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Sweat poured down the man’s temples. His thinning hair was brushed back and stuck to his scalp. He stopped flailing and speaking in his native language. “Fuck you,” he hissed.
“Closer,” I said as I drew my revolver and cocked it. “Why haven’t you paid in three months? You ran from everyone else, but you ain’t running from me. Pay what you owe, plus interest, and I have no more business with you.”
“Mr. Viglione, please.” His tone changed real quick, but his accent was still thick. “We don’t have it. The economy—”
“Do I look like an economist to you, Mr. Chen? I don’t give a flying fuck about the economy. I shouldn’t even be here, doing this shit. We loaned you money for your piece of shit business out there, and I swear to god, I’ll burn that shit to the ground with your fucking mother in it if you don’t pay.”
A gun cocked behind me, and my eyes narrowed before I turned my head toward the sound and peered down the barrel of a Glock. A young man with jet-black hair and high cheekbones stared at me. He looked no more than eighteen. He curled his finger around the trigger and told his father to get up in their native language. Mr. Chen scrambled to his feet.
“Fuck off.” I grabbed Mr. Chen by the shoulder, pushing him back to his knees. I kept my eyes on the young man’s curling finger. What was he gonna do? Shoot me? Fuck him.
The sound of another cocked handgun echoed through the warehouse. Gia popped up behind the young man, her pistol drawn on him. We were a centipede of goddamn threats. My eyes leaped to her, and her hip cocked, looking natural as fuck with her hand around that gun. She looked at home with that metal in her hand. I closed my eyes for a moment, reminding my dick that it was not the time. Also, that we hated her. We had to hate her.
“Gun down,” Gia said. Her voice was calm and even.
“Him first,” the young man gestured his barrel at me.
“I’m giving you fucks an opportunity to pay what you owe like men. You don’t wanna pay? You ain’t gonna have your business. You can’t have both.”
The wife showed up. Her small frame donned a green satchel that made her waddle as she walked. She tossed it on the ground, already open, showing bundles of cash inside.
“No!” her husband and the young man yelled in near unison.
“Go. You go!” She gestured at me with anger spewing from her pointed finger.
I uncocked my pistol. The young man dropped his. Gia kept hers up.
I scooped up the bag. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
We left the warehouse through a back door. Gia kept a grasp on her pistol until we got to the car, and I tossed the bag in the trunk and closed it. My hand rode down her arm, gripping hers, which was still wrapped around the pistol. She flashed her eyes at me, dark and menacing, as if the excitement of what went down had breathed life back into her. This life.
If I didn’t take her home I’d end up breaking my goddamn rule. I’d end up fucking her right then. She looked at me with such anger that it made my head swim.
“Put that away before you hurt yourself,” I said.
She sneered and tucked her gun into her waistband. We got back in the car, and she crossed her legs, probably to hide how fucking wet that made her. She wasn’t the only one aching about it.
“I told you to stay up front,” I said as I kept my eyes locked ahead of me.
She brushed her hair over her shoulder. “Yeah, and if I’d listened, you’d probably be dead.”
“He was a kid. He wasn’t gonna do shit.”
“You do know they have links to the...never mind. The Vigliones know everything.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.
“Do you want me to drop you off at your pop’s?” I asked. “Didn’t think so. Stop being a bitch.”
“You’re lucky I don’t want anything to do with your balls or I’d rip them off for that,” she snarled.
She could lie all she wanted, but she wantedsomethingto do with my balls. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have been here under the guise of protection. Nah. I should have let her fend for herself, see how long she lasted amongst a family of targets, but as much as she pissed me the fuck off, I didn’t want to see Gia dead. I did what I did to keep her stupid ass alive. I’d murdered Bullseye to save her, and I refused to let it all be in vain. Even if she was being a damnbitch.
We sat in silence as we drove back toward my home. Her fingers played along the plastic of the center console, an audible click with every pass of each nail.
“Thank you,” I finally said.
She stopped moving her fingers. “You’re welcome,” she said before continuing the dance of her fingers.
How had we gotten to the point where we couldn’t even talk to each other?
