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A man laughed.
I glanced at a group of young men outside the cafe window. Hard faces. Wolfish smiles. They wore jean jackets emblazoned with a horned animal’s grinning skull. It was monstrous, with red-tipped horns and crimson eye sockets.
Creepy.
Unease crept over me as their stares pierced me through the glass. One of them pointed at me as he hefted a baseball bat onto his shoulder. What’s going on? Does he know me? Ice slipped down my spine. I was like a trapped animal, exposed. Should I run? My palms flattened over the table. Leaving wasn’t an option, not with Becky in the bathroom.
A woman slipped out, clutching her purse, and ran past them. They allowed her to go. The cashier, an older man with a wobbling chin, groaned at the sight of them. He stepped out from the counter, his fists balled. He flung the door open.
“Get outta here or I’m calling the Costas!”
The hoodlums jeered at him. A kid wearing a skull handkerchief shoved the old man. His back slammed into the door. Another gangster swung his bat, striking the glass. It splintered. People shrieked, ducking under tables. The old man shouted expletives. He threw a punch, missed, and fell with a pained groan.
A hot ache filled my throat. Before I’d registered my feet moving, I’d stormed outside. The man sat against the wall, gripping his bleeding leg. His wild eyes met mine and he shook his head.
I grabbed a stack of napkins from the cafe and blotted his wound. The blood soaked through quickly, but at least the cut wasn’t too deep.
The man with the bat sneered. “Look at this bitch, playing nurse.”
I shot him a glare. “You kiss your mama with that mouth? Or is it that y’all forgot manners the minute you left the porch light?”
He laughed. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“Honey, it’s a saying where I come from. Means some folks lose their upbringin’ when they’re away from home. Clearly, you lost yours long before that. Or maybe you had none to begin with. Hard to tell with the way you’re swingin’ that bat like it’s compensatin’ for something.”
The man’s forehead flushed crimson. “You think you’re funny? What are you, the hillbilly whisperer?”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re as sharp as the bat in your hands.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he roared, stabbing my chest with his bat. “I know who you are. You’re Costa’s new slut.”
“Fiancée.”
The old man lurched upright and attempted to block him from me, but he batted him aside like a cloud. The others shoved him, and he stumbled into the pastry shop. He sprinted into the kitchen. I hoped he was calling the police.
“Get up, hillbilly whore. You’re coming with us.” He seized my arm, yanking me up as the men crowded us. “We’re gonna have fun, baby. Me and the boys will ride that sweet pussy until it’s time to send Costa a message. Then we’ll drop your cum-soaked body somewhere. Maybe on his mom’s lawn.”
One look at his foul face confirmed he meant every word. If I let him take me, I was dead. So I cocked my fist and punched him as hard as I could. My knuckles connected with his jaw. Pain exploded over my hand as his head snapped back.
Someone grabbed me.
Rough hands gripped my waist, pulling me backward. I collided with a male chest. I twisted and fought, but brute strength tethered me to his body. The man I’d punched sported a glowing red mark.
“Bring that bitch to me,” he snarled.
The man immobilizing me thrust me in front of him. A blur of movement caught my eye, and then agony crashed into my head. A white-hot feeling pierced through my skull. My vision did a cartwheel as I pitched sideways.
“Xaden, we should go. Cops are bound to show up soon.”
He nodded, his teeth gritted. “Put her in the car.”
TWENTY-TWO
ACHILLE
I dropped a fat envelope on Santino’s desk.
It was heavy, filled with the night’s earnings, a testament to the blood spilled on the concrete floors. Santino, wearing a shark-like grin, thumbed through the cash.
