BOUND

by Akeroyd, Serena

A special wolf earring was rewarded to soldiers who attained a certain amount of respect in the gang—she'd earned two of her own after the O'Shea hit. A bristling wolf's head, jaw open and growling, a small red ruby peeking out from the snarling maw. The upper ranks had matching cufflinks.

  Ink was not uncommon, but Martinez didn't particularly appreciate tattoos. He ran the gang like a feudal lord with a band of mercenaries for hire, going where the money was and earning a cut, whether it was honest or not.

  His basic human decency had earned her respect. In a world where life was not valued, where the lowest common denominator was just a pawn in a game, Martinez was different. So different, his appeal had blossomed. To the extent that she hadn't been able to shop him to the DA's office.

  The attraction she felt for him was too unusual, too innocent to waste on sending a generally decent man to jail. And so, she'd justified herself by sending the indecent men away. Only sparing Rico because he'd been a clever fucker, getting his hands dirty but not enough for him to smell of the shit he trafficked in.

  Not that it had done him any good in the end.

  She was glad his new home was in the Hudson. And she bet a lot of the girls were too.

  As it was, because of the unusual house rules, Bernardo had let her go with a saucy grin and a cheeky wink. Orders had obviously not been left to contain her to Martínez’s quarters, and she supposed that made sense. How would it seem to the gang if a newly-returned member, one who had been abducted by rivals, was imprisoned to the leader's suite?

  Either that, or Martinez had been too arrogant to think she'd be able to escape...

  Well, he'd underestimated her. She doubted he'd do it again, and knew she had to make good on her flight for freedom.

  She passed a few people, some old and unfamiliar faces, and managed to walk out of the building without causing too much of a stir. Unlike her arrival of the previous night where eyes had watched her every move, this early in the morning she managed to abscond, but she knew her apartment wouldn't be far enough away.

  It had been surprisingly hard to leave Martinez. She didn't like to think about how hard it had actually been. She'd had to tear herself from him, and tear was the right word, because the only place she'd really wanted to be was in bed. With him.

  It was an unusual admission for a woman like herself. A creature who had come to believe that everyone else in the world wasn't worthy of her trust, wasn't even worthy of her notice.

  That reason was why it was so easy for her to kill. She was like the Grim Reaper. Ascertaining the flaws in a person's nature and determining whether they deserved to live or not.

  Whenever Martinez had put a hit out and sent her on the job, it had always been easy. Even when one of those hits had included a cop.

  Though loyalty had weighed her down, working for the Lobos had taught her that blue uniforms didn't make a person good. And that worked in her own case, too. The boys and girls in blue were open to such temptation, and many fell. O'Shea had been one of them.

  Oh, on the outside, he'd been a model detective. But, thanks to her work with the gang, she'd seen his attempts to muscle in on a ring of prostitutes working out of the Bronx. Six high-class girls, all Martinez's, and the rumor had been a cop was the one trying to edge into being their pimp.

  She'd soon realized who it was. O'Shea, with his white blond hair and green eyes, short but lanky...she'd managed to narrow down the suspects easily.

  When she'd learned he used the girls too, even though his wife was pregnant, and he had kids at home, the idea of making the hit had gotten a little easier. But his fate had been decided when one of the whores had turned up dead.

  A sex game gone wrong, or so the report had said.

  Bull. Shit.

  Only an inexperienced pimp would try to threaten his girls by taking out one of his assets, and O'Shea had inadvertently signed his own death warrant.

  She was, as Martinez said, judge, jury, and executioner.

  The problem was, Lucia didn't particularly want to play those three roles. She was no angel herself, and acting like one—even if that one was the angel of death—was not what she wanted out of life.

  But neither did she want her old dreams. A career in the DEA or FBI was about as exciting as watching cows graze in a meadow now. After the gang, with all the ducking and diving, the adrenaline rushes, the excitement, a job in law enforcement was a no no. And it was probably a good thing she felt that way, too.

