Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Oh, we’ll still have problems. Individually and together.
I screw up my courage because making demands isn’t my strong suit, especially not in a crazy situation like this. I lift my chin. “But you’re paying for the damages here.” I don’t take my gaze off his face as I flutter my hand in the direction where the pots had been broken.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Whew. That was easier than expected.
I sit forward on the stool, as much as I can with his grip on my hair holding me immobile. It only has the effect of pushing my tits out. His gaze drops to my cleavage and hunger creeps into his expression.
I lick my lips, and his gaze lifts to my mouth. “A-are you going to let me go?”
The hunger drops away, replaced by that hardened mask he wears. “We’ll see, Flowers.” He releases my hair and turns away.
A chill creeps across my skin.
All the horrific doubts crowd into my brain and cut off intelligent thought.
I surge to my feet. He whirls, his hand around my throat in seconds, not squeezing, but guiding me back to my seat. His voice is even when he shakes his head and says, “I didn’t say you could move.”
And it’s that cold hardness more than anything that freaks me the hell out.
He must see the panic in my expression because he puts his finger lightly over my lips, trailing it downward. “Shh. Take it easy. You do what I say, you won’t get hurt. Capisce?”
I stare back at him and nod quickly.
“Good girl.”
Chapter Ten
Armando
Fuck.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with the girl. I can’t keep her tied up forever.
She is a witness to a murder, but I don’t harm the innocent.
That guy I killed today? He was a professional. Not a good one but definitely a guy who took money for the hit. Probably sent by the Hermanos.
Cazzo.
I went straight from my first confession out of the joint back to hell. Don Pachino told me to keep my nose clean. What a fucking laugh. I finish wiping the shop, trying to erase all evidence of the struggle. I owe her for a couple pots, but the damage isn’t too bad. Luckily, there wasn’t much blood.
Marco is a prince for taking care of the body for me. He’s the only guy I trusted enough to call. There are soldiers. I used to have my own crew, and I coulda called one of them, but something told me not to.
I stand in front of Hannah and slide my palm around the meat of her arm to lift her to her feet. She glares up at me.
“Where are the keys to that van out back?”
Her eyes widen. “Why? You can’t put a body in it—”
“There’s no body,” I cut her off. “But we need to leave—now. And I don’t have a car.”
I don’t have a license, either, but that’s sort of the least of my problems. I probably should’ve kept that gun, too. At this point, I’m in for murder and kidnapping. The five years for a felon in possession of a firearm is minor in comparison.
“I-it’s a piece of shit. I don’t even use it because half the time it stalls on me.”
Fuck.
“I’ll take the risk. Where are the goddamn keys?”
“In my purse—Jesus.” She lifts her chin toward the purse tucked under the counter.
I like that she’s offended by my tone and gives a little shit back to me. It means she’s not scared out of her mind. She still believes I ought to treat her better, which, of course, is true. I’m just out of fucking practice with having manners.
I rifle through her purse and find the keys then check her driver’s license for an address. “You live alone?”
She pales. “W-why?”
“‘Cause someone’s trying to kill me. I don’t think I should bring you to my place. Is your place cool?”
Relief flickers over her face, and she gives me a shaky nod. “Yeah. I live alone. I mean, it’s small.”
“Yeah, I just got out of a seven by twelve foot cell. I think we’re good.”
She gets more words out of me than I’ve spared for anyone since I got out, my mother and Don Pachino included. I tug her to the door, but she balks, looking back toward the register.
I tried to read her resistance. “You don’t leave cash in the register at night?”
“I need to make a deposit—tonight. Or your boss won’t get his money when he cashes my check.” A sheen of tears fills her eyes, and it does something weird to my chest.
I’ve felt nothing since they locked me up.
Nada.
No heart beating in my fucking chest.
But now empathy suddenly rears its pansy head.
I don’t know. I guess I’m surprised how little she’s fussed over my treatment of her, but here she’s tearing up about the money.