Chapter Six

Gabriel

 

“Two days, skip.” I stand on the porch, looking over the ice-crusted garden. It’s a decent garden and I find myself wondering who owned this place before the Family picked it up. Maybe it was some nice family who was building a life here before the mob came along … I kill that thought, but the fact that I even have it is a big fucking problem. It’s her, up there; it’s her smile and her lips and that fine, fine ass. It’s the way she looks at me, dammit. “How long am I going to be here?”

 

“Why?” Lorenzo mutters. “Is something wrong? Has something happened? Is she still alive?”

 

“What?” I snap. “Of course she is.”

 

“Okay,” Lorenzo says. I don’t much like his tone. It’s like he’s implying that I give a damn about her, that I’m offended he’d ask me that question.

 

I swallow and grind my teeth for a moment, and then force them to release. “What’s the plan?” I ask again. “How long?”

 

“The plan is to wait,” Lorenzo says unflinchingly. “It’s an easy job, Gabriel. You ought to be happy with it. Most of the men would kill to be locked up with a little Irish whore for a few days. You having a good time, eh?” I can see him smiling now. I don’t much like that, either. Sitting there at his oversized desk, in his oversized chair, with Samuel next to him, both of them grinning at the thought of Colleen. Which shouldn’t matter to me. What’s some Irish girl to me? “Is she giving you any problems?”

 

“No.” I sigh. “She’s not. Listen, skip, are we going to ransom her? Give her back to her people?”

 

“Maybe.” Lorenzo pauses. “Why?” he goes on. “Do you think that’d be for the best? Some of the lieutenants think that killing her would be the best idea, make a point to the Irish, let them know that if they try and kill one of ours, we will kill one of theirs.”

 

“A hitter for a princess, skip?” I try to laugh it off, and also try to push away the vivid image of Colleen’s bloody, decapitated head. It’ll be ugly: rats stuffed into her eyes, her belly torn open, if it’s even nearby her head. “That doesn’t seem like a very smart trade to me.”

 

“Do you care about this girl or something?” Lorenzo jokes. “Are you falling head over fucking heels, Gabriel?”

 

“Oh yeah.” I laugh viciously. “I’m falling in love like one of those cunts from a romantic comedy. Fucking hell, skip, don’t be stupid.”

 

Lorenzo laughs and then grows grim. “Listen, it shouldn’t be much longer. Just keep her there, keep her safe, and stay focused. I’ll have news for you soon.”

 

“Skip.”

 

I hang up the phone and pace up and down the porch, grinding my teeth so hard I can hear them scraping together. Fucking Lorenzo, keeping me here locked up with some Irish girl I don’t even like. The fuck does he think I am, a fucking babysitter? He wants to lock me up with her to see if I’ll break, if she’ll break me … her smile, goddamn, why can’t I get her smile out of my head? Or her mouth, around my cock, the way she gagged … she was even smiling then, and her eyes were wide and staring and eager; I could tell by the way she moaned through the gags that she wanted more. Plus, she hasn’t exactly been withdrawn these past couple of days.

 

Fuck!

 

I go into the house and sit in front of the TV, watching some bullshit reality show but really just trying to resist the urge to go upstairs. If she’s my prisoner and I’m her guard, I shouldn’t be up there every two minutes, talking with her, kissing her, laughing with her; that’s not the way to go. I need to maintain my distance now. I can’t just …

 

And yet, even as I think this, I’m at the top of the stairs, staring at her door. She’s singing softly in a heavy Irish accent. Maybe it’s a song she learned as a girl, because her Irish isn’t that strong; it’s a weak undertone below her real accent, which is something like a cross between Cali and New York, maybe from that fancy private school she was in. I’m not the sort of man to stand here and listen to some woman I don’t even know sing a song, especially an Irish song, but I stand there and I listen, and I find myself smiling at how beautiful she sounds.

 

I push down that feeling and then unlock her door and walk into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. She’s sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, folding the clothes I brought her this morning. She glances up at me and smiles briefly, but also as though she doesn’t think she ought to be smiling. I get that, goddamn. She shouldn’t be, and I shouldn’t be smiling back. I need to end this, now, sooner than now, even. I needed to end this the moment it started.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

 

“Just fine,” I mutter, dropping into the chair.

