Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Cormac
I stare at the irritated woman before me, and I don’t know what to make of her. Part of me thinks she’s the most foolish woman I’ve ever met, and part of me thinks she’s braver than most men I know all put together. She looks at my hand when I reach out to shake hers. She hesitates, but when she lifts her arm to take my hand, I watch her wince.
“What’s the matter?” Maybe I could have sounded nicer than that, a little less demanding.
“It’s nothing.”
“People don’t flinch when it’s nothing.
“I banged my shoulder a little, and my elbow’s a bit sore.”
I don’t ask for permission when I reach out and tenderly touch her arm. I look at her elbow, and it’s obvious she’s injured.
“You need to have this looked at.”
I feel badly because I already know the only thing that went wrong for me is I tore the sleeve of my suit coat at the shoulder. My back is already broad, and the coat pulled too tight across it while we fell, but this could be serious for her.
“No, I’m fine. Like I said, I have other appointments today.”
“They can wait. You’re obviously hurt. If you don’t get this looked at today, then you’re going to end up being out of work for more than just an afternoon.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Are you always this stubborn?”
“Yes.” Her answer is decisive, and it makes me chuckle.
“At least you’re honest.”
She jerks her chin toward the bodega. “You need to deal with whatever that’s about.”
“You need to deal with your arm. I’m not leaving until you do.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Yes.”
Her chuckle matches mine. “At least you’re honest, too.”
There aren’t many people or many times someone would say that about a mobster. I’m the least honest person most people could meet, unless they’re talking to some other syndicate man. I lie for a living. At least that’s what it feels like. It’s more like I lie for survival.
We stand, staring at each other at an impasse. I let go of her arm as gently as I can, but she winces again.
“You are going to see a doctor about that.”
She glares at me, and I can tell she doesn’t appreciate the finality in my tone. But I’m not giving in to her. She’s about to meet her match in stubbornness.
“I’m not leaving here until you promise to see a doctor. And if I don’t believe you, then I’ll take you to the emergency room myself.”
“I’m not wasting time with something they’re probably going to say is just nursemaid’s elbow and that it’ll heal on its own. I just shouldn’t use that arm very much. Fortunately, I’m left-handed.”
I shake my head. I still don’t believe that’s all it is. At best, it’s partial dislocation like she said. But at worst, it could be far more. And I feel guilty that the only reason she’s injured is because she tried to save me and fell down the steps. An average-sized man wouldn’t have crushed her like I almost did.
“You’re being as awkward as those two boys were. Why can’t you admit you need help?”
“Because I don’t. Like I said, a doctor will just tell me it’s nursemaid’s elbow, and I need to rest. Why are you being so demanding?”
“Because I feel guilty.”
I rarely blurt things like that. And I rarely feel that emotion toward anybody who isn’t part of my family. Not even the men I command. When I make a mistake, I might regret it, but rarely do I feel guilty. It’s not that this is an emotion I’m unaccustomed to. It’s just one I don’t care for.
“I absolve you of any guilt you feel because I pushed you down the stairs, not the other way around.”
“I was part of the situation that led you to believe you needed to protect me. Or rather, the kids in the neighborhood.”
I flash her a grin that usually makes most people relax. I’ve been told it’s charming when you pair it with my baby face. I’m not the youngest in the family. That would be my cousin, Sean, who’s three minutes younger than his twin brother, Shane. Yes, Shane, Sean, and Cormac. Couldn’t get much more Irish than those names. Unless you toss in Seamus, my brother, and Finn and Dillan, my cousins. Good Irish names for good Irish mobsters.
“I protected you because it was the right thing to do.” She pauses before she smiles. “For the neighborhood.”
She shifts her gaze to the bodega Frick and Frack just went into before she looks back at me again.
“Are you going to deal with them in there?”
When she furrows her brow, I know what she assumes that means. Had she not intervened, that’s likely what would’ve already happened. She’s right about not involving people in the neighborhood. I didn’t draw my gun first, and I didn’t shoot, but I would’ve if I needed to. I believe she knows that, or at least the latter part. I don’t know if she realized I wasn’t the one who fired my weapon.
Now, cooler heads prevail. They’re off the street, and I didn’t have to fire a shot. I check the safety, even though I know it’s on, then tuck the gun into my lower back holster. She notices the rip in my sleeve when I move. Her gaze locks with mine, but only for a second, knowing it reminded me of her elbow.
“You still haven’t agreed to go to the doctor.”
“I won’t. It’s unnecessary.”
“You basically told those boys to act like men. And now you’re the one who’s being stubborn instead of being an adult. Maybe you ought to get a spanking instead of them.”
Her eyebrows shoot straight to her hairline, or at least close to it. My palm itches to do just that. I didn’t miss how soft she is in all the right places, and how she felt in my arms. She’s definitely got an athletic build, but her tits pressed against my chest were unquestionably natural. And the feel of her arse when my hand thumped against it was plush. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before, but it’s one that best describes what filled my hand for too brief a moment.
“Do you have a chancla holstered back there? Is that your actual weapon of choice?”
I’m not sure how to answer that, but my hand seems to have an idea. I lift it and look at it before twisting my wrist toward her, then back to me.
