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I stare down the little, round bastard as he tries to conceal the tremble in his hands. “I... I have a right to... to be here,” he stutters.
I take a step forward and loom over him. Normally, I would never even consider taking a swing at such a pathetic and feeble human—I like my fights to be challenging—but to think that this man’s disrespecting Nia’s wishes, after all she’s been through over the past 48-hours, is infuriating. It doesn’t matter to me than I’ve been the cause of so much of her stress, now’s my turn to make her feel better.
It definitely doesn’t hurt that I already have some pent-up anger of my own to let out. Earlier in the evening, I finally found what I think might be a lead in the Santino case, but I’m still no closer to catching the rat. If this chubby motherfucker tests me one more time, I’m liable to throw him through Chelly’s saran-wrap window and then splatter his blood on the sidewalk—making a new stain right next to my old one.
“I’m going to count to three,” I growl.
This is no man, sitting in front of me, I decide. This is a greasy, bald child, and I’m going to talk to him like it until he understands what’s at stake.
“I—” he starts again.
“ONE,” I interrupt.
That does it. The fat, greasy rat scrambles out from his booth like a garbage bag in the wind. I step aside and let him flee to the front door, almost regretting that he is. I could have used a good punching bag for the night...
Earlier, Finn had gotten word about some unreported burglaries on grocery stores and restaurants on this strip. People around here tend to go straight to the Triad about their problems, because they know how crooked the cops can be, but Finn has a way about him that seems to put regular people at ease. He’s got such an All-American look that it’s hard not to trust that he has your best interest in mind. It’s part of what makes him such a useful accomplice.
His new intel has got me thinking that I might actually be right about Santino hiding out somewhere in this area. It’s the only bit of hope I’ve got right now. Still, the rest of the evening has been frustratingly fruitless. If Santino’s nearby, no one seems ready to give him up.
I wonder why? Why protect such an unimportant scumbag?
My brain was wracked with unanswered questions all afternoon and night, until I saw that it was almost 11pm.
My first and only break in the Santino c
ase had come soon after I’d decided to finally give myself a rest and go for lunch earlier in the day—and so I figured I might be able to establish a pattern if I gave myself another little break to walk Nia home. Maybe I just need some time to not think about Santino in order to really get to him...
“Where do you live, anyway?” I ask, holding the front door to Chelly’s open for Nia. She’s changed into her street clothes and looks as hot as ever. I hadn’t realized just how curvy she is.
Her tight blue jeans hug her thick thighs and flaunt her amazing ass. She’s wearing a big, red, puffy quilted jacket now, but before she slipped it on, I got a good look at her body in the beige cardigan that she’s wearing underneath. It’s all enough to make a man drool.
“West end,” she says, locking up the diner for the night.
Hmm. How to get her there? The fastest way is through Russian territory, but I don’t know if I want to risk that, even if the Volkov Bratva is supposed to be on good terms with my boss.
I figure I’ll let Nia lead the way, and if we start walking toward something too dicey, I’ll steer us in another direction—she’s probably made this walk countless times before without incident, but there’s a new tension in the Chinatown air that makes me worried for her. A looming underworld war threatens to tear these streets apart, and I feel like I’m the only thing standing in the way of complete chaos. I need to stay vigilant.
We start our march in close contact, not touching, but hovering just close enough so that I can feel the heat from her body. It’s driving me wild. I’ve been at war with myself all day—a younger me had once sworn off all women, but Nia doesn’t feel like all women. There’s something special about the way I feel when I think of her that’s making me reconsider my pledge. I still don’t know how close I’m going to let myself get to her, but the truth is, I might not have a choice. She’s shot a harpoon into my chest, and every time I manage to stop thinking about her for even a moment, she tugs at the line and sends an ache through my heart. The combined business of my developing feelings for her, as well as the non-developing case with Santino, is testing my resolve to its limits. I’m being drained too quickly, and I fear I might have to just give into Nia in order to save enough energy for Santino. When you’re in such a dire situation, what do you focus your fight on? Your sense of duty or your sense of affection?
I’m quickly losing my fight against my feelings for Nia, and so, earlier today, I made an executive decision. I’m going to go where the wind takes me with her, and focus all of my fight on figuring out this Santino shit, because if I don’t, they’ll be no future for me at all, with or without the girl I’m currently walking home with.
A lonely gust howls by us. I take the brunt of its chill. My injured arm doesn’t feel so bad right now.
“Oh, so, you’re good for something,” Nia teases, after I jokingly mention my sacrifice to keep her warm.
“Aren’t you glad you said yes to letting me walk you home now?”
Nia shakes her head. “Maybe.” Before clarifying. “Thank you, though. For dealing with that rude customer too.”
I wave her gratitude off. “He was a piece of cake compared to what I usually have to deal with.”
“What do you usually have to deal with...?” Nia asks, hesitating before adding, “A lot of shootouts?”
I purse my lips. I knew this would come up, but I didn’t have enough energy to think of a lie. If she hadn’t seen me get shot the other night, I might have just told her the same old fib I tell everyone who doesn’t know me: that I work in construction. It’s a fake occupation as old as the mafia itself and it’s usually good enough for most.
Nia isn’t most, though.
“It’s complicated,” I tell her, trying to handle her with care. It’s a strange feeling, thinking of another person as human. I’ve been forced to become so cold that the idea of trying to treat someone carefully is foreign to me. Still, I try my best. “I work for a very important and powerful family. I guess you could say I’m their... muscle. A soldier, if you will. Do soldiers get into shootouts once in a while? Sure. It’s part of the job.”
