan. That was what he did on these night trips into the city.
Instead, he snapped, “Head over to Mike’s auto shop.”
The order hung heavily in the car. His driver’s eyes flicked to the mirror, hesitant. Even the bodyguard in the front seat shifted, glancing back at him like he was wondering if he’d heard correctly.
Tony lifted an eyebrow. Suddenly, the SUV lurched into motion.
Ten minutes later, Tony was standing over Mike’s sagging bed in a cramped apartment that stank of whiskey and grease. The mechanic snored like a chainsaw until Tony’s boot connected with the frame, jolting him awake.
The man’s hand shot for the pillow. He froze when he found nothing. His bleary eyes widened, then focused on the Glock in Tony’s grip—the same one that had been under that pillow.
Mike sagged back, sweat already breaking out on his forehead. “What the hell do you want?” he snarled, voice rough from booze and fear.
“The red Toyota.”
Mike’s age was a lie told by his body. He wasn’t even fifty years old, but he looked older, with a salt-and-pepper beard matted against his jaw, bloodshot eyes, and a gut that had grown so large he couldn’t sleep on his stomach.
His tee-shirt was stained, stretched across his bulbous belly, and a cigarette burn near the hem.
“What about it?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Tony demanded.
“Nuthin’,” Mike shot back quickly, scratching at his stomach.
“I fixed it. Purrs like a kitten now. Just waiting on payment. The dumb bitch says she can’t afford it.
” He smirked, yellowed teeth flashing. “Why? You wanna buy it?” He let out a greasy laugh.
“Tell you what—I can sell it to you cheap. I’ll give it to ya for what she owes me.
You get a deal, I get paid, everybody’s happy. ”
Tony’s stomach twisted. Rage clawed up his spine, sharp and precise. He kept his tone even, each word sharpened to a blade. “How much does she owe you?”
“What’s it to you?”
Tony’s finger twitched against the trigger guard. His voice dropped another octave, colder than the steel in his hand. “How much?”
Mike’s bravado faltered. He licked his lips, shifting against the headboard, trying for casual. “I… I don’t know. I’d have to check my records.”
Tony grabbed a fistful of the mechanic’s grimy tee-shirt, and hauled him upright with one hand, accepting the fact that he was probably going to need a rabies shot after touching this ass.
Maybe tetanus too. The man’s feet scrambled for balance, but Tony pulled him out of bed like he weighed nothing.
He shoved him down the hall, each step punctuated by the dull scrape of bare feet on the warped floor.
Before they even reached the office, one of Tony’s guards came in, flipping through a thin stack of crumpled folders.
“Boss,” he said with a smirk, “there’s no record of any work being done on Ms. Cross’s vehicle.
” He held up a sheet, then shook his head.
“Hell, what few records this man keeps are—” he snorted, disgusted—“barely worth the paper.”
Tony’s jaw unclenched, his features easing into something sharp, dangerous, calm.
This was familiar territory. Crooked men, stolen money, broken promises—these he could handle.
Naomi, with her shy smiles and soft ponytail, her stubborn refusal to accept anything she hadn’t earned…
that was confusing. But this? This was child’s play.
“That’s actually a good thing,” Tony muttered.
“She owes me about three thousand dollars!” the mechanic blurted desperately.
Tony’s head snapped toward him. “What did you do to repair her car?”
The man’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish. He reeked of cheap whiskey, and Tony doubted he’d touched a wrench in weeks.
“Like I said,” the mechanic stammered, “I’d have to look at my records—”
Tony shoved him into the office, pushing him down into the cracked vinyl chair behind the desk. The legs squealed in protest against the dirty linoleum. Tony leaned down, his eyes boring into Mike’s. “Find the records. I want an invoice. Receipts for the parts you used. Labor logs. Everything.”
The mechanic pawed at a pile of crumpled papers, shuffling them uselessly. The mess was an avalanche of grease-stained invoices, old bills, and lottery tickets. After a few seconds of fumbling, his shoulders slumped. “I… don’t have them organized properly.”
Tony braced both hands on the filthy desk, his broad shoulders looming over the man like a storm cloud. “If you can’t produce the records,” he said, in a cold, flat voice, “then you have no proof you touched her vehicle at all.”
The mechanic panicked, puffing up his chest. “Now see here—!” he started, trying to rise.
The guard behind him shoved him back down into the chair.
“Produce,” Tony said evenly, “or shut up.”
The silence that followed stretched, broken only by the buzz of a neon light overhead. When the man failed to produce a single scrap of proof, Tony finally straightened to his full height.
“I accept your apology,” he said coolly, “for the incorrect service records on Ms. Cross’s vehicle.”
One of the guards jingled a set of keys and tossed them to Tony. “Have a good night,” he sneered before the team turned as one, heading for the door.
Out on the street, one of the newer guards dared to ask, “Are you seriously going to let that guy get away with screwing other customers?”
Tony stopped dead, pivoting slowly until his dark gaze locked on the man. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even speak. He didn’t need to. The weight of his stare alone made the kid shrink back.
“Sorry, boss,” the guard muttered quickly, dropping his eyes and retreating toward the SUV.
Tony looked at the red Toyota that really should have been scrapped five years ago.
Still, he knew someone who could remedy the situation.
He slid into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.
The engine wheezed, coughed, then finally sputtered to life, the sound uneven, sickly.
Disgust curled his lip. The mechanic definitely hadn’t done any work on the vehicle.
He stepped out again, the night air cool against his skin, and considered his options.
Naomi driving this deathtrap around the city?
Unacceptable. However, he knew that she wouldn’t accept a new car from him—hell, she’d barely accepted a coffee the other day, insisting she only wanted water.
That thought made him chuckle under his breath despite himself.
“Drive this heap over to Pete’s place,” he ordered one of his men. “I want it purring.” He paused, then added, “And since Pete’s going to work his magic, get Jerry to install a security system. Full package. Cameras, tracker, remote kill switch.”
He turned toward the waiting SUV. “Have it delivered to Ms. Cross’s door by six tomorrow morning.”
There were no groans, no hesitation. Every man there knew Pete and Jerry worked nights out of a chop shop in the warehouse district. If Tony sent a car with instructions, it would be done. No questions. No delays.
Tony climbed into the back seat of the SUV, his thoughts racing. Naomi thought she was surviving. But he wasn’t going to let her just survive.
He was going to make damn sure she lived.