Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
V incent
This casino is a pain in my fucking ass. It started as a way to reinforce our influence outside of the city and create a convenient place to launder money, as well as generate a decent, legitimate revenue stream.
Okay, it’s been an extremely successful pain in the ass. But a pain nonetheless.
Today’s problem comes in the form of a spineless sack of shit that has been beating his girlfriend. Two problems, the first being that no man that works for me beats his woman. Period. The second being that she also works for me as a blackjack dealer. Marco’s most recent romantic companion found her crying and trying to cover a black eye and bruises on her fucking neck with makeup in the employee bathroom earlier this evening.
So, Marco and I were trying to have a pleasant little talk with my soon to be ex-employee.
Possibly ex-human .
And then I heard this yelp.
Okay, so maybe the alley wasn’t the most private place to have this discussion. But it’s important to leave a certain impression when you need to. First, that this is the kind of problem I am going to take time out of my day to handle personally. Second, that it will be handled right fucking now and right fucking here . Also, I’m the head of la Cosa Nostra. If any beat cop had turned down that alley when I had my gun pressed to his head, the chances that he would turn right around and keep walking were high.
That doesn’t mean I need extra witnesses running around. At least, not ones I don’t know about.
She’s fast, I’ll give her that. I looked up just in time to see movement disappear back around the corner.
Marco was on her heels before I could even form the order. Dipshit got a pistol whip to the head and picked back up by one of the bouncers, conversation to be continued. I cut through an employee access passage in the garage and get ahead of them just in time to grab whoever pops out of the alley.
I won’t lie—I was not expecting her. Tiny, with platinum blonde hair and feisty as hell. She even got an elbow into my ribs when I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should.
Lucky she didn’t get to your dick .
I am trying, and failing, not to think about her perky ass rubbing against it while she thrashed around in my arms.
Thump. Thump. ThumpThumpThump.
She’s been going positively apeshit since getting tossed into the trunk.
From the driver’s seat, Marco laughs. “She’s really kicking up a storm, isn’t she?”
“Apparently.”
“I mean really, like, more than average.”
Marco signals to turn. You always signal. Last thing you need is for some rookie cop to pull you over for some bullshit traffic violation when you have someone in the trunk of the fucking car. We both notice the dramatic increase in the tempo of the turn signal.
“Fuck,” I groan. “Pull over. She’s got the taillight.” We’re almost back to Manhattan, so she’s had plenty of time to work on it.
Marco laughs and pulls into the warehouse district. We both walk to the back of the car, and he pops the trunk with the remote. She bolts halfway out of the car, panting, with tears running down her cheeks. Her eyes are red from crying, which emphasizes her blue-grey eyes. She’s shaking. Not a tremble or a shiver, but full-blown shaking.
“Jesus, fuck, what’s wrong with her?” Marco asks me in Italian.
Okay, so it’s not just me who notices. It’s not like we haven’t stuck people in trunks before. Yeah, no one likes it. But this is unusual.
“So? What’s the problem here?” I ask her.
“P-please let me out,” she stutters, locking those piercing eyes on me.
Odd word choice. “Out?”
She nods frantically.
“You want out? Not to be let go?”
“Out. Please let me out. Please.”
“You’re claustrophobic?” I ask.
She nods.
Jesus, it must be bad if she’s more afraid of the trunk than whatever her mind can conjure up for the end of the ride. Though I’m not sure her mind can think that far ahead right now—she’s in a full-blown panic.
I run my hand through my hair and look at her. Her hair is still perfectly in place, but her makeup is a fucking mess, her shoes are broken, and one ankle is bleeding from kicking the taillight until it broke. Her top is torn, and black smudges from the trunk cover her arms.
“Do we have any flex cuffs?” I ask Marco in Italian.
“Yeah.” He grabs a set from the glovebox.
She looks from the cuffs, to me, back to the cuffs, back to me. A fresh wave of tears runs down her face. She holds her arms out in front of her so I can attach the cuffs.
Marco whistles. Still in Italian, he comments, “Fuck, she does not want to be in the trunk.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.” I motion for her to get out. After watching her struggle to do it with her hands cuffed, I just pick her up and set her on her feet.
I switch back to English. “If you run, if you fight, if you even fucking irritate me, you go back in and I’ll leave you until morning. You got that?”
She nods vigorously. “Yes, sir.”
Fuck. My dick heard that loud and goddamned clear.
Marco opens the back door, and I shoo her into it. I reach for her seatbelt, and she jumps.
“Shh.” It clicks into place, and I slip my jacket off, setting it over her lap and covering the cuffs. Her eyes zero in on my gun in the shoulder holster.
“Tell me, kitten. What did you see tonight?”
She answers immediately. “Nothing. I didn’t see anything.”
I sigh. “Okay, I didn’t explain the rules, and that’s my fault. When I ask you questions, I expect the truth.”
She pales and looks down.
