Chapter 10
Ten
VIOLET
“Ithink I have a massive crush on a Mafia king.”
Staring at myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Did I just say that out loud?
Yeah.
I did.
I’m in my sleep shirt, my hair is insane, last night’s makeup is smeared under my eyes, and all I can do is stand here and stare at myself as the events of what happened in that sex club replay through my mind.
Also, sidebar, I had the best night’s sleep that I’ve had in seven years.
“Apparently, getting sexed up by Mateo is the magic sauce for sleepy time.”
I smirk but then sober again. Because as good as the sex is, and as much as I actually enjoy being around him, he’s still dangerous. And I don’t know for sure that he isn’t in cahoots with Damien.
“You could ask him,” I say to my reflection as I wet a cloth so I can wash my face. “Just have a conversation with the man.”
I work the soap into my skin.
“But then, he might kill you for asking the wrong things.”
I rinse and then stare at myself again.
“I don’t think he wants to kill you. I don’t think he would, no matter what. You drugged him. You went through his home. You’re basically stalking his businesses, and he still only says sweet things and fucks you like it’s his whole job in life to give you as many orgasms as humanly possible.”
I work my brush through my hair and then twist it up into a bun, since it really needs to be washed, but I slept too late today, and there’s no time for it.
Scheduling a woman’s hair washing requires a calendar and a spreadsheet.
I’ve just changed into a Metallica tee and ripped jeans when my phone pings with a text.
(702) 883-0998: Answer your door, Savage.
My eyes move back up to my own in the mirror. How in the hell does he have my number?
“Don’t be stupid. He booked a freaking tattoo with you.”
(702) 883-0998: Make sure that spectacular body is covered. I don’t want to have to take my man’s eyes out.
I can’t help the burst of laughter that comes out as I march through my tiny apartment and swing the door open.
The man on the other side is probably in his mid-twenties, and he’s holding a huge white take-out bag in each hand.
“Ma’am,” he says with a nod. “These are for you.”
“You can put them—”
“No ma’am.” He shakes his head. “I’m not to step inside.”
That shouldn’t surprise me. I take the bags, close the door, and walk over to the kitchen with them.
Before I open anything, I assign Mateo’s name to his number and then call him.
But he sends me to voicemail.
Why does that irritate me so much?
Mateo: Sorry, can’t talk. Did you open the bags?
I frown at the phone. Why can’t he talk? And why am I suddenly suspicious and jealous?
“Don’t be dumb,” I mutter as I open the first bag and find three stacked boxes, all hot. The second bag is the same.
And when I open everything, I find the entire breakfast menu from the café that Mateo owns.
Me: Am I hosting a party? I can’t eat all of this.
The bubbles bounce on the screen as I break off a bite of a crispy waffle—how is it still crispy and not soggy?—and dip it in some syrup.
“Holy shit, this is good. Where’s the bacon?”
I find at least a pound of perfectly cooked bacon in one of the boxes and take a bite.
Mateo: I was going to bring you breakfast myself, but I got tied up with work, and I didn’t know what you like best, so I ordered everything.
“Okay, that’s kind of sweet.”
Me: You do know this is an unhinged amount of food, right?
Mateo: That’s exactly what I am when it comes to you. Unhinged. Have a good breakfast. I’ll talk to you later.
I keep stuffing my face but also try to decide what I can salvage for later, either to take to work with me for lunch or to freeze. This is too much to go to waste.
In the end, I’m able to keep most from the garbage can, and it gives me the boost I need to finish getting ready for work.
With back-to-back clients all day, I can’t afford to be late, so I quickly pull on my pink Chucks, pack some food for lunch later, and manage to make it to the studio with enough time to prep for the first customer.
Fuck, I’m hungry, and the eggs with hash browns and ham that I have in the fridge are calling my name.
I have an hour between clients, so I heat up my food, grab my laptop, and sit in the corner of the quiet room at a small table.
Our tattoo studio is small, with only four artists, and that means that, for the most part, it’s quiet around here, even when all of us are working at the same time.
Which rarely happens.
I open my laptop and click the keys that take me to the dark web.
I never, not in a million years, would have thought that I’d be a girl who knows her way around this part of the internet, but damn it, when your sister goes missing, and you’re doing everything under the sun to find her, you learn new skills.
Luckily for me, I worked with a guy in Seattle who had a brother who wanted a full back piece done, and in exchange, he taught me well enough for me to maneuver my way through on my own.
I’m not hacker level, and I’ll never be worth a damn when it comes to espionage, but I can find message boards and such and scan her name.
I also know how to narrow it down by region, so I can read about things going on locally and don’t have to wade my way through information on every part of the world.
So far, it’s the normal stuff. Hits for hire, drugs, guns. False IDs. I’ve become desensitized, because in the beginning, reading through this stuff made me sick to my stomach.
Now, I’m enjoying my lunch while I page through.
And then I come to a screeching halt.
I drop my fork and lean forward.
Las Vegas: moving girls. Need muscle. 9/13 11:00. 447 Craig Rd.
“Moving girls,” I whisper and feel heat rush through my body.
I’ve never seen anything like this before, but I’m going to be there. I glance at the calendar. The thirteenth is Wednesday.
I type all the information into my phone and then go through the keystrokes I was taught that’ll erase my IP from ever being there.
Looks like I have a date Wednesday night.
Because if there’s even a possibility that my sister will be there, I’ll bring hellfire down on that place to get her out of there.
The convenient thing about how this worked out is, I take Wednesdays and Thursdays off from the studio, so since it’s my day off, I’m taking advantage of having the day to prepare to go to that warehouse tonight.
First up is the gym. I go religiously five days a week, before work. I don’t just do cardio. I lift, and I spar if someone’s around to work with me. I haven’t found any MMA classes that I like, but there’s a trainer at the gym I go to that’s excellent with me in the ring.
So, in my yoga shorts, tank, and hoodie, I walk inside the gym and straight back to the locker room to put my stuff away, then go out to where the free weights are.
I don’t want to exhaust myself today and be too weak and sore later in case I have to kick someone’s ass, but I need to get some nerves and tension out.
With my earbuds in, I start at the squat rack and get to work.
I like to sweat. I like my muscles to burn, and I absolutely love it when those muscles flex and fill with blood from the exertion of the weights and I can see the definition in them.
I don’t look masculine at all, but I can see the evidence of my hard work, and I think it rocks.
I’ll always be curvy, but I like my body. I don’t want it to be anything other than what it is.
After an hour with the weights, I’m drinking some water, resting between sets, when I see the trainer come in. He nods at me and gestures for me to join him in the ring, and I get excited because this is what I need.
“Hey,” I say as I pull my earbuds out of my ears. “Do you have time for this today?”
“Sure, let’s do it.” His name is Danny, and he’s all lean muscle, a former fighter himself.
“Great, give me five to use the bathroom.”
He nods and I set off for the locker room.