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“She’s…fragile,” Lila said. “Women like her tend to bring out the desire to protect.”
Mal barked out a laugh. “What, you think I’ll fall under her spell or something?” He braced a fist on the inside door and shoved it open, stepping into the only somewhat quieter hall. A narrow stairway to his right led upstairs. “Not gonna happen.”
“Not you.” Lila dismissed the possibility so succinctly that he imagined he could see her waving her pale hand in his face. “The man she’s with. He might not want to let her go so easily.”
“So I’m to fight to the death, is that it? I’m supposed to save someone who has two working legs and probably doesn’t want to be fucking saved?”
Just as Cassalia hadn’t wanted to be saved. Oh, she’d talked a good game. One he’d even believed for a while. But she’d loved her addiction a hell of a lot more than she’d ever cared for him.
She’d proved that in the end.
“Be smart. And watch your back.” Lila clicked off before he could respond with a sarcastic remark. Probably why she’d hung up so fast.
They’d danced the same steps more than a few times, which was exactly why he didn’t know why she’d called him. No matter her reasons—that he operated in the same sort of circles and had the muscle to take care of business—she was trusting him with something very important to her.Someonevery important.
He climbed the first step and gripped the banister when the stair sagged under his weight. Awesome. He chanced the next one, and the next, finally releasing the rail to bound up the stairs two at a time. Then he did the same on the next flight, stopping at the top to stare at the single door at the end of a dank hallway. The carpet was peeling up, revealing the stained floor beneath. Water spots—some small and some not—dotted the ceiling.
Welcome to the jungle.
The closer he walked to the lone door, the louder the music became. It was different than the kind downstairs. This was club music, the kind meant to screw with your mind as much as the cutesy mixed drinks served by the gallon. But there wouldn’t be any of those drinks up on this level, he was sure. The party atmosphere downstairs hadn’t reached this far.
This was all business.
Mal stopped outside the door and pulled at the brim of the ridiculous baseball cap he’d pulled on over his shaggy hair. He was going to shave that shit off one of these days. He’d alternated between shaving his head and growing out his hair for a while now, but the time had come to make a choice.
This was another of those choices. Tonight, he was finally going to leave the past behind him.
He shifted so that he could feel the reassuring weight of the gun tucked against his back. He didn’t intend to use it, but he knew how if he needed to. Walking into a situation like this unarmed could be a death sentence. He was a lot of things, but stupid enough to take that chance wasn’t one of them.
Just as he lifted his hand to rap on the wood, the door swung inward. A tall, leanly muscular guy in jeans and a Raiders jersey cocked his head, his shrewd eyes narrowing on Mal. “You must be Sampson.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re late. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Considering the story Mal had concocted thoroughly sucked—that he’d heard from a friend of a friend that Vinnie was the guy to see for some primo dope—he’d have to run with this one and see where it took him.
“Sorry.” Mal gave a noncommittal shrug. “Ran into some trouble.”
“Some trouble getting the money? I told you I don’t do no holds on merchandise.” He glanced over his shoulder and said something in Italian to the guy behind him, then looked back at Mal with a smirk. “Even if that merch is hot little blonds.”
Mal’s fingers twitched and it took everything he