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A small tremor of panic worked its way through me. “But you won’t let them take her, will you?”
The man who’d passed our car earlier approached Sandra, and after a quick exchange, she handed him a lighter. After a few drags of a cigarette, he said something, and she smiled.
“He just complimented her looks,” Cristiano said. “Sometimes they grab girls. Other times, though, the girls go willingly.”
There was that word again. Willingly. I was beginning to think Cristiano thought it meant something different than the rest of the world.
“They’re lost and looking for connection,” he said in an instructional tone. “Protection. Could be that they come from a shitty, abusive home and this is one way out.”
Sandra fidgeted with her hands in her lap.
“Anyway, this guy?” Cristiano continued. “He’s feeling her out.”
An SUV rounded the corner and crept toward them. The smoker said something, laughed, and nodded discreetly at the car. Sandra turned her head over her shoulder, and her grin vanished as she shot to her feet.
I sat forward as she took off in a sprint, but Cristiano shoved me back into my seat. “Don’t call attention, for fuck’s sake.”
The man flicked his cigarette away and ran after her. “But you have to do something,” I hissed.
The SUV reversed, trying to catch up with her, tires jumping what was left of a crumbling curb before the car screeched onto the sidewalk to block her path.
“Cristiano,” I said more firmly. “Do something.”
Cristiano said nothing. Did nothing. The man grabbed her, and she struggled against him. Suddenly, he howled like an animal, jerked, and fell, clutching his leg. The driver bolted out of the car and stopped at his partner’s feet, his face scrunched in confusion.
Sandra whipped a knife from under her skirt, raised it over her head, and plunged it into the top of his neck.
I covered my mouth to conceal my gasp, but it filled the car.
“See how she stabbed into his spine, not through?” Cristiano asked. “I hope you’re taking notes.”
My stomach churned violently as I watched blood spurt everywhere. The man who’d approached her on the bench writhed on the ground, trying to yank what looked like an arrow from his leg.
A third man I hadn’t seen ducked out of the passenger-side door and crept along the side of the car that was hidden from Sandra.
“Fuck,” Cristiano said, grabbing his two-way and barking into it, “Now. Go!”
The blood was excessive and I hadn’t seen that much of it since my mother’s death. The thought, the sight, made me woozy, my jaw tingling as bile rose up my throat. The third man snuck up behind Sandra until she whirled. He smacked her across the face, and she stumbled back, tripped over the smoker’s foot, and landed on her back.
The man jumped on top of her with a pair of handcuffs, wrestling her wrists to the pavement.
Cristiano sat forward. “Come on,” he said in a way that sounded as if he was cheering her on.
A Honda screeched around the corner, followed by a convoy of speeding cars. They skidded to a halt in the middle of the street, distracting the man long enough for Sandra to knee him in the balls.
“Yeah,” Cristiano said, hitting his palm against the steering wheel triumphantly.
As my attention darted between him, Sandra, and everyone else, my head began to swim, but I narrowed my eyes, focusing on the scene in front of me.
As men from the warehouse swarmed out of the cars, Sandra’s attacker released her wrists. She punched him hard enough to send blood and teeth flying.
She shook out her hand, and gold flashed in the headlights. She had a ring on every finger—thick, heavy bands and gems. Not even brass knuckles. Just rings.
I glanced at the massive diamond on my finger. Earlier, I’d regarded is as stunning and elegant—if not over the top. Now I saw it as a potential weapon.
Just the motion of bending my head to look down made me feel queasy, so I raised it again, trying to ward of the sick feeling.
Cristiano unbuckled his seatbelt and tossed the hat aside. “Stay,” he ordered. “Or so help me God, I’ll leave you here tonight.”
I shrank down in my seat but kept him in my sights as he marched across the street, rolling up his shirt sleeves. The menace in that one move, in the way he exposed his veiny, hirsute forearms, made sweat trickle down my temple. Who could ever stop Cristiano when he was hell-bent on anything?
One thing I knew—it would take more than physical force.
A man like Cristiano could only be brought down through mental and emotional warfare—carefully chosen words, intimate, deliberate touches, manipulations and schemes so subtle, he would never see them coming.
But as far as what he was walking into now? I wasn’t worried for his safety, though I was surprised by how vehemently I wanted it—especially if the alternative was him getting hurt and me having to fend for myself.
