His (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance)(34)

“Doll, you’re covered in blood. Besides, I’m not risking it. I don’t want you out there exposed again. Not now. I need to make sure it’s safe for you first.”

“Safe? And I’ll be safe with you?”

He actually looks offended, but the hurt is quickly replaced by rage. “Look. I don’t give two shits if you like it or not. You’re coming with me. And you’re staying until I say otherwise. Clear?”

I spit in his face.

He looks like he might hurt me, and for a second I start to feel very foolish. Somewhere in my head, I know Vince is trying to do the right thing in his own, twisted way. Though, he feels like a wild, out of control fire. Anything he touches is going to go up into a blaze of ruin and he can’t help it. And now he’s saying I have to go with him and stay with him? The part I hate most is how my body is reacting to the idea. Heat is spreading from my toes and fingertips, pooling in my core until it feels hot and ready for him. What would it be like to be locked in with him, with nowhere to escape? I really must be going crazy, because the question makes me just as excited as it makes me afraid.

He wipes his face clean and jabs a finger toward me. “You be real careful. Real fuckin’ careful. I’m good to you. I’ve been good to you. Don’t make me regret it.”

I swallow hard. “You can’t just kidnap me. I have a life. I have bills. I have a job. If I’m not there for the start of the 3rd quarter, I’m done. They won’t even hesitate to fire me.”

He cups my face in his hands, looking hard into my eyes. “Bills? Fuck bills. Fuck jobs. I’ll buy you the fuckin’ world when you’re mine. You won’t ever have to work another day in your life if you don’t want to.”

When I’m his? His words are a fantasy I know can’t be true, a deal from the devil. Even if he could solve all of my problems, what would be the cost? What would I be getting into? And would I even want to sign over my responsibilities like that? No. I can’t just let someone step in and fix all my problems. They are my problems, and I want to be the one to fix them. I don’t need some dark prince to do it for me.

A tear streaks down my cheek. “I can’t,” is all I manage. I hate that I’m crying so much since I’ve met him. I’ve never been a crier.

He pulls me tight to his chest and as much as I want to push him away, I can’t. Something feels so right about being in his arms, like I’m made to fit against the hard muscles of his chest. The way his warmth radiates through the silky dress shirt he wears is doing all the wrong things to me. It’s making it hard to think straight. I’ve always prided myself on being strong, on having the will to stand for what I believe in, but lately it feels like I’m just a blade of grass caught in a strong wind. I don’t think of her often because it hurts too much, but I wonder what Mom would have done if she was in position, if she was still here.

The thought makes me hug him back tightly. I’ll let him take me to his place, for now. But if he thinks I’m his prisoner or his to do with as he pleases? He has another thing coming. Mobster or not, I’m going on my own terms.

I spend an embarrassingly long amount of time just letting him hold me. He surprises me by not being in a rush to get away from the dead body or from the scene of a murder. He just waits, holding me like there’s nothing else in the world that matters, like he’ll just shrug his broad shoulders if someone comes in asking questions, not giving half a shit. It’s almost twenty minutes before two men in “Kubrick’s Kleaners” jumpsuits come through the tunnel. One unrolls a crinkly white bag with a zipper while the other sprinkles yellow powder over all the blood spots. I watch them with distant fascination. They roll the body over, zip it up, and then set it aside like it’s a sack of potatoes while they use a broom and small dustpan to brush up the yellow powder. After dumping all the powder in another bag, they throw it inside with the man before making a final pass over the ground with a wet rag. No emotion.

In five minutes, they’ve cleared the scene of a murder. A third man comes around the corner with a large case on wheels. It has an image of a large electric carpet cleaner on the side, but there’s nothing inside. The three of them wrestle the body into the box, snap it shut, and then Vince tosses a wad of hundred dollar bills toward them. They nod to him and roll the box away as quickly as they came.

Just like that, we’re alone again. No body, no blood, just us. Most girls would run right now. And if they didn’t run, they would want to. Me? I’m trying to figure out why I’m so turned on by him and the way the rules just don’t seem to apply to him. I don’t condone the violence, but after living within the lines and at the mercy of the world’s unfairness for so long, it’s empowering to see someone give “the rules” a big, fat, middle finger.