They didn’t belong in my pawnshop.
I knew my clientele at this point. These guys were not it.
They were the wrong age, first of all—late twenties. Younger and older wouldn’t raise my brow. But something about their specific age bracket had me placing the salt shakers and moving back toward the front of the store. Either to be close to the gun behind my counter or the door for a quick escape.
Then there was how they were dressed—with their thick silver chains, Timbs, jeans, and black tees.
They were clean-cut, one with no visible tattoos, the other with a rose on his forearm. Both had medium-brown hair and blue eyes. Brothers, maybe.
But those eyes were looking too hard.
Like they knew exactly what they were after and just needed to locate it.
It wouldn’t be the first time I had someone sell me something that didn’t belong to them. It wasn’t like I could demand someone give me proof of ownership. So shit happened sometimes. It usually didn’t freak me out.
But everything about these guys was rubbing me the wrong way. Maybe it was because I’d spent a lot of time aroundcriminals now, so I felt like I had a reasonably good eye for spotting them.
Part of that experience was being stuck under a group of criminals’ thumbs for the latter part of my teens. The other part was when my sister married a capo in the mob.
Everything about these guys said they were organized in some way… but not in a polished way like the mafia was.
This was an unstable neighborhood. The organizations were always vying for power. It was almost impossible to keep track of everyone.
I opted for my desk and the gun under the counter. Mostly because I couldn’t even think of fleeing the shop without Tuna.
Keeping an eye on the guys, I leaned down and grabbed the very unhappy dog, tucking him in tightly at my side. He struggled for a few minutes before accepting his fate in air jail. Then I scooted toward the hidden spot where my gun was hiding.
In a pinch, I could grab it and shoot my way out of the store.
But I was hoping it didn’t come to that.
My gaze slid up to the round mirrors in the corners of the store, allowing me to keep an eye on customers when they disappeared. Theft wasn’t a huge problem, since most people didn’t know what in the store was actually worth any money, but it happened.
They made a beeline for a the second shelf full of decorative boxes.
Good luck, my dudes; I empty the boxes before they hit shelves.
I was about to reach for my phone to call my sister’s husband to come drop by when the door chimed.
Glancing over, I saw someone else who looked like a criminal. But this one was much more polished. Nice suit. Expensive watch. Dark hair, dark eyes. Olive skin.
If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed mafia.
But I knew all of the major players in all the New York Five Families. It was a hobby of sorts.
This guy was not familiar.
But he was too old for a typical associate, so him being new seemed unlikely.
“I’m here for the bag,” he explained as I just stared at him.
“Yeah? Who the hell are you?”
CHAPTER THREE
Christopher
“Christ,” I grumbled as I walked off the elevator and immediately heard the thumping bass coming from my apartment.
