3. Salvatore
3
SALVATORE
I’m going to kill Aldo. He needs to answer my text so I can relax about a single thing tonight.
I’m practically naked, carrying only my knife, jammer, and a pair of handcuffs. I haven’t done any pre-surveillance in this hotel, and it’s making me twitchy.
This wasn’t supposed to be the plan. I was going to follow Marisol to her apartment and convince her to stay away until I could bait her into working for me. But seeing Junior on the train threw a wrench into all of that. He knows about Marisol, and now everything’s changed.
“Sit here,” I tell her, pointing to a chair in the lobby that faces the exit.
She might try to run, but at least she won’t get us in trouble by facing the concierge and mouthing help me . She hesitates until I lay a heavy hand on her shoulder that has her sinking into the soft leather with a pout. I lean down, looking for all the world like a husband who’s kissing his wife or a lover whispering a secret. My lips brush against her cheek, and I inhale the scent of lime and alcohol. Her breath hitches.
“If you try to run, I will catch you .”
I don’t touch her dark, wavy hair. I don’t linger.
I approach the hotel counter, feeling her sear a hostile look into my back. She can hate me all she wants. Better to be angry and at my side than drunk and defenseless on the train. She’s not a stupid girl, so why the fuck would she put herself at risk the way she did?
A pale man with a flimsy combover greets me with a well-practiced smile.
“How can I help you?” he asks in a chipper tone.
I lean back against the counter so I can keep an eye on my little prisoner. I rarely get the chance to drink in her profile like this. She’s got a sweet, round face with a button nose that masks her in an air of innocence, even now as she’s scheming about the exits. Her white floral headband and long skirt suggest “pastor’s daughter”, although I know her to be anything but. She steals a glance at me, and when she sees me looking, whips herself forward and stiffens her shoulders. So tense. Tonight wasn’t supposed to play out like this.
“Sir?”
“I’ll take whatever your most expensive room is. One night.”
“Absolutely! Let me get that processed for you.”
The clerk needs to hurry up so I can be within arm’s reach of her again. My body’s wound up too tight, and I don’t like how close I feel to snapping at any moment. There can’t be any more fuck-ups tonight.
I would’ve punished one of my men for letting things go so off the rails the way I did. For letting Junior get as close to her as I did. He must’ve been waiting at the train stop, hoping to catch her getting off. It was pure luck that she willingly stepped off before Junior saw us, although I was ready to carry her out the moment I spotted him.
He’s going to double back and sniff around that station, and then he’ll call Dom and ask after me. Dom will try to keep him in the dark, but Junior won’t wait long to call Papà Aldo next and needle him for my girl. We’ll be two dogs tearing at the same steak until Aldo lets one of us keep her.
Until I have Aldo’s word, I don’t want anyone else putting eyes on Marisol. With Barbara and Red still in my basement, the Coquatrix is our best option for the night.
It’s logical. And yet, I can’t trust my own decisions when my state of mind is such a mess. She shouldn’t have been in danger like that. She shouldn’t be so drunk.
Tonight, I’ll have her all to myself.
Once I get the keycard, I fetch Marisol and take her to the elevators. I hold her hand in mine, marveling at the delicate feel of the bones in her fingers. I’ve only ever seen her at her desk and through the occasional public camera, so I know she’s not one for much physical effort, but she surprised me with that little escape attempt of hers. I’ll need to keep a close eye on her. Well, closer .
When we get to our room, I use both locks on the door and wedge a chair under the handle. It’s not perfect, but nothing short of a battering ram will break in. Or a small bomb. Or a fire. Or a screwdriver.
I wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight anyway.
I expect to see Marisol wide-eyed as she takes in the opulence of the room or shivering in a chair, but instead, she’s rummaging through the mini-fridge, completely ignoring the glittering Chicago skyline stretching out through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her.
“More drinking?” I ask. It was an oversight not to ask the clerk to have all the alcohol removed from the room.
“Just water. I’m trying not to throw up right now. Do you have anything to eat?”
“No. We’re not calling room service, and we’re not leaving until tomorrow, so you’ll have to wait.”
She throws me an exasperated look, slamming the mini fridge shut and balancing three half-sized water bottles in one hand. She dumps herself into a nearby chair and then, glancing at me, assembles herself into a straight-backed posture at the edge of the seat before she gulps down the contents of the first bottle.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks, after finishing the bottle.
“My place.”
She looks a little green at the thought. “Why?”
“Because that’s where you’ll be safest.”
“From the guy on the train?”
“That’s something we’ll discuss at my place.” I have my jammer in case the hotel room is bugged, but I don’t want to explain to her what’s going on while she’s drunk. She needs a full night’s sleep before I break the news that she’s not going back to her old life.
