Page 6 of Unforgivable Ties
“Why were you at these docks the day of the shootout?” he asked. His voice was low and hard, like the steel of the container against my back. His eyes held a glare that sent shivers down my spine.
“I told you the day we met,” I said. “I live in this area and if I cut through here, it’s a shortcut.”
“This is a warehouse district, Stephanie. I don’t buy your story—who do you work for?” he pushed me harder against the shipping container.
“There’s a ten unit apartment complex on Morrison Street,” I gasped, struggling to breathe from the weight of him. “How have you not noticed it?”
“Convenient excuse,” he snarled, his eyes narrowing as they bore into me. He wasn’t buying my explanation, I could tell. “An innocent girl like you, strolling through one of the most dangerous places in the city every day?”
“What? It’s not dangerous. This place is totally abandoned!”
His lip curled into a snarl. “Don’t play the fool, Stephanie,” he growled, his voice bouncing off the cold steel of the shipping containers. “This place is filled with danger and criminals.”
“If,” I wheezed, trying to breathe, “I show you my apartment, will you believe me?”
He hesitated, still glaring down at me with suspicion in his eyes. He was weighing my proposal, contemplating if it was worth the risk. Then, as though coming to a decision, he released me abruptly and stepped back, leaving me to stumble slightly against the cold steel of the container.
“If there is no apartment, this ends with a bullet in your skull.”
I picked myself up from the container and followed him to the car. I had a feeling that even when I showed him my apartment, I still might end up shot in the head.
“Nice way to repay someone who saved your life,” I grumbled as he drove us towards my apartment.
He ignored my jab. His eyes never left the road, even when he parked the car in front of the old building that was my apartment complex. The worn brick had years of weathering, the pavement was cracked and the paint peeling, but the age of the building wasn’t horrible.
“I thought this place was condemned,” he said, glancing skeptically at the faded sign hanging on by its last two bolts.
My cheeks turned bright red from the embarrassment, but I managed to mutter a quick reply. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
He simply grunted in response, clearly unconvinced. I led him up the cracked concrete steps and unlocked my apartment with a key that had seen better days.
“Are you satisfied?” I asked, opening the door so he could see my apartment but not letting him in.
“Not yet.” He pushed past me and walked into the kitchen.
“Hey!” I said, following him in. “I didn’t say you could come in!”
“I don’t take orders from you,” he said, picking up a framed photo of my friend and me and looking at it skeptically.
My foot slammed against the ground in frustration towards the man. “Just who are you, anyway? I don’t even know your name!”
“Vincenzo,” he responded, placing the photo down and casually walking towards the living room area.
“That only answers half the question,” I said, following him as he explored my personal space. Vincenzo seemed unfazed by my growing irritation. He was more interested in studying my small, shabby living room filled with second-hand furniture and a cheap television set.
“Does it matter?”
“I saved your life, and you repay me by interrogating me and going through my stuff! The least you can do is tell me who the hell you are,” I shot back, my patience fraying at the edges.
“Someone you had the misfortune of encountering.” Vincenzo left the living room and made his way to my restroom.
I didn’t care that he was giant, muscular, and (presumably) a criminal. I was going to murder this man. The ungratefulbastard had just traipsed about my humble abode as if it were his own while giving me no information about himself.
Vincenzo laughed when he opened my bathroom door. I wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact this man was capable of laughing or that he found something amusing in my tiny, dilapidated bathroom. I followed him, prepared to demand an explanation for his behavior.
“You should put these away when you’re done.” He held my bright pink sex toy in his hand and had a smirk on his face.
My face paled. I had forgotten I washed it and left it out to dry instead of putting it away. Which normally wouldn’t have mattered, because I wouldn’t have company over. I just didn’t expect a six and a half foot criminal to barge into my house on a Wednesday.