No.
That couldn't happen.
I was free.
Getting free was the hard part.
Staying free would be the easy part.
At least that was the theory.
The further I got away, the more I realized I had very little chance of staying away without, at least, some money.
I wasn't stupid enough to go back to my apartment. Even if I did, I didn't have a key anywhere. It would be just as dumb to go to my father's place.
I had no friends to speak of.
Besides perhaps Liane at the bakery counter.
She was probably my best bet, but she was old and fragile. And I didn't want to subject her to my shitstorm of a situation.
What did that leave me with?
Just the bakery.
That was high-risk as well.
Certainly right now, directly after my escape, it was the worst risk.
But maybe later, when it was closed, armed with the code to the security system, I could dip inside. I could grab whatever money was in the safe. Then I would have enough to run, to get lost in a way that no one could ever find me.
I walked for another half an hour, trying to come up with other ideas that didn't involve mugging someone for whatever they might have in their wallets, but I found myself completely at a loss.
So the bakery it was.
I just had to wait for dark.
Taking a deep breath, I changed directions, taking myself toward the bakery, knowing that, from where I was, it would take me at least an hour and a half to walk there. Then I could hide out in the alley until it was safe, until I was sure that there was no one there.
Night brought no respite from the heat. If anything, the humidity rose instead, making my tank top stick to my back, my hair getting damp.
The foul stench of the contents of the dumpster had woven itself into the fabric of my clothing, the strands of my hair. I was sure I would never be able to wash the scent from my skin.
But that was a problem for another time.
I saw the bustle of closing. Pete, the bakery's all-around helping hand, brought out the trash, missing me squatting behind the pile of cardboard boxes beside it. He walked Liane out the side door, where she paused long enough to see to the security system before the two of them made their way down the alley and toward their respective apartments.
I don't know how long I wasted after that, paranoia freezing me with uncertainty before I finally got up the nerve to stand, my legs seized with pins and needles as I inched my way to the back door, plugging in the code, wincing at the chime as it opened.
When no one came running out to grab me, I moved inside, closing the door behind me, inching through the back hall, moving into the office, feeling every bit like the criminal instead of someone who could frequently be found in this very bakery, in this very office, well after closing on any given evening.
My pulse was pounding in my temples, in my throat, as I squatted down in front of the safe, feeling my sweaty fingers slide across the touchpad as I plugged in the code.
I reached in, the clumsiest of thieves, knocking half the cash on the floor before grabbing a wad of it, shoving the rest back in, pocketing the money, and locking it back up.
My father rarely checked the books.
And with me missing, there would be less pressure for the money.
I would get safe, then contact my father about watching his back as well, as I had no idea what these men were capable of, if the leverage of my captivity was taken away from them.
With that, I grabbed a couple pastries, and made my way back out.
Paranoia had me constantly looking over my shoulder as I made my way through the city, looking for the bus stop that might take me out of town.
As I walked, I realized a few things.
The cash would run out quickly.
And I had no way to make more.
Not without IDs.
Or my credit cards.
Gut churning, I decided at the first stop, I would make a call to Penny in Cape May, ask her to go and collect my things from the house. I might be able to convince her to move my car as well, even though I knew her vision wasn't great, which was why she didn't personally drive.
If I could go to her house to pick them up, there was no risk of being seen, of being caught, if Lorenzo sent men to Cape May to look for me.
Decision made, I ate my pastries, regretting it immediately after the sugar settled, mixing with the fear and uncertainty, making nausea rise up my throat as I sat in the terminal for several hours, waiting for the next bus out of town in the direction I was heading.
At the first stop, I managed to walk somewhere to grab a burner phone, put minutes on it to make the call I knew I needed to. Even if my throat felt tight at involving Penny in any of this.
If you drove directly there, the drive was just about two and a half hours, but on the bus, it took over six and a half with stops, putting me in Cape May the following morning.
I made my way through the streets of Downtown with my stomach in knots, jumping at shadows, searching faces for anyone who didn't seem like they belonged. Men in suits. People scanning crowds looking for me.
I took two minutes to pop into a coffee shop, exhaustion making my eyelids puffy and my eyes unfocused. But I couldn't just get a room in town. I knew I had to drive out, preferably get out of New Jersey as a whole, put another state between myself and the mafia, so I would need the caffeine to keep me going.
Finally, I made my way toward Penny's, feeling a small, tired smile tug at my lips at her prized snowball bushes overflowing the sweet white picket fence in an array of pinks and purples, whites and blues. She was equally miffed and satisfied every summer when some bold tourist would walk past, snapping off a cutting to take along with them.
Penny's house was everything I loved about this town. The pretty old Late Victorian style home with its shingle-covered gable roof, turrets, and open front porch with its rows of spindles. The house itself was a light green, the accents a soft yellow. It was cotton-candy sweet and meticulously kept despite Penny's advancing age.