  After tonight, there was no way in hell she could stay here. Martinez would come looking for her, and he wouldn't be pleased that she'd managed to best him.

  Not only had she knocked him out, tied him to the bed and fucked him, she'd managed to escape his stronghold without waking him up. Even managing to cut the neckties binding one arm to the bed and leaving a pair of scissors close so he could free himself.

  No, he would not appreciate that, and after last night, she knew she had to get away.

  Turning down her street, she peered around cautiously, wondering if news had already spread throughout HQ about her escape. It all depended on how long Martinez took to awaken. She could only hope that one explosive orgasm, and those forty seconds where he'd been unconscious, would do a number on him.

  As it was, she saw no patrolling civilian vehicles with watchful lobos in the driving seat, and quickly ran toward the outer door of her building.

  It had never really been home, mostly because she'd never let it be. The place was barely furnished, just enough for her to get by. Before her stint undercover, she'd practically lived at the precinct anyway.

  She wouldn't be sad to leave, which in turn had her scowling at her apathy.

  What would it like to be normal? To grow attached to people?

  Maybe it was a good sign that she was questioning her lack of feeling.

  She pondered the notion for a moment, but Mrs. Montoya's famous tacos scented the air the instant she made it inside, and she shrugged off her somber thoughts.

  Feelings had no place in her world. They never had.

  And now, she had things to do.

  She rounded the staircase, jogged up ten flights of steps, and entered her apartment, quickly looking around to make sure no one was about—not that it had helped her during Martinez’s last visit.

  She hurried over to her wardrobe, grabbed a duffel bag, and stuffed it full of her clothes. Lucia raided her drawers, stocked up on clean panties and bras, then dug under the bed for her favorite sneakers. In the bathroom, she tucked her toiletries into the outer pockets of her makeshift case.

  Packed, she retreated to the living room and up tilted one of the sofa cushions. Dragging out the stuffing, she retrieved her passport and certification. Over at the bookshelf, she opened a book where she'd cut out the center, and made sure the cash she'd stored in there was still inside. Over twenty grand in one-hundred-dollar bills was neatly tucked away. It was amazing how little it looked in such large denomination notes.

  Shoving the book in the bag, she removed her winter coat from the hall closet and shrugged into it. Her last act was to head to the kitchen, gulp down some milk, and make a quick sandwich out of the leftover cheese and stale bread she had.

  When she locked the door, Lucia felt about as much emotion as she had the first time she'd ever walked into the apartment. That was to say, she felt nothing. No sadness or regret.

  It had been a place to lay her head, and everything she'd packed was everything she needed.

  For twenty-nine years on this Earth, Lucia had remarkably little to show for it. But then, she'd done more than most had. No one could appreciate the fine art of survival the way she could. To her, just being here, walking around, capable of escaping Martinez at all, was a huge luxury.

  Once she was out on the street again, her nose still twitching at the tacos perfuming the downstairs lobby, she could finally breathe easier. Especially when she rounded the corner and made it onto neutral ground.

  The instant she was a block away,
she reached for her cell and dialed the only person she really gave a damn about, her Pops.

  “Pops? It's me.”

  “Lucia, baby, you're calling late. Everything okay?”

  “I'm caught up in a snag, Pops.” She said nothing else, let him process that one statement. It was their code. With those seven words, she was telling him she had to get out of the city, and that there was no time to visit him before she left.

  At that, emotion finally flooded her. She regretted not being able to see him before she left. And only God knew how long it would be before she could get back to visit him or he could come and visit her. It depended on what she found out on the road.

  Pops was affluent enough to afford a plane ride to wherever she decided to lay her head the next time. He had the bucks just not the time. At seventy-nine, with a weak heart and emphysema, it wasn't the best time for her to be leaving the city. Potentially for good.

  Tears pricked her eyes at that. The emotion was so unusual from the ice-cold numbness she usually felt she gasped a little with the pain of it. “I'm so sorry, Grandpa.”

