Chapter Four

Gabriel

 

“We need to kill these fucking bastards!” Samuel roars, pacing up and down the office. Samuel is Lorenzo’s nephew and he knows it. Every move he makes is designed to let people know that he’s the skipper’s family, and not just his family but his closest family since his brother (and Samuel’s father) got killed a few years back. He’s a tall, skinny prick with a jet-black goatee and a balding head of hair he tries to hide with a comb-back. He wears four rings on each finger as well as a flashy thumb ring on his right hand, and he’s constantly fiddling with that napkin in his suit pocket, the same color as his disappearing hair. He puts on a show for Lorenzo, even going so far that he kicks the wall.

 

“Don’t ruin my office, boy,” Lorenzo says, but he’s smiling like an indulgent parent. I don’t much like that look. It tells me that he’s starting to like Samuel’s dramatics. “But you’re right. This has to be paid back. We cannot allow something like this to pass. The Irish … what were they thinking, sending their princess to kill you?” He laughs gruffly, leaning back in his oversized chair. “The idiots.”

 

“They would’ve succeeded, skip,” I say. “If the girl was any better at her job.” I glance at Samuel, who still paces beside the desk. I’ve got my hand near my hip, where my gun is holstered. I don’t think he’d try anything stupid in here, but I get a bad feeling around Samuel, the feeling I got when I was a kid and I’d walk by the house with two mad dogs in the yard. He’s a mad dog, all right, and my days of walking on by, clutching my schoolbag, are long gone. “Luckily, I saw her …”

 

“Luckily,” Lorenzo agrees. “Otherwise we’d have a dead soldier on our hands.”

 

“Have you raped her yet?” Samuel asks casually.

 

“The fuck’s the matter with you?” I growl, wheeling on him.

 

He takes a stunned step back, hands raised. “What?” he snaps, all innocence. “That bitch tried to kill you. I’m just asking a simple goddamn question.”

 

“You’re a fucking animal, Sammy.”

 

“Don’t call me that!” Samuel snaps.

 

I turn back to Lorenzo. “Since when do we invite the kids to the big table, boss? He’s what? Twenty. He ought to be in the street, earning his name, not pacing around here like a bad copy of the Godfather.”

 

“Gabriel,” Lorenzo warns, voice grim. “Don’t forget that Samuel is a made man. You are not.”

 

“You’ve got that Polack blood in you,” Samuel says gleefully. “Your father stooped that low.” He grins from ear to ear.

 

I sigh and ignore him. He’s right. Samuel’s a made guy, which means that no matter how much of a fucking asshole he is, he’s a fucking asshole with the protection of the Family. I’m protected, too, but my mother had Polish parents and so that makes me half as valuable.

 

“Stupid man,” Samuel goes on, too stupid to know that he’s won and now he needs to shut his mouth. “What sort of true-blooded Italian goes after a Polish woman, eh? You’d never catch my old man doing that, would you, uncle?”

 

“Your father married a nice Italian lady, it’s true,” I say, unable to stop myself. “But that didn’t stop her from shitting out something that’s neither Italian nor Polish, but some mongrel in between. A fucking worm, Sammy, that’s all you are. And you can act as tough as you want, but until you can back it up, the men are never going to respect you, made guy or not.”

 

Samuel pauses for a moment, takes a step back, and then explodes. “He can’t talk to me like that!” He pleads with Lorenzo, flailing his hands wildly. “Uncle!”

 

“Is this what we’ve come to?” I interrupt before Lorenzo can respond. “We cry and moan and that’s how we deal with our problems?” I stand up so quickly that my chair falls back, and so does Samuel. He corrects himself a moment later, stepping forward to meet me. “If you’ve got a problem with me, Sammy, then fucking do something about it. Otherwise get the fuck out of my face and let me conduct business.”

 

Samuel curls his upper lip, but there’s fear in his eyes. I know the sight well. Men always try to hide fear. They can never hide it from their eyes, though, and Samuel’s eyes are overflowing with it. “You’ll pay for this one day,” he whispers, almost crying now. “You’ll fucking pay.”

 

“Sure, I will.” I sigh heavily and return to my seat. It isn’t smart to piss off the spoiled kid of the Family, but I’m not about to sit here and let him talk shit either. Plus, I hate the prick, always have ever since he started showing up at the bars with escorts on his arms like he was the real deal. Samuel stomps from the room, slamming the door.

 

Lorenzo sighs even heavier than me and shakes his head slowly. “There was no need for that, Gabriel. He’s my nephew and he’s a made guy. Can’t you cut the kid some slack?”

 

“Did anybody ever cut us any slack, cousin? When we fought like dogs in the street, killed like desperate men, and sometimes ran like cowards, who cut us slack? I can’t respect a man who just talks and talks and nothing ever comes out. Shall we get down to real business now?”

 

Lorenzo gestures like a father fed up of his sons’ bickering and then leans forward again. “I want you to keep the girl quiet until I figure out our next move. The Irish are already mobilized. I’ve got reports of search parties all over the city, hitting up our spots. They’re desperate now, Gabriel, but they should’ve thought of that before they tried to kill one of my men. This is a sign of disrespect and I won’t take it. But I need time to think, to put the plan in place. So take her to a safehouse and stay hidden for a few days. And take this.” He opens his draw and hands me a burner cell, still in its plastic. “I’ll call you when I have news.”