I could see my car parked on the street, my first hint at true freedom.
Ten more minutes.
I could grab my stuff, tuck it away, and be gone.
All of this nightmare would be behind me.
As I made my way up the front path, I chose to ignore the tiny twisting sensation of regret in my stomach.
Because it made no sense.
I had nothing to regret.
I'd done nothing wrong.
In fact, I had, arguably, done everything right.
You know, except not resisting that kiss. Except actively participating in that kiss. Except maybe allowing it to replay in my head a few times on the ride down to Cape May.
But only a few times, mind you.
And I tried my best to reexamine it rationally.
The only reason I had a physical reaction was the shock mixed with Lorenzo's alpha-ness, and the fact that I hadn't been close to a man in longer than I cared to admit. My life had been about work. My precious free time was typically spent running errands or trying to catch up on sleep. Or, more often lately, looking for ways to trim excess so there was always more money for my father to funnel to the Costa family.
That was all it was.
Biological.
Nothing to beat myself up over.
Certainly nothing to waste any more precious time thinking about.
That was what I was telling myself as I made my way to the front door, knocking on the frame a few times. Then again, louder.
Penny, though she would never admit it, was getting just the tiniest bit hard of hearing.
When there was no response, I checked the handle, feeling it open in my hand.
"Penny?" I called, stepping inside, closing the door, smelling Penny's familiar potpourri fresh flower scent, something that had never changed my entire life. Likely not hers, either. "Penny, where
are you?" I called, moving through the front hall and into the kitchen where you could usually find her making her hundredth cup of tea for the day.
But nothing.
Of course, I hadn't told her the exact time I would get there since all I could do was give a rough estimate.
She was probably up in her room, maybe taking a nap.
I checked the lower floor for my possible belongings, but they weren't around.
On a small sigh, I made my way up the stairs to the darker upper level, the only light on being a small one in the hallway.
"Penny," I called again, going toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall. "Are you here?" I added, wondering if she had slipped out to grab something to eat or something.
"Afraid she's not," an all-together too familiar voice said, pitched low, as the light flicked on in the bedroom, making my heart soar upward even as my stomach plummeted. "Don't bother trying to run, Giana," Lorenzo said, moving closer, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with sleeplessness, but bright with victory. "Chris is downstairs. You won't get far. Might as well make it easy on yourself," he offered, moving closer, arm reaching out.
"Like hell," I snapped, raising my arm, flinging scalding hot coffee at him, then turning to run.
Chapter Seven
Lorenzo
The meeting with Leon Lastra had been frustrating at best.
It was painfully clear within five minutes that the man simply didn't have the kind of money my father wanted to squeeze out of him. Why he was so intent on bleeding a stone was completely beyond me. There were other marks, ones who owned bigger businesses, who could be convinced to pay more.
It made no sense to focus so much on such low-hanging fruit.
My father, though, was a man with a lot of ego. If he thought someone slighted him in even the smallest way, that he was being fucked over, or—worse yet—laughed at, he got petty.
Like kidnapping a man's daughter because he wanted a little extra out of someone who already struggled to pay his fees.
The Lastra Family Bakery had been a staple in their neighborhood for generations. It was successful, but no bakery was rolling in endless amounts of cash.
And I couldn't imagine what Leon Lastra could have done to piss off my father, to slight him in any way. It was painfully clear the man was a fan of the mafia, was desperate to be affiliated in a way that wasn't about being indebted to us.
They weren't a rarity, these mafia groupies.
And they came in both types.
Women who wanted to fuck a powerful man.
And men who wanted to be powerful.
Unfortunately for Leon, he wasn't someone who had "big earner" stamped on his forehead. He had no chance. And he was the only schmuck who didn't see that.
It didn't bother me that he was desperate and needy.
What did bother me, was the lack of genuine concern for his own daughter.
When he'd found out that we had her, that we were keeping her until he paid, he hadn't batted an eye. He hadn't begged for her back. He hadn't pleaded with us to treat her well, to let him see her, to at least speak to her.
He'd just accepted the reality.
As though she was a pawn that he was willing to sacrifice.
It shouldn't have mattered to me, his feelings toward his daughter, their obviously strained relationship. It wasn't my business. She wasn't my business.
But I'd had the girl in my place for just a couple of days, and I seemed to give more of a shit about her well-being than he did when he'd been with her for her entire life.
I'd even called him out on his disregard for her.
"You don't seem too concerned with Gigi's well-being," I'd observed, leaning back in my chair in the restaurant we'd met at because I knew it couldn't be bugged. Because we owned it. Because we kept guards in it twenty-four-seven so that no one could ever sneak in.
