Chapter Three
Molly found out that shock made a wonderful, fluffy blanket, cushioning her from everything going wrong in her life.
Time that passed after the glass shattered around her felt like it passed underwater. Marc's weight pinned her to the ground like water pressure and the terrible silence that filled the studio sat like cotton in her ears. Adrenaline kept pain at bay, but when white spots spread across her vision she realized she'd been holding her breath.
After that, moments blurred together, some blinking out of her memory entirely. Marc moved them both away from the windows. The big guy—she dazedly realized she still didn't know his name—had blood running down his face. Sirens wailed. Blood dripped from her fingers. A paramedic sat her down, telling her to count backward from ten—which she did without paying attention.
Her studio—her home—full of police. She wanted to tell them not to scuff the floor then realized how stupid that would sound because someone shot up Donnell's studio.
Anger flashed through Molly, breaking her out of the haze. Some asshole shot up Donnell's studio! They broke his windows with the hand-painted shamrocks and lettering he'd spent so much time getting right. And if they were trying to kill her, they did a damn sloppy job of it. She blinked to see the paramedic gently holding her leg as she taped a bandage to her shin.
The Chief, who'd been talking in low tones to Marc, turned to greet two men as they approached. Molly looked up, angry with herself for spacing out through so much and her gaze met with the most perfect man she'd ever seen. His lithe dancer's build, long legs and broad shoulders stretched the soft fabric of his shirt, hinting at sculpted musculature underneath, nearly dropped her jaw. It didn't take much to be taller than Molly, but even in her dancing shoes, she'd barely clear his shoulders. She could picture herself, pressed against his lean form, her curves molding to his firm chest, dancing to sensuous jazz, trailing pieces of clothing like rose petals on the way to bed.
And that mouth! Wine dark lips against brown skin and eyes as black as midnight pools. A sudden pressure bloomed in her belly and Molly was struck with the need to hold onto this man and never let him go.
Which would be a great first impression.
It had to be the adrenaline making her so light headed and twitterpated. That would explain the electric tingle racing down her spine and prickling at her tailbone. Right?
The guy standing next to Mr. Sexy shook hands with the police chief. A little taller and bigger, with bright orange hair and freckles he looked like a more rugged version of the boy next door. Attractive, but not melt your panties level like his tall, dark and handsome friend.
"Chief Wallace. Good to see you again. Looks like my timing is a little off. I got a call from an old friend. Said he was concerned about a couple of thugs hanging around his dance instructor and asked me to stop by. I take it that's you, Miss?"
Molly nodded at him. "You're Mickey's friends?"
She hadn't expected sweet, old Mickey to have friends quite so young and fit. Not to mention handsome.
"Mickey." The Chief stared pointedly at the broken windows. "Sending friends to Donnell's Dance Studio. That wouldn't happen to be Mick O'Toole, would it? The alleged mob boss?"
Belatedly, Molly realized that Mickey and his vague history may not be on the best of terms with law enforcement. Her brother pinched the bridge of his nose.
"In a dance studio now owned by a Torelli." The Chief sighed. "Damn mafia. I hate dealing with the Feds."
"I'll be sure to mention that to dad next time I visit the Bureau." The orange haired guy grinned and held a hand down toward her. "Molly, my name is Connor Sullivan. I represent a private security firm based here in the city."
Molly blinked up at him as her hand disappeared inside his massive paw of a hand. Mickey had called a private security firm?
"This is my associate—"
"Rafael Suarez," Mr. Sexy said and his deep voice, lightly accented, rumbled and made her shiver. "I'm sorry to meet you like this. Do you need anything?"
She hesitated only a moment before taking his outstretched hand. There wasn't a spark of energy or an electric tingle when their skin met, like in the romance novels. No, it was much quieter than that. A deep, undeniable sense of rightness filled her as her fingers brushed along his calloused palm. Like finding the place she'd always been meant to be. Like coming home.
Adrenaline. Nerves. Shock. The paramedic should have warned her that hormone driven love at first sight was a side effect of trauma.
"I'm fine. Thank you," she said, automatically, when she remembered he'd asked her a question. Her voice was thin and breathy as her pulse beat a samba through her veins.
The paramedic stood with a huff, glaring at Molly. "You need stitches on that arm, is what you need."
Like she could afford to go to the hospital. "Unless you're going to put them there, not going to happen."
Rafael frowned, concern creasing his handsome brow. Her heart skipped a beat as his gentle gaze traveled to her arm, stuttering across her breasts. Oh, god. Were her nipples hard? Could he see how turned on she was?
"It's just a scratch," she tried to say dismissively, but her voice shook. "I heal fast. It'll be fine."
Rafael and Connor shared a look.
"Miss Torelli," the Chief said in a quiet voice as the paramedic left. "Are you feeling up to answering some questions?"
Molly's cheeks turned pink. The sound of pity in the Chief's voice was like a slap in the face. Could she look any more pathetic in front of the hottest guy on the planet? At least she wasn't a sobbing mess with make-up running down her face.
"I don't know if I can tell you anything more than my brother has."
They all turned to look at Marc and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"Your brother." The Chief said the words like they left a bad taste in her mouth.
Hadn't he told them he was her brother? Why would he leave that out?