Busted.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
She sniffs. “I saw you and him,” she nods her chin towards the front seat, “and another guy. One of you had a gun. I don’t remember who. As soon as I saw, I turned and ran.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Walking to the nightclub in the casino.”
“Why were you walking down the alley?”
Something flickers briefly in her expression, but I don’t know her well enough to place what it is. She raises a foot and shakes her high heel at me. “Shortcut.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” she replies. If she weren’t still shaking like a chihuahua in winter, I’d almost believe she wasn’t afraid.
“You’re going to regret that.”
She’s watching out the window, but I know the heavy tint makes it damn near impossible to see.
“Sarah,” she sighs. “My name is Sarah Williams, and if you kill me, so help me god, I will haunt your ass until the end of time.”
Marco snickers from the front seat before pulling himself together.
The rest of the drive is silent. I verify that my earlier problem has been relocated to one of the dockside warehouses. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
Marco pulls into the underground garage of the Chelsea penthouse I call home. I own the entire building, though I only personally live in the penthouse. The floors below are occupied by Marco and several more of my men. He pulls next to the service elevator, and another of my men materializes from the shadows, unlocking the elevator and holding it open. I open her door, and she sits there, blinking her big blue-grey eyes at me.
I pop her seatbelt off and retrieve my jacket from her lap.
“Out.”
“Where is this?”
“Does it really matter?” I ask her, pulling the jacket back on.
She chews on her lip for a moment before giving a resigned sigh and swinging her feet out of the car. I’m struck again by how small she is. Her head barely comes to the middle of my chest.
I point to the elevator, and she starts to march ahead of me. Or, she tries. Her gait is uneven, and I realize the heel of one of her shoes has finally snapped all the way off. She grimaces and I see a drop of fresh blood fall to the concrete from the cut on her ankle.
I groan. “Stop.”
She turns and looks up at me.
“This is pathetic.” I put one arm behind her back and bend to pick her up, bridal style.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” She jerks away. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor right now.
Fine . I pull her arms out of the way and throw her over my shoulder instead.
“Put me down!” she yells, kicking her feet and trying to beat her tiny little fists against my back.
“Stop wiggling,” I tell her.
“Put me down!”
“No. I don’t have all fucking night to watch you limp inside. Stop fighting.”
“Asshole!”
In the elevator, I enter the code that accesses the penthouse foyer.
“Good evening, Aldo,” I greet the man at the door in Italian. If he thinks it’s odd that I’m carrying a woman over my shoulder, he doesn’t say so.
“Welcome back, Mr. De Luca,” he says, opening the door.
I step inside and hear the door close and lock behind me.
The bottom floor of the penthouse is dominated by the massive living area, and the floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around three sides of the building, allowing for views of both the Manhattan skyline and the Hudson River. Because I am who I am, the glass is one way tinted, vibrates to interfere with parabolic microphones, and is as close to bulletproof as glass can be, even against large caliber rifle rounds.
I drop Sarah onto the large sectional sofa.
“Woah! What the hell?”
I drag the ottoman forward and sit on it, directly facing her. From my pants pocket, I pull out a folding knife and flick the blade out. She looks panicked and tries to scoot away, but I’ve already grabbed the flex cuffs with my other hand.
“No—” She stops when I cut the plastic and it falls uselessly to the floor.
“To be clear, I own this entire building and everyone in it. If you run, you won’t even make it to the elevator. So sit. Stay.” I point to her current seat to reinforce the point.
As I walk into the bathroom, I hear a faint “ woof” coming from the sofa. I smile but suppress a chuckle.
I return with the first aid bag and sit back in front of her. I unbuckle her shoes and toss them to the side. I pour some peroxide onto the gauze and start wiping off the dried blood until the wound is clean. I put a butterfly bandage over it and then wrap around her ankle with the roll of gauze.
She watches me, her expression more confused than anything else. I pack up the rest of the kit and gather my trash up and drop it in the kitchen garbage can. I get a bottle of water out of the fridge and then pour myself three fingers of whisky on the rocks. Sitting back down on the ottoman, I hold out the bottle of water to her. After a beat where she clearly mulled over her options, of which there were damned few, she takes it, carefully inspecting the seal before opening it.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
She finishes half the bottle of water while I study her. Her hair is pulled back into a remarkably tight bun, and her blue-grey eyes are surrounded by smudged black makeup, some of which has run down her cheeks with her tears. If she had lipstick, it’s gone now, leaving just her pink, plump lips. Her features are delicate, almost fragile.
Fuck.
“How old are you?” I blurt out.
“Twenty-two.” After a beat she adds, “I’m just small, not a child.”
I nod.
“Thank you.” She shakes her bandaged ankle for emphasis.
“Next time, try not to kick out my taillight.”
I watch her shiver at the reminder. “Alternatively, you could avoid stuffing me in the trunk.”
I smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Where am I?”
“My home.”
Her eyes flash. “Why?”
“Why do you think?”
She pales. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I’m certainly not going to kill you in my living room.”