We'd learned a lot from all the wire-tapping and raids of our predecessors. None of us were planning on catching a charge because some fed overheard us talking over dinner or in our own damn living rooms.
"That girl," he said, shaking his head. "You must have your hands full with her. Always too much lip, not enough respect. "
"One might argue that those are learned traits," I shot back, annoyed.
"Psh, she's on her own."
"On her own?" I repeated, brows furrowing.
"Yeah, she's a grown-ass woman. There's no talking to her. You know how women are."
"Wait," I said, sitting up suddenly, knocking into the table as I did so, making Leon jolt. "What did you just say?"
"Women. They're more trouble than they're worth."
Women.
Not girls.
Women.
"Leon," I said, feeling my stomach knot. "How old is Giana?" I asked.
"Oh," he said, waving a hand in the air. "Twenty-two. Going on twenty-three."
"Twenty-two?" I repeated, something in me rebelling at that knowledge, unable to accept it.
"She looks younger, yeah?" he asked, nodding. "She gets that all the time. I have some assholes accusing me of abusing labor laws when they see her at work late at night. But she's an adult. And she's got a mouth on her. That she got from her mother."
Giana was a grown-ass woman.
Not even just barely legal.
Which would have still felt gross. If you fantasized about fucking the youngest woman you wouldn't go to jail for, there was something wrong with you.
But she was into her twenties.
There had been a barrier in my mind about her once I got a good look at her face, when I decided she was underage.
Anything thoughts of her physically were behind that wall.
I did think, occasionally, that parts of her personality were mature, but there was no thinking about her anatomy.
Now, though?
A wrecking ball had crashed through that wall.
And all the images of her in my home came back, the parts that had been blurred out before in crisp detail.
Mingle that beauty with the personality I was starting to appreciate, and yeah, there was a tug of desire so strong I almost got up and walked out of the restaurant right then, without having hammered out details with Leon.
As it was, I forced myself to sit through the conversation where he made excuses I'd come to expect, and I had to make a threat that he surely came to the table expecting as well.
When we left, he walked away with an "or else" that he had to deal with.
And I walked away armed with new knowledge.
And each step back to my apartment had anger bubbling up.
I didn't like being lied to in general.
But this reaction felt over the top, even for me.
I was storming into my place without thinking shit through rationally, kicking out Emilio.
And there she was.
In yoga pants that fit her round ass all too well.
With that challenge in her eyes.
With that haughty lift of her chin.
With that smart mouth her father disliked, but I always found intriguing.
Except now, I didn't just find it intriguing. Oh, no. I found it sexy as fuck.
So when she threw that sass at me, I pounced on her, not giving a thought to how it was an abuse of power, how she was trapped, how she might have let me do it just to save herself from retribution.
For a second, that fear gripped my system.
Until, of course, her lips started responding under mine.
It was still a dick move, though. And that realization made me pull away, made me rush toward my room before I could rip off her panties, lift her up on that counter, and fuck her until she was screaming out my name.
It was about five seconds too late that I realized my mistake.
I wasn't just any man.
And she wasn't just any woman.
I had left my captive unattended near an exit.
And like any good victim, when she saw a chance for escape, she too
k it.
I was right behind her.
She couldn't have gotten too far on those short ass legs of hers.
But by the time I broke onto the street, she was nowhere to be found.
Even after I called in Chris and Emilio, then Anthony, we got nothing. We staked out the bakery for hours, her apartment, her father's place.
It was just before the bakery closed that I realized where she was most likely to go, what her most rational next step was.
If she wanted to get away from us, she needed her shit, her IDs, her money, her car.
They were all in Cape May where she'd left them.
We were there in a couple hours, watching the house.
There was no sign of Giana, but an older lady showed up, packed up Giana's shit, put it in the trunk, then drove the car back to her own house.
It didn't take too much work to get the woman out of the house for a while with some bullshit about "winning" a free dinner at a pricey place in town, to slip in and wait for Gigi to show.
I knew she would.
Then there she was.
A part of me thought she might immediately give in.
The other part was glad when my little hellcat reared her head again, tossing burning hot coffee at me, and making a run for it.
Skin scalded, pain searing across my nerve endings, I rushed after her, grabbing her arm near the top of the stairs. But she whipped around with her free arm, slicing across my wrist with bared nails, sinking in ruthlessly, drawing blood, surprising me enough to release her. I caught up to her again at the landing, grabbing her, slamming her back against the wall, watching as those gray eyes blazed up at me, that haughty fucking chin raising, daring me to put my hands on her.
And, fuck, I wanted to put my hands on her, alright.
But not to hurt her.
At least not in any way that she wouldn't like.
"You done fighting me yet?" I asked, watching the rise and fall of her chest in that plain black tank top she had on. No bra, and the air conditioning had her nipples pebbling up under the fabric.
The Woman in the Trunk Page 8