Page 29 of Trapped
Men in suits hauled him away while Drunk Guy screamed. Nobody paid him any mind, but the crowd of onlookers shrank, probably scared they’d be next.
What didtake him out backmean? Had he killed someone before for being a drunk idiot? I studied the grim line of his jaw, the nostrils that flared when he looked at me.
Two months ago, I walked into Afterlife, seeking the notorious loan shark. I’d done my homework on Santino Costa. Born and raised in Boston. One of six kids. Typical Italian-American family. An old man who owned a deli told me he used to work there as a teenager. He was a good worker but very quiet.
I’d sweet-talked the locals into spilling more details, which wasn’t easy because nobody wanted to piss off the Costas. They were the type of people you didn’t cross, and Santino gave off touch-me-and-die vibes. He was too intimidating for most women, and darkness clung to him like his fitted Tom Ford suits. The kind of darkness that swallowed everybody around him.
Santino took my hand.
We moved from the chaos into a lonely corridor with many rooms. His grip tightened as he tugged me into a dimly lit office, the heavy door groaning shut behind us. Grimy shelves and posters lined the walls, with a wooden desk in the middle of the room.
Santino turned to face me, eyes smoldering.
I put a hand on my hip. “Are you going to beat up every guy who thinks I’m attractive?”
His nostrils flared. “He called you a slut.”
“Why can’t you be the bigger man and let it go?” I clasped my fingers around his. “I’m yours. You know that.”
He still looked pissed. “Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Are you being honest with me?”
I forced out a laugh. “You’re just fishing for an excuse to kill him.”
“I don’t need one.”
His low growl pitted my stomach with sparks. He was crazy. He made the man I’d fled seem reasonable. He was obsessed with me. Dangerously so.
I’d brought this on myself and willingly attached myself to him. This remorseless killer who looked me dead in the eye and discussed murdering a man for being rude to me. Was he doing that on purpose? Trying to warn me?
I swallowed the nerves in my throat. “You’re not killing anybody. You’re no good to me in jail.”
“I’m not worried about jail.”
Do I tell him about Ivan?
The man assaulted me in broad daylight, but somehow, involving Santino scared me even more. What choice did I have? If he found out I kept this from him, his feelings for me could flip off just as quickly as they’d turned on, and then he’d no longer look at me the way he did now. Like he’d slaughter a room full of men for me.
His fingers glided under my chin. “What’s wrong?”
I bit my lip. “Nothing.”
“You seem off.”
“Speak for yourself. It’s only eight, and you already have a murder under your belt.”
He grunted. “I’ve had a long day.”
I rubbed his chest. “Want me to make it better?”
His black eyes collided with mine, and he nodded. His hands were clenched at his sides, and I took one and brought it to my lips, kissing each scarred knuckle. Gradually, his body relaxed, and he opened his palm, allowing me to hold him.
Too many girls assumed men always wanted sex. Sometimes, they needed to be touched and worshipped. I slid a hand through his styled hair. He hated when I messed it up, but I loved how his thick locks slipped through my fingers.
His eyes fluttered shut under my gentle strokes. When they opened again, they were hazy, like a kitten drunk on milk. The aggression dissolved, leaving behind a man whose wild hair and softened features made him almost…tender. I rose on my toes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.