  “You don't have to be, sugar. I'm sure everything will be alright.”

  She wished she felt as positive about the situation. “It will. There's no need to worry. I'm not in danger, but things are hot right now. I'll be in touch as soon I can.”

  “Call me when you hit the first stop. Either that or text. I want to know you're safe.”

  Touched, she closed her eyes for a second. Why the hell couldn't she have let Martinez just fuck her? Why had she had to go and panic? If she hadn't have panicked, she wouldn't have had to make this call.

  Pops didn't deserve this. He didn't. But it was too late now. She didn't think going back and apologizing to Martinez would be enough. She'd nailed him where it hurt most, his ego, and in repayment, the only thing he could do was to make her pay. Maybe not physically, but sexually.

  She could have coped with being beaten, but it was the sex… Even now, with her Pops telling her he loved her, she knew she couldn't have let Martinez have control of her in that way.

  “I love you too, Pops. I swear, I'll be in touch.”

  “Night God bless, baby girl. Call me soon.”

  “Of course. Love you. Bye.”

  She cut the call feeling like she'd just cut herself, and in a way, she had. She'd only visited him four days ago, ironically enough on the day Martinez was at her building, but if she'd known that might be the last visit for a while, she'd have stayed longer.

  Wanting to cry but knowing there was no point, she kept her head tucked low and maneuvered through the streets. Heading to the bus station, she had no destination in mind, she just needed to get out of the city for as long as she could.

  It never occurred to her to call her parents. They were as disinterested in her as she was in them. And it was easier that way. Pops, as much as she loved him, was her weakness. Lucia had learned that to survive, one needed as few weaknesses as possible.

  But he was her luxury. A link and a lifeline. He took her back to the times when she'd been a relatively normal girl. When she'd felt and loved, experienced and enjoyed life. He was a reminder, but more than that, he just was. Without him, she wouldn't have been strong enough to stand here today. A war vet, he'd taught her that life wasn't always pretty, and that had helped her endure.

  Brooklyn was noisy, even at two-thirty in the morning. The stench of the day's pollution lay heavy on the air, and the few excuses for gardens in this part of town were wilting with the poison; she knew how they felt.

  Lucia passed a few drug deals going down, but kept her head tucked into her chest, ignoring the action. Cars pulled up at crossings, music blared regardless of the hour, and still, she ignored them. A few hollers came her way as she crossed through Cobra territory—the most dangerous part of her journey—but she made it to the bus station in one piece.

  The lights were a bright golden glow, after the low-lit amber of the streets. Even at this hour, it was busy. Greyhound buses pulled in here and there, the air escaping their brakes whenever the drivers came to a stop. Low chatter from the people waiting in line hummed along the atmosphere too, and she made sure to keep her face down while peering up at the folk around her. She spotted no one she knew and relaxed a little more at the realization.

  When she paid for her ticket and sat down in the station waiting for her bus to start letting passengers on board, she kept her eyes open. She was tired, but this wasn't the time for sleep. Tension hummed along her nerves, uncertainty bashing her.

  She wished she knew if Martinez was still asleep. He'd know that her first instinct after running would be to get out of town, and at such short notice, the train or the bus was the way to go.

  It seemed to take an age for the bus to open its doors, but she was one of the first to get on board when the driver finally took his seat and let her on. She burrowed in at the back, stacking her duffel to her side then buried her face in the collar of her coat.

  Passengers trickled on board, some chatting, others alone and yawning at the late hour. A lifetime passed before the bus finally filled up. She even had to move her bag to let someone sit next to her.

  When the pneumatics released their clutch on the doors and they finally snapped closed, her tension flowed from her. Relaxing back into her seat, she started to breathe a little easier. Almost as though that were the trigger, the squeal of brakes sounded through the station, and as her coach started to pull out of the hangar, she saw Juan running through the terminal, peering up at the buses, quickly studying the people seated inside the station.

  Heart freezing, stomach like a heavy weight, she felt her limbs tremble as the bus started on its way West.