“Do I really look like I need a chancla ?”
Something flashes in her eyes, and it’s not fear or revulsion. It makes me want to do wicked things to her to see if I can make her scream my name as she comes. This is not the time to be fantasizing about fucking a woman who I’m trying to convince to go to the emergency room.
An SUV I recognize pulls up along the street near where we stand, cutting our conversation short. This fucknut is the last person I need to see right now since I’ll just wind up in an argument with him. When Jocelyn turns to look at the man getting out of the SUV, I watch her freeze, then her head whips back around to stare at me. She takes two steps backward as she shakes her head.
“No. You—I—I gotta go.”
Her declaration definitely isn’t something she’s willing to compromise on. I’m certain she just figured out who I am since she recognized Pablo Diaz. She shifts so Pablo can’t see her since I block his view of her. She’s not just avoiding him; she’s hiding from him. What the fuck did that motherfucker do to make a woman who’s just gone toe-to-toe with me hide? I want answers now, but if I demand them from her, Pablo will see me talking and wonder who I’m speaking to. If I go to him and ask, then I just expose her. I keep my voice low, my lips barely moving.
“Stay where you are until I tell you to go back down the steps. You can wait there until I get him into the bodega.”
“No, you can’t go in there now. It would’ve been bad enough if you were going to return with just Ronaldo and Jesus inside, but Pablo Diaz is not a man you want to be in an enclosed space with.”
She doesn’t sound like she’s speculating. She sounds like she knows from experience. That pisses me off even more. What did he do to her? I will find out, even if it’s not today. I watch Pablo walk toward the bodega, but I’m certain he’s already seen me. He confirms that when he pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder at me.
He raises his eyebrows, and I shrug. It tempts me to swear at him, but I remember how Joey didn’t like that punk-arse kid swearing on the street where anybody could hear him.
“You coming or what?”
Pablo calls out to me, and I cross my arms and adopt a smug expression.
“When I’m good and ready, which means those little boys go home to their mamas. I’m not getting shot today.”
“Unless it’s by me.
Pablo grins, but there hasn’t been humor in that guy’s voice in at least a decade. Not since he became his family’s chief enforcer. My brother—Seamus—and I are the top enforcers in my family. However, we divvy up the unsavory stuff we must do amongst all the brothers and cousins. We all know Pablo is the only one who deals with that shite in his family. It’s killed his soul.
“You wouldn’t dare mess up my pretty face.”
I grin, and it’s about as humorless as his. We’ve had plenty of trouble with the Diazes over the years, so we exist in a perpetual stalemate. That’s our version of homeostasis. If we’re in a shootout, like I nearly was, then everyone is fair game. It’s shoot or be shot. But in situations like this, we’re supposed to use our words.
I bet Joey’s used that phrase with some of her younger—what do I call them? Clients? Patients? I don’t know what social workers call the people they work with. I’ve never given it any thought. But now that I do, it reminds me Joey’s hiding behind me. Her shoulder has brushed between my shoulder blades twice as she tries to stay tucked behind me. My feet are close together to hide her legs.
“Pablo, go in there. Make sure your ni?os went home. And then we’ll sort this out.” Little boys.
“Fine.”
“Just don’t take too long. I have other shite to do today.”
“You think this little distraction was on my calendar? I have better things to do than this.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but there are kids approaching, and neither of us wants to make this situation worse.
I’ll wait until one of his guys gives the “all clear” sign before I go in. I watch Pablo duck inside, then count to twenty before I speak to Joey. I don’t dare turn around since I’m certain Pablo’s watching me through the window, even if I can’t see him. When she descends the steps, I keep my voice low, but I’m certain she can hear me since she stops once her head disappears.
“Why are you hiding from him?”
I turn my head just enough, so I can see her out of the corner of my eye. I lean against the railing as though I don’t have a care in the world as I wait to cross the street. It helps block where Joey now hides again.
“I had a run-in with him several years ago in a neighborhood like this.”
“Let me guess, Jackson Heights.”
There’s a moment before she says anything. “Yeah.”
I’m certain the fact that I know where she met Pablo, and she obviously knows he’s Colombian Cartel only reconfirms what she’s guessed about me.
“What happened when you met him?”
There’s an edge to my tone I didn’t intend. There’s nothing good about this story if this is how she reacts years later.
“I didn’t know who he was back then, but it was a situation sort of like this one. I called the police, and they came. I guess they didn’t realize who was involved, either. They wound up making a big deal out of it, in spite of how no one in the neighborhood wanted to give statements. I guess his younger brother is a cop because he made it all disappear. I’m lucky his family didn’t make me disappear.”
I don’t respond aloud, but Juan was a cop. He’s no longer anything. Probably not even ash or acidic sludge in the Flushing River. He crossed the bratva one too many times, and he learned his lesson. It was probably one of the last cases he worked if it was five or six years ago.
“You fear Pablo will remember you and go after you this many years later.”
“I’ve heard you guys have long memories for things like that.”
It happens all too often that I’m lumped in with other syndicates from people who don’t understand the difference. I’m most certainly not a Cartel member.
I’m a mobster. But now isn’t the time to correct her.