She opens her mouth to reply, but instead, she shoots out her arm toward the little hotel trashcan and retches inside. From the sounds of it, it’s mostly liquid. I should’ve grabbed her before she got to that bar instead of indulging myself and watching her for so long. This is my fault.
I consider offering to hold her hair back, but she probably wouldn’t appreciate me touching her.
“Fuck,” she moans into the trashcan. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and grimaces at a sticky lock of her hair. With a groan, she toes off her heels, drops her purse to the ground, and carries her trashcan toward the bathroom. She starts to close the door, but I kick a boot out.
“Phone,” I say, extending my hand. She slipped her phone into her skirt pocket while she was puking.
“It’s in my purse.”
“Liar.”
She glares at me and passes over her phone before shutting the door and locking it.
Normally, I wouldn’t let her leave my sight, but judging by the sounds of dry heaving coming from inside the bathroom, she’s not going anywhere soon.
Her phone’s already off. Odd. I turn it on, note the fifty missed calls and texts from Grant, and turn it back off. Boyfriend troubles?
I sit on the bed to wait, but a moment later I’m pacing around the room. I make another useless call to Aldo while I wait by the bathroom door and listen to Marisol throwing up. She’s not normally a drinker and the fact that something— someone —has driven her to suck down all those margaritas makes me grind my teeth together.
After a half hour, the shower faucet squeals, and the water kicks on. I perk up and cycle closer to the door. Fabric hits the tiled floor with a whisper, and then the rhythm of the water changes as she steps inside. Desire surges through me, sick and hot. I can’t go into the bathroom with her. She wouldn’t like that. But I need to touch something of hers. I cast my gaze over the room, and it lands on her heels and purse, discarded to the side. I walk over.
I kneel on the ground to pick up one of her heels and rub my palm along the inner sole of her shoe, imagining I can still feel residual warmth inside. The bottoms of the shoes are badly scuffed, especially the point of the heel. She’s a destructive little thing.
My phone buzzes.
Dom
Junior’s asking after you.
I shake my head. What a predictable asshole.
Tell him you can’t get ahold of me.
Dom
Will do. Don’t creep out Marisol too much.
I glance at the shoe in my hand before arranging her heels in a neat row near the door.
She steps out of the bathroom a moment later, fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked. Her hair’s wet and braided back, and she’s already redressed. The top of her white t-shirt is nearly transparent from the water, but it’s hard to see anything when she’s tucking her arms over her chest. I’ve never seen her look this uncertain and vulnerable. Another fresh wave of lust threatens to drag me under.
“Uh, sorry about all that,” she says, after an awkward moment of silence.
“You shouldn’t drink so much.”
“I had a good reason.”
She retrieves one of her water bottles and breaks open the seal. As the bottle touches her lips, she spots her shoes next to the door. Her eyes narrow and flick to me in suspicion. Don’t creep her out.
“I caught my boyfriend balls deep in another woman.”
I choke back a broken laugh.
“Yep, and then he told me he ‘didn’t mean it’. Even the other woman was shocked.”
“Sounds like he didn’t deserve you.”
“Well, I seem to attract men that are bad for me.” She regards me for a moment. “Are you going to rape me?”
“No.”
“But you’ve kidnapped me.”
“Yes.”
“You should know I have no money.”
“I know.”
At this, her frown deepens. “How do you know my name?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
“Stalking me,” she spits back.
“Yes.”
Marisol throws her hands up, exposing that swatch of wet fabric suctioned to her pillowy breasts. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you.” I advance on her. Her eyes widen, and she backs up with her purse in hand. “To go to sleep. You’ll need your rest for tomorrow.”
Normally, she’d be in bed hours ago, and she’s going to be exhausted tomorrow if I keep her up much longer.
“I’m not tired,” she protests.
I smile and stop a breath away from her wet breasts. I keep my hands relaxed, but I’m dying to touch her. I wish she’d bolt again so I’d have an excuse to heave her against me.
“I’ll tell you what you want to know when we’re in a safe area. You just have to be a little more patient.”
She braces herself against the bedside table and holds her head high, but her movements are jittery, nervous.
“When will I get my phone back?”
“Get on the bed.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I won’t. But you’ll need to obey me.”
Her eyes flash with some unnamed emotion, and I think she might run, but after a moment, she lowers herself onto the edge of the bed. I pull out my handcuffs, and she balks.
“ Fuck , no.”
I extend my hand toward her right wrist. “Are you going to listen?”
Fury flashes over her face like a strike of lightning. “You haven’t said a damn thing.”
“Set your purse down and then give me your hand.”
“I’m on my period,” she says suddenly, and I blink at the sudden change in topic.
“You’re early.”