 

“Skip.”

 

I go out to the bar where a couple of the men are guarding Colleen. She looked somewhat brave when she stood up and followed me out of the bar into the sleet and the snow, sitting silently on the car ride over. Now she looks like she’s finally woken up and she’s wondering what the hell she’s doing here. I can’t blame her for that, especially since the men who’re guarding her are glancing at her beautiful legs like hungry dogs. I find I don’t much like that, which is strange since she just tried to kill me.

 

“Come on.” I grab her by the wrist and drag her out the side entrance to the car, into the New York darkness. “I love New York in winter,” I mutter as I lock the car door behind her and then walk around to my side. “It makes hiding so much easier.”

 

“Where are you taking me?” she asks as we slowly drive through the city in my new car, a rundown family vehicle given to me by Lorenzo to throw the Irish off. “Are you going to kill me?”

 

“Like you tried to kill me, you mean?” I glance at her with a smile.

 

She shivers and hugs her arms around herself. “Can’t you turn that thing up?” She nods at the humming air conditioning system.

 

I crank it up as high as it’ll go. It makes all kinds of hums and cranks, but it blasts us with warm air. Colleen’s cheeks turn even redder, her crossed legs turning red in places too. As we drive on in silence, I can’t stop myself from getting a glimpse at those perfect legs. They’re so full, and yet shapely at the same time. They’re the sort of legs that make a man think about them wrapping around something, or splitting wide open, and pressed closed together as she bends over. I’m getting hard, I realize. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Should a man get hard at the sight of the lady who recently tried to kill him?

 

“Getting a good look?” she snaps, cheek pressed against the glass. She’s not looking at me because it makes her nervous, I’m guessing, but is that because she’s scared or because she’s just as excited as me?

 

“Pretty good,” I say easily. “You might be a damn killer, Colleen, but you’re the sexiest piece I’ve ever laid my eyes on and there’s no mistake about that.”

 

“Piece,” she repeats, bitterness in her voice. “You’re a sexist pig.”

 

“And you’ve got a problem with that?”

 

“Why are we getting on the Verrazano?” she asks as I join the road for the bridge. “Where are you taking me?”

 

“Staten Island,” I tell her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

 

She sighs cutely, looks at me for a moment, and then stares down at her knees. “Do I have a problem with you gawping at me like I’m a piece of meat? Of course I do!”

 

“Then why do you look so fucking horny?” I say savagely, grinning when her face turns blood red, every inch of her pale skin blooming now.

 

“I don’t!” she protests, outraged and dignified but also enjoying it in some twisted way. I know when women are horny, and she is. I can see it. It doesn’t make any sense, maybe, but plenty in life makes no sense. “You’re just an animal.”

 

“An animal who likes what he sees. I ought to reach across and grab down on those perfect legs, Colleen.”

 

She lets out a shaky breath. She might think it comes across as fear, but it doesn’t; it’s more like curiosity.

 

“Isn’t it enough that you kidnapped me?” she whispers. “Do you really have to torture me as well?”

 

“Torture?” I laugh. “Those are some big words coming from the lady who tried to end my life a couple of hours ago.”

 

“It wasn’t my choice!” she hisses. “Do you think I wanted to go on a date with you? Do you think I wanted to put that powder in your drink? It was Father. He did it.”

 

“I don’t blame the gun for shooting, it’s true; I blame the shooter. But that doesn’t mean I can relax around a loaded weapon.”

 

“Is that what you think?” She actually turns to me now. Behind her, the structure of the bridge rushes past. We’re making decent time. “Is that what I am to you? A loaded weapon?”

 

“What you are to me, Colleen, is a lady who tried to kill me, so a lady who owes me. Maybe I’ll collect my debt tonight, maybe tomorrow night, but I’m collecting it. You should come to terms with that.”

 

“You’re so disgusting!” She folds her arms, which only serves to push her breasts together and up. “Stop looking at me like that!” she screams, letting her arms fall.

 

“Why?” I chuckle. “Afraid you’ll like it?”

 

The rest of the ride goes on in complete silence except for the sleet against the car, the humming of the conditioner, and the windscreen wipers squeaking wetly.

 

I take her to a safehouse near the water, a detached bungalow with a high fence and a hidden back entrance. Holding her by the wrist, I lead her upstairs to the double bedroom and shove her inside. It’s an expensive, well-made-up place with abstract art on the walls and silk sheets. The en-suite bathroom is all shiny marble.

 

“I’ll bring you some food in a while,” I tell her, slowly shutting the door. “But sit tight for now. The windows are locked, but you could smash them and make a run for it. Just know that I’ve chased down—and killed—professional hitmen. Professional killers. Are you sure you want to tango in the snow with me, Irish girl?”

 

“Just leave me alone.”

 

She lies down, tucking her knees to her chest and sticking that fine, fine ass out.