Luca
How the hell does she do this every day?
I’ve faced down killers and mob bosses with their own personal armies without breaking a sweat.
But this?
This?
There’s so much red ink in this pile of papers on Stephanie’s desk, it’s like someone bled out all over them.
It pisses me off, seeing these threatening letters from asshole bill collectors who want to ruin the work of the woman I love.
I take more than a couple from the pile and, for the ones that look important and have respectful notes with them, I pay them myself. The ones that don’t look so respectful, I make a mental note to pay a personal visit later.
But I only do that for a little while. I don’t want to intrude too much into her personal life and have her think that I know better than she does about how to run the shop. All I need to do is just make sure that this place runs smooth today and that things close up without a hitch.
It can’t be that hard, can it?
Fortunately, it isn’t.
The day goes just fine.
Frank works his song-and-dance magic and sells a whole central air system, Sabrina holds down the front end, and I circulate through the store, keeping up morale and doing whatever little chores pop up.
The whole time, I’m waiting on pins and needles for tonight. I know Stephanie’s going to look incredible — hell, she manages that every damn day — and I can’t wait to see the look on her face after a day of relaxing.
“Ok, Luca, that’s it for my register today,” Sabrina says.
I briefly glance over her cash reconciliation form and then at the open register. Sabrina’s so guileless, I know I don’t need to check over her totals.
“So, what do you have planned for Ms. Turner later?” she asks.
I smile. Even thinking about her brings a big, stupid grin to my face. My cheeks hurt. It’s the kind of expression I never would’ve figured would be on my busted mug.
“I’m taking her to Puerta al Mar. I’ve booked us their private dining room.”
She lets out a little gasp, which is about the reaction I was hoping for.
Puerta al Mar is a little restaurant about an hours drive north of Arroyo Falls on the Pacific Coast Highway and it practically dangles off a cliff out over the ocean. It’s the kind of place anyone who’s rich or famous must visit anytime they’re in the area.
It’s going to blow Stephanie away. I hope.
I lock up the shop and hang out in the parking lot a bit. Part of me’s going over a checklist in my head of the things I know I need to do before I leave. Even though I’m sure I’ve done everything, I need to make sure everything is perfect.
Register totals? Check. Make sure the shelves are organized? Check. Lock everything up? Check.
The other part of me is exulting in a job well done. This regular life thing ain’t too bad, and, with a woman like Stephanie in my life, it could be good. Better than good, even.
The sun’s set almost an hour ago, the last dying gasp of daylight is barely peeking above the horizon. Above me, a pale moon looks down. The streets are quiet, the air’s still.
In the distance, a lone pair of headlights draws closer at a steady pace. A van, dark and nondescript, pulls into the parking lot and parks a few spaces away from me.
Even at a distance, I get this feeling in my gut that something isn’t right. If I had my guns with me, they’d be out right now.
The door thuds as the same delivery driver from a week ago gets out.
Tattoos, leather jacket doing a piss-poor job of covering a pistol shoved down the back of his pants, and ripped jeans that look like they’ve seen better days, he squares up opposite me.
I meet his gaze and don’t even fucking blink as I stare him down.
“We’re closed.”
He answers with an ugly smile.
“I’m just here to pick a few things up, friend. Your boss is expecting me. Go around back and open the loading dock for me.”
I don’t like this man’s face and I like his fucking attitude even less. I used to grind men like him into dust back in the Bronx.
I’ll be damned if I let a piece of shit like him steal from the woman who means so much to me.
“If you think I’m going to let you rip this place off, you’re even more fucked in the head than you look. Get back in that fucking rape van of yours before I lose my good mood.”
His lip curls back. “Do you even know who you’re fucking with? Do you know what I’ll do to that sweet piece of ass you work for?”
He reaches behind his back for the pistol stuffed down the back of his jeans.
He’s fast, but I’m faster.
I charge.
The distance between us disappears in the blink of an eye. With one hand, I seize his wrist, while I drive the other right into his neck.
His throat collapses with a wet, concussive thud and he staggers like the bitch he is.
Gurgling, he swings back at me and I slip right by it, his fist whooshing by my face.
Pathetic.
This is going to be a piece of fucking cake.
Once, twice, I hit him with a jab, snapping his head back into the window of his van. He growls and swings again and I bob and weave, dodging his counter to slide inside to slam my fists into his midsection. The sharp splintering snap of ribs breaking reverberates through my knuckles.
God, I missed this. Beating the shit out of some dirtbag is one of life’s simple joys.
I hammer this son of a bitch and I do not let up.
There’s no mercy for this pathetic excuse for a man. He lost all right to that the second he threatened the woman I care for.
The night air fills with the sound of my fists making mincemeat out of this piece of shit Russian.
When I’m done with him, he’s a wreck. A broken nose, blood dripping from canyon-like lacerations in his forehead and his cheek, and a steady stream of crimson oozing from an inch-wide tear in his upper lip. He collapses to the ground in a fucked-up heap and I’m barely breaking a sweat.
Chest heaving, heart thudding with the adrenaline that is just ripping through my veins, I stand over him.
Pathetic.
I plant my foot square on his face, grinding my heel into his shattered mouth.
I stomp down. Hard.
Worthless.
He wheezes and spits a thick wad of blood onto the pavement.
“Who the fuck are you?” he gasps.
I smile down at him.
His life is over.
I’d forgotten how good this feels. That sensation of raw, brutal power you feel when you hold someone’s life in your hands, and the look they get in their eyes when that realization hits them.
There’s nothing else like it.
It’s intoxicating. Addicting.
That rush is why I’m the best at what I did. At what I do.
I stomp down again and he repeats his question, his voice weaker this time..
I kneel closer to him, putting my weight on the foot that’s crushing his jaw, bringing my face closer to his.
“I’m the man who’s going to make you a legend. Right now, you’re just some dirty Russian. But when the coroner finally puts your fucking jigsaw-piece remains back together and they use your partial fucking dental records to figure out who the fuck you are, every one of your dirtbag friends is going to shit themselves.”
He laughs and tries to squirm under my heel and I kick him again.
“Do you know who I am? You’re fucked,” he spits out, another glob of mucus and blood spilling out with his words and landing on my shoe. “You are fucked.”
I frown down at him.
“You’re the guy who got my good shoes dirty. And I have a fucking date later, you asshole.”
I lift my foot and bring it down hard on his face. Something in there shatters. Shuddering, his arms flailing, he goes stiff.
I breathe deep.
That felt good.
It might not have been the ‘good’ or right thing to do, but when it comes to defending the woman I love, I’ll do whatever it takes.
Whistling, I make my way back to the shop, to the store room. I strip off my good suit, hanging it up carefully so it doesn’t wrinkle before I grab the tools I’ll need: plastic sheeting, garbage bags, a circular saw, and bleach.
I’ve got some work to do.
I left a trail of bodies back in the Bronx. What’s one more?