 

“Thanks for the clothes,” she says, looking closely at me.

 

“No problem. Do they fit?”

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

A silence falls and she goes on folding the clothes. She’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but that doesn’t stop me from mentally undressing her. When I sleep, I see her in her underwear, or feel her mouth on my cock. I feel her lips on mine, too, which is fucked up because I’ve never been the kissing type. I watch her as she folds, her breasts jiggling slightly.

 

I try to stop myself. I could end this here, if I was only strong enough. But I’m not.

 

I walk across the room and lean down, kissing her heavily on the lips. She’s so damn responsive, which is part of the problem. As soon as I kiss her, she lets out a muffled sigh and brings her hands to my face, panting like she’s struggling to breathe. She loves kissing, more than any woman I’ve ever been with. She moans and sighs and squeezes her hands around my shoulders like she could do this forever. But I can’t do this forever, since my cock is pressing painfully against the inside of my jeans. I break off the kiss, pull out my cock, and grab her hand.

 

“Wait,” I say, letting her hand drop. “Show me those fucking legs. Now.”

 

Even worse is the way she quickly does as I say, looking nervous, but not as nervous as she did the first time. It’s like she’s comfortable with me now, which isn’t the way things ought to be. She pulls down her sweatpants, revealing those perfect legs, her panties a triangle of fabric between her thighs. She sits on the end of the bed and lifts her hand toward my cock.

 

“Rub it hard and fast,” I growl. “Now.”

 

She gasps when I snap at her, and then grabs down on my cock and jerks it up and down, fast. I can tell she’s inexperienced from the way she does it, almost nervously, but that doesn’t mean shit when those legs are on display and her hand is the softest thing in the whole fucking city. Even sexier is the way she seems to get into herself, as though she’s enjoying what she’s doing almost as much as I am, and those legs, those fucking legs, and her hand, and her wide innocent eyes, and—

 

“Fuck!” I snarl, coming on her thigh. It slides down between her legs. She closes them, catching it, and then immediately grabs a tissue from the bedside table and wipes herself down. Then she goes into the en-suite and runs the faucet.

 

I put my cock away and return to my seat, my balls aching coolly but still not satisfied when I watch her walk back in her panties. It’s hard to be satisfied when I know her pussy is just there, her tight pussy, a pussy that would make her moan and scream if I fucked it hard. I want to see her eyes roll back in her head as I give her the first and best fuck of her life, but I can’t; I’d be messing up my one and only job.

 

She sits on the end of the bed, making no move for her sweatpants. Folding her hands in her lap, she glances up at me. “Are you going to hurt me?” she asks quietly.

 

“What?” I snap. “The fuck you talking about?”

 

“It’s a simple question,” she goes on. “Are you going to hurt me, yes or no?”

 

“Why are you asking me that?”

 

That isn’t the right response. The right response would be to tell her that if it’s necessary, I’ll hurt her. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? If I have to, I’ll hurt her … Won’t I?

 

“It’s a simple question!” she hisses, getting angry for the first time. Her face blooms red, but this time it’s fire instead of roses. “Why can’t you just answer it? I’ve kissed you, I’ve … done other things with you. And you won’t even answer a simple question!”

 

“What do you think this is?” I leap to my feet and stand over her, trembling. But I’m not sure if I’m trembling because my prisoner is hassling me, or because the idea of hurting her hurts me just as badly. “What do you think I am, Colleen? What do you think you are?”

 

“What if your boss ordered you to?” she pursues, leaning back but not backing down. “You’d hurt me then, wouldn’t you? You’d have to.”

 

“You’re just some Irish bitch!” I roar, surprising even myself. I leap to the other side of the room and almost punch the wall, but then I catch myself. What am I doing, showing this much feeling in front of her? The fuck’s the matter with me?

 

“Yeah, well, you’re just an Italian prick! Get the hell out of my room!”

 

I turn; she’s on her feet, fists clenched at her sides, panting heavily.

 

“Now!” she screams, face turning even redder.

 

I ought to hit her for that, discipline her, let her know who’s in charge.

 

Instead I leave the room and lock the door, lingering just long enough to hear her first sob.