"Well, half-brother," Molly said, hoping to bury whatever he didn't want the cops to know about their connection. "He's been out of town for a while. Hasn't had time to visit with friends or, you know, family."
"That so?" The Chief turned her implacable stare back on Marc. "Awful shame you visit your Italian sister on the same day someone does a drive-by on her Irish dance studio."
Rafael made a noise that sounded almost like a growl and Marc sniffed, not looking at the Chief. The Chief might as well have announced to the room—and the sexy man in it—she and her brother had mafia ties. Didn't matter at all that she'd never had a thing to do with that side of the Family. She kept her nose clean, even paid all her taxes. She could've been a nun, but as long as her last name was Torelli, she'd get the stink eye from the law.
Maybe Rafael could do something about her last name.
Molly nearly choked on the idea and felt a blush creep up her neck.
"I meant there wasn't much to tell," Molly snapped, angry and embarrassed. She shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled at her arm. "We were talking and a black car pulled up. An SUV."
"Escalade. 2015." Marc's voice was low as he frowned at her.
"Right. Anyway, it slowed as it pulled up and the window rolled down. Then, well..." She trailed off, waving a hand at the mess of glass that surrounded them.
"One person. Driver was the shooter. Couldn't see them from the angle," Marc muttered. At least now he was glaring at the window and not at her.
"Miss Torelli," Connor turned toward her, expression calm and open. The kind of face that was easy to trust if you were a sucker. "Has anyone threatened you? Made you feel uncomfortable? An angry boyfriend?"
Next to him, Rafael's hands closed into fists.
She took a moment too long to answer. "No."
Technically, no one had made any threats directly toward her. Other than shooting up her home and livelihood. She didn't think anyone would care about the distinction, but Molly liked to be technically truthful whenever possible. Technicalities covered a lot of sins.
Rafael crouched next to her, fingers brushing alongside the bandage on her arm. "It's easier to keep you safe if we understand the nature of the threat."
Molly's world shrunk to Rafael, her awareness honed on the caress of his hand on her. It was absurd that such a small gesture could make her feel cared about and precious. The way he looked at her though, with such sincerity and concern, inspired all sorts of thoughts about steamy Saturday nights and lazy Sunday afternoons. She felt like a silly schoolgirl but she couldn't help herself.
"Dammit, Molly." Marc sighed and ran a hand through his hair. As his arm moved, Molly noticed a spread of crimson along the side of his shirt. She gasped, jumping to her feet. Rafael stood with her, standing close enough that she felt his warmth at her back.
"Marcie, you're bleeding!"
She'd moved too quickly and swayed as her vision swam. Rafael steadied her in an instant, one hand at her waist the other at the small of her back. Despite the pain and dizziness, the heat of his skin against her tingled. What would it feel like, skin to skin? Could he feel her shiver?
Marc glanced down at his shirt before turning a rueful smile toward her. "It's yours."
She felt Rafael's hand tense at her waist and she leaned into him ever so slightly. The expression on Marc's face was impossible to read, but it made her think of the summer when she was eleven. Just before he'd gone off to wherever dad sent him. When he'd given her his favorite pocket knife and promised he'd be back for it.
She still had it. In the drawer next to her bed.
His smile was fatalistic as he turned toward the Chief. "Got a pen?"
She cocked an eyebrow at him and nodded at the detective. Marc pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket and scribbled a note, thrusting it toward the Chief.
"Call that number. Ask for Agent Matthews. Give her the ID number 739182."
The Chief studied the ratty note for a moment then frowned at Marc. "This is the number to the local branch of the FBI."
"Yep." Marc shoved his hands in his pockets.
Molly gaped at her brother, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. Without looking at Marc's note, the Chief tapped at her phone and stepped away from the group, glass crunching under her boots. Molly wasn't sure what to think about what was going on. Dad had refused to talk about where Marc had gone after he disappeared and when her brother finally turned back up, he was just as closed lipped. She'd assumed the worst, that he'd been working for the Family. Maybe in another city.
What could it mean that he had contacts in the FBI? Contacts he was willing to disclose to the Chief of Police?
As the Chief made her call, Marc turned back to Molly, his eyes falling on where Rafael still gripped her waist. Marc glared at him and after a moment his hands fell away and he took a step back. Her body was cold where he'd left her. Molly was filled with equal parts longing and the need to pinch the underside of her brother's arm. Connor pulled his phone from his pocket and excused himself to make a call as well.
Though he wasn't touching her anymore, Molly wasn't any less aware of Rafael's presence next to her. She turned toward him and had to look up to meet his eyes. Good lord, she knew he was tall but standing next to him was a whole other story.
"You work at the security firm?" Molly asked, wanting to get to know him and desperately wanting to talk about anything other than the mafia, the mob or what had happened to Donnell's beautiful studio. To her home.
"I'm a recent hire," he said, smiling at her. "But Connor and I served in the military together. We've been through a lot of shit through the years—if you'll pardon my language."
Molly grinned. When was the last time a man even tried to be gentlemanly around her?
The Chief returned, fixing Marc with a resigned glower. "I've been instructed to assist you in any way I can. Agent Torelli."
"Agent?" Molly blinked at him. "What the hell is she talking about, Marcie?"
Marc sighed and tipped his head to the ceiling. "Next Christmas is going to be the worst."