She normally doesn’t start for another two weeks.
“ How …” Her eyebrows shoot up before she shakes her head. “Actually, I don’t want to know. Can I please keep my tampons? I don’t have any other clothes, and I don’t want to bleed through these.”
Odd. She’s usually eating jars of peanut butter once a month like clockwork, but she hasn’t touched the stuff in two weeks.
“Keep them. But give me the rest of your things and your wrist.”
She pulls out a pink pouch of tampons before thrusting her purse at me and offering her wrist. She hides the tampons in the folds of her skirts
I resist the urge to taunt her. Over the years, I’ve overseen the torture of dozens of men, and she thinks a tampon is going to offend me?
I cinch one handcuff around her wrist, letting my thumb linger over the soft skin there, and drop the other bracelet. Her anger melts into curiosity as I move to the bathroom, leaving the door wide open so we can see each other. I make no attempt to hide myself while I piss, and a thrill surges through me when her gaze drops down to my cock. By the time I’m done, I’m shoving a half-erection back into my jeans.
Marisol’s figured it out once I’m back and sliding on top of the bed fully dressed. Her arm rises limply so I can cuff my left wrist with the empty bracelet. The second it clicks shut, she scoffs, “I just drank twenty-four ounces of water and had like four margaritas before that. I hope you hate sleep because I’m going to need to get up to pee a lot .”
Being a Luporini man has its many perks, but soundly sleeping at night is not one of them. I shrug and flick off the lights with the remote. “That’s fine. I’m a light sleeper anyway. I hope you like an audience.”
She huffs at that.
I prop myself up with my pillow and try not to think too hard about the hotel’s cleaning standards. I’m completely dressed, even wearing my boots in case of an emergency, and I’ve never slept well with another person before. I fully expect to spend the night watching the clock on the opposite wall and waiting for Aldo to get back to me. Vegas has got to be pretty fucking amazing if he can’t be bothered to check his phone for an entire day.
Marisol’s dressed too. All the little dips in the mattress from her slipping under the covers make the hairs on my arm stand up. I wish she was asleep already so I could watch her.
Marisol rolls over on her side to face me.
“Goodnight, I guess,” she says.
I keep my face trained forward. “Go to sleep.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “ asshole ”, and I smirk a little. I lie there for a long time, feeling her shift in bed and listening to her exhales and the clink of the metal handcuffs as she tries to get comfortable. Finally, her breathing deepens into a gentle snore. She’s asleep. I take my first real look at her in the dim light.
After watching her through a hidden camera opposite her desk for months, I thought I’d memorized every detail about her, but seeing her up close is a completely foreign experience. I’m more intimately familiar with the cowlick on the back of her head than I am with her face. Her eyelashes are long and dark against her cheek, and her mouth parts a little as she sleeps. A tiny scar I haven’t noticed before cuts across her eyebrow. A light smattering of freckles dusts her nose. Even though she’s almost completely covered by the sheets, my cock gives an interested jerk. I turn away from her to stare back up at the clock. It’s going to be a long night.
“Hey. Wake up. I have to pee.”
I lurch up, wrenching against something trapping my wrist. I rear back, ready to shove it off of me, but a scream stops me.
“Fuck! Stop it! You’re going to break my hand!”
Consciousness slams into me. I’m at the Coquatrix. I have Marisol Vasquez handcuffed to me. She drank an entire mini fridge of water. I glance at the clock. It’s barely past midnight. I fell asleep? Normally, I lie in bed for hours if I try to go to sleep this early.
“Hey,” Marisol stage-whispers. “You here? I really need to pee.”
I grunt and scrub my hand over my face before following her into the bathroom. She covers herself with her long skirt and sets the world record for longest pee while she stares in the opposite direction from me. As she’s washing her hands, I note the heavy blush covering her cheeks. Even through all of my surveillance, I’ve never seen her blush, and I don’t stop staring even when she scowls at me.
When we return to bed, she quickly passes back out. It was dangerous for me to fall asleep like that. I stare up at the clock and listen to her snoring, resolving to stay awake for the rest of the night.
Scritch. Scritch.
I wake and lie there on my side for a moment, collecting my thoughts with my eyes closed. I fell asleep again? If she’d had the opportunity, I would’ve suspected she’d drugged me. Through my eyelids, I can sense that there’s light out. I slept through the night.
Click.
I inhale, and Marisol stiffens on the bed next to me. I let my breathing return to normal, and after a long pause, she shifts away from me. She holds her breath each time the bed creaks.
I snap my eyes open. She freezes. She’s got a lockpick— where the fuck did she get that—in her mouth and has one foot off the bed.
While I watch, she gives me a sheepish grin through the metal pick in her teeth.
This woman is going to fucking kill me.