Chapter Six— Vinny
Chinese food sat on the table, the smell of soy sauce and fried rice filling the room.
I heard my bedroom door open, and I turned, expecting her to come in the clothes I'd laid out for her. A t-shirt. Sweatpants. Nothing fancy, just something to cover her.
But no.
She came out naked.
Water clung to her skin in lazy drops, sliding down her collarbone, tracing the curve of her hip, catching in the dark thatch between her thighs.
She sauntered over, body beautiful, hips swaying, each step making her thighs brush together.
Her nipples hard. They were the color of melted dark chocolate and puckered from the cool air. .
I looked because there was no point pretending I didn’t want to.
She stopped and posed, traced the outline of her body with her hands, sliding her palms against the sides of her breasts, holding me hostage with her eyes before she dropped to her knees about ten feet in front of me.
Ten feet.
Then she crawled the rest of the way until she was between my legs.
My heart pounded in my chest, but my breath was caught in my throat. I couldn't remember how to breathe, as if it wasn't natural. As if my body had forgotten the mechanics of survival and only remembered how to want.
She looked up at me, her eyes dark and full of sin.
"Déjame ayudarte con eso."
She nodded toward my erection. The Spanish rolled off her tongue like silk, smooth and warm, and my stomach tightened so hard I nearly groaned out loud.
Her hands moved to my belt, fingers working the buckle free like she'd done it a hundred times before. The leather slid through the metal. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
She unzipped my pants. Slow. Deliberate. Her knuckles brushed against my dick inside my boxers, feather-light, and I felt myself twitch beneath the fabric.
It was hard and aching. Already leaking for her.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
My voice came out rough. Strangled. My hands gripped the arms of the chair to keep from touching her. The wood creaked beneath my palms.
"I can make you happy, papi." Her eyes never left mine. "For a while. Then you let me go."
Her tone was velvet-coated, the sound dragging rough over my nerves. I felt her fingers free me—the cool air against hot skin made me hiss through my teeth.
Then her mouth ghosted over the head of my dick.
Soft.
Warm.
Just the whisper of her breath.
Then she pressed a kiss to the tip. Soft enough to make me groan low in my chest. My hips bucked before I could stop them.
My life flashed before my eyes.
Not the violence. Not the blood. Just Sophia's face, watching me from somewhere I couldn't reach.
I grabbed her wrists. Stopped her before she could go any further.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"I'm whomever you want me to be."
I stood so fast the chair scraped backward across the floor. Grabbed a blanket from the couch and threw it at her. It hit her chest and draped over her shoulders.
"Get up off the floor." My voice sounded cold. Even to me. "And if you put your mouth or hands on me again, I'll—"
"You'll what?" She wrapped the blanket around herself slowly, deliberately, like she had all the time in the world. "Take me up on it?"
She tilted her head.
"You're so hard right now, it's weeping. You should let me suck it for you." Her tongue peeked out and traced the curve of her plush lips. "You taste good, papi."
I almost groaned.
Breathing hard, my hand shook from the restraint I was holding onto. She had no idea how close she was to the truth. No idea how close I was to snapping. She had looked so pretty on her knees for me—for a split second, I almost let myself entertain it.
Almost.
I swallowed the temptation, exhaling through my nose.
"Enough games." My voice dropped to a colder tone. "Who are you. Real name."
"My name is the one you tracked me down with."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"Where are you from?"
Pause.
"Not Florida."
She picked up a pair of chopsticks, sat bare-assed on the floor in front of the coffee table, and started eating food directly from the container like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn't just been naked between my legs.
Like she hadn't just offered herself to me like currency.
I watched her, my frustration growing with every bite she took. The chopsticks clicked against the cardboard. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixed on the food.
I started asking more questions. Where was she born? How long had she been in Florida? Who did she know in Tampa?
One-word answers.
Evasive.
Dodgy.
Not Florida.
A while.
No one.
Finally, I'd had enough.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of her.
She froze.
Chopsticks halfway to her mouth. Eyes wide. The panic was immediate—not the slow dawning of fear, but a flash flood behind her irises.
"Don't send that to Virginia," she said.
Then her eyes went even wider.
She realized what she'd done.
Virginia.
Not Lady of Rage. Not Rage. Not some street name she'd heard in passing.
Virginia.
That stuck out.
I raised an eyebrow. "How do you know Virginia?"
She dropped her head. Realizing her mistake. Fear bled through her pores enough for me to taste it in the air for the first time since I'd taken her.
Not the fear of death.
The fear of something worse.
"Everybody knows her," she said, dropping the chopsticks. They clattered against the coffee table.
I rebutted. "Everybody knows Lady of Rage in Florida. They know Virginia up north. DMV area. New York." I held the phone up. "You want to talk? Or you want me to send the pic?"
Her eyes narrowed.
She didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Just sat there staring at the food like it had suddenly turned to ash on her plate.
I waited.
The clock on the wall ticked.
Nothing.
"You don't want to talk? That's fine." I pulled out my phone, held it up. "I'll just send the pic."
"No." Her voice was sharp. "I'll talk."
"Why don't you want me to send the pic?"
"Because she'll be the reason I get sent back there." A pause. "That would be worse than death."
Her voice was quiet now. Barely above a whisper.
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. The blanket had slipped off one shoulder. She didn't pull it back up.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
She looked down at her hands. Her shoulders slumped. For the first time, she looked small. Not fragile—Jamie would never be fragile—but smaller.
"I'm Demetrius Lucas's daughter," she said finally.
"Fuck me."
Demetrius Lucas was Lady of Rage's biggest competitor. A man who was as ruthless as he was powerful. He ran everything north of Virginia. Baltimore. Philly. Parts of New York.
And this woman—this girl—was his daughter.
I'd heard rumors. Everyone had. The Lucas children were supposed to be vicious. Crazy. His daughter especially. They said she'd killed a man at fourteen and smiled while she did it.
My stomach turned. The weight of who I had in my apartment sank in like a stone in deep water.
I didn't need this.
I heard her move.
I looked up and she was already too close for me to react.
The cold kiss of steel bit into my throat before I registered the blade.
I fucked up.
One of the boxcutters I used to open deliveries. I'd forgotten about it. It was on the coffee table last time I noticed it, right where she had been eating.. Sleep deprivation dulled my senses. Now I was paying for it.
Her eyes burned into mine.
There was something behind them. Something that should have scared me.
Amusement.
She was enjoying this.
"Now what, papi?" she taunted. Soft as silk. Sharp as teeth.
A woman who grins with a blade at your throat has already decided she can live with the consequences of slitting your throat.
Good for her.
Too bad I wasn't scared to die.
I'd made peace with death the day I buried Sophia.
I held her gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"If you're gonna cut me," I said quietly, "cut me.