  Martinez was free, and like she'd predicted, he'd come after her.

  The realization was not a nice one, even if she'd been expecting it. She'd barely had enough time to escape though, and the close call made her feel sick.

  Closing her eyes, she wished things were different. But one thing her Pops had taught her... if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  What she needed, Martinez couldn't give her. And one thing Lucia had learned over the years was that if something was bad for you, you removed it from your life completely.

  Martinez was like ice cream.

  Delicious, addictive, and sinfully good but bad for the butt.

  Okay, so Martinez would probably help her burn more calories off than gain them, but he was bad for her.

  He wouldn't let her control him, and that was the only kind of sex she could be involved in. Something that left them in a stalemate, and as the open road beckoned, Lucia knew she wasn't brave enough to seek a rematch.

  Chapter Ten

  Jail wasn't so bad.

  Not if you liked small spaces, enjoyed being serenaded to sleep with the sounds of sobs and yelps of pain, or if you appreciated cafeteria food.

  Just call it Aruba.

  Matteo Martinez grunted at the thought as he knocked over Valovitch's King. “Checkmate.”

  The Russian mobster glared down at the board, studied the pieces, and then snarled at Matteo. His next move was as predictable as his chess game: he toppled the board, sending pieces flying all over the yard.

  Matteo rapped his knuckles against the table, pursed his lips, and slowly, gently, stated, “Pick them up.”

  Valovitch frowned at him, popping his own knuckles. Behind him, four men grouped at his back, each one ready for a fight.

  When Matteo clicked his fingers, twelve guys appeared.

  The Russians just couldn't seem to understand why half the prisoners in lockdown had sided with the Lobos. Matteo wasn't the angel his brother was, but he understood the hows and the whys their gang was so fucking successful. Reigning through terror, like the Russians, worked to a degree. But everyone was shit-scared. All the fucking time. It was boring. Not being able to say boo to a goose grew tedious.

  The Lobos worked on rewards. Like parents with their little kids. You did som
ething good, you got a treat.

  Whether that treat was an hour with a whore or twenty grand for taking someone out, their way worked.

  And the twelve men behind him, all willing to kill to protect him, confirmed that.

  “Stop being a sore fucking loser and pick up the damn pieces.”

  His sister had smuggled that goddamn set into jail. Sure, he could have bought a set from the commissary, but his guard had turned a blind eye to her bringing in the hand carved pieces, so she hadn't had to shit it out or anything, but still. Angela had been terrified that the contraband would send her to prison.

  Even now, at the memory, the thought made him smirk. He and Martinez really had over protected their baby hermanas. Not that the notion disturbed him. The concept behind Los Lobos Rojos had been to shelter their family from the storm that was life. They'd done the dirty deeds to keep their sisters lily white. He had no regrets. Even now, sitting behind fucking bars, he felt no remorse over what he'd done.

  He just wished like hell his baby girl, his Maria, would have the same protection. She had her tio, Martinez, and all her familia, but she didn't have her papa, and Matteo had learned the hard way that a child needed their papa.

  His baby was the only person in the world who could make him tearful. And growing misty-eyed just as a goddamn riot was about to start inches away from him was not a smart thing to do.

  When the Russian's mouth twisted into a sneer, Matteo fully expected shit to hit the fan. Instead, it was his turn to click his fingers, and one of his minions ran off to collect the pieces in his stead.

  Matteo nodded, slowly. Accepting the move for what it was. An olive branch.

  The Russian grunted, before turning away and heading back to his little piece of hell. Matteo watched as each piece was collected from the gravel around the table, and he smiled at the poor little bastard who'd been chosen to do the Russian’s bidding.

  When the guy stuttered and stammered, he waved a hand, releasing him. “We protect our lobos,” he called out, making the other man pause.

  “He's their bitch,” Ramon grumbled into his ear as he swept around, taking the seat opposite Matteo, and setting up the pieces for another match.