Chapter 7
Leo
I don’t want to brag or anything, but I don’t need a filter, lighting, or help from stupid AI. My toes are pretty freaking cute all on their own, but going off Reddit, it’s not only about the toes. It’s also about the mood and vibe.
It’s people doing things with their toes. A few really go hard with the food like sticking their toes in pies, macaroni and cheese, or mashed potatoes. The options are limitless, but that’s not for me. No judgment, but maybe a little judgment.
Coming up with other ideas for each toe is fun.
I make sure that I take a picture of each one doing its own thing.
I snort a laugh as I draw a face on my big toe.
If these pictures are good, I know Mattia will keep coming back for more.
I send off the other nine pictures all at once before following it up with a text that says if he wants to see them all together in one picture, that will cost him.
“Sucker,” I say to myself as I let out my best evil laugh.
The man on the other side of the laundromat looks up from his phone, and I cover my laugh with a cough. I’m not trying to scare off a paying customer. It’s not like I can put all my money eggs into one sugar daddy’s basket.
Mattia: Are you shaking me down?
Me: You’re too big to shake.
What does that even mean? Sometimes he says the strangest things, but it’s endearing. People have their quirks. Well, not me. I’m baseline normal for the most part.
He offers another hundred, but I counter and add a zero to that hundred and once again do the math for him. Ten toes all together would be a grand. This is why the mob has to use those money counters.
When he agrees, a girly giggle leaves me, and I have to clear my throat. The sound is weird and not something I’ve ever done before. I need to get it together. This is a working kidnap-sugar relationship, and it needs to stay professional. I’m not giddy about any of this.
After I send the picture of all of my toes, the rest of the day is boring and drags on. As soon as it’s almost closing time, I get up to click the lock over so people can only exit. Of course someone enters right then. Damn it.
“Hi,” I say with a fake smile and hold the door open farther for them to enter.
He walks past me, and that’s when I notice he doesn’t have a basket. I glance down the sidewalk, expecting another person to be holding the basket and on their way. When I don’t see anyone else, I let the door close behind him.
“Hello to you too,” he says.
“You don’t have anything with you?” I motion to his empty hands, but he ignores the question.
“I’m single.” Weird thing to tell me, but okay. Not all of us find healthy relationships or one at all.
I hit the lock on the door so no one else can enter and turn to the guy. “No laundry?”
“You’re locking me in?” He gives me a charming smile like we’re flirting. It’s too charming. He’s also not answering my question.
“You can still leave,” I show him how by pushing the door.
“Nah, I think I’m good right here.”
“Okey-dokie,” I tell him, heading back to my counter area.
When I get there, I see that he’s followed me. He’s tall but not as tall as Mattia or as big. His eyes aren’t smoldering either. Which, honestly, I didn’t think was a thing, but I found out yesterday Mattia’s do.
“You’re related to Antonio Rossi?” he asks, but I’m not sure how much I should say. Instead, I narrow my eyes at him, but he keeps at it. “You’re not?”
“I don’t answer questions.” At least that’s what the actors say in the crime shows I watch.
“You don’t answer questions?”
“Nope.” Shit, he got me. “I think you should leave.” I won’t be bested in my own laundromat.
“I didn’t do anything.” He starts to chuckle.
“You should watch it,” I warn. When word spreads about me being an up-and-coming mob lady, I bet I won’t have to put up with these things.
“You’re feisty.” His eyes slide up and down my body. “I see why he’s handling it himself.”
“Who?” I ask, leaning in. Is he talking about the cops?
“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “Are you single?”
“It’s best if you leave,” I tell him again, not answering his question.
He glances over to my one and only customer, who is still playing with their phone and not paying us any attention. At least that’s what I think he’s doing.
“Guess we’ll do this the hard way,” the man in front of me mutters.
“What was the easy way?” I whisper back. I’m not really sure what he’s talking about.
“Charm,” he responds.
“As in you charming me?” I point to myself and then burst into laughter. He’s not hard on the eyes, but he’s pretty. That’s not my thing because I like being the pretty one.
The smile he’s had this whole time vanishes, and his expression morphs into anger. Oh my. He does not like what I’ve said, but I can’t help it. I don’t have a filter, but maybe I can hide my face. Where are my sunglasses?
“Let’s go,” he snaps under his breath and suddenly grabs my forearm across the counter. “Bet we’ll get a lot for you.”
The man starts to drag me over the counter, and I let out a small scream. “You can’t kidnap me! I’m the kidnapper!”
He manages to yank me to his side of the counter, and I fall off, barely staying on my feet.
He’s definitely not as good of a kidnapper as me.
Before I can tell him this, a loud shot rings out, and I feel the splatter of warm blood against me.
Mr. Wannabe Kidnapper crumples to the ground, and I gag at the sight of all the blood.
I know they say head wounds bleed a lot, but damn, it’s everywhere. I spot my sunglasses on the ground next to him. They must have been on top of my head and fallen off when he yanked me rudely over the counter. I reach down and pick them up, then slide them on.
I was hoping the shade from the sunglasses would help against the sight of all of the blood, but it’s no use, and I gag again. I slowly turn toward my customer and see he’s still holding the gun, but now it’s down at his side.
Where the hell is my pepper spray when I need it? Surely I can’t take another man hostage? I let out a loud sigh at the thought of having to repeat last night with someone new.
“You okay?” he asks, and I hold up my finger.
“Hold that thought.” I walk back around the counter and grab my pepper spray then aim it at the man.
“I saved you,” he points out as he takes a step back.
He doesn’t resist or attempt to fight me. In fact, he puts the gun down on top of one of the washers. Smart. He knows I have a quick spray response. I haven’t timed it, but I’m sure it’s deadly fast.
“But who is going to save you?” I ask, and his eyes widen at my question.
My badass mob rep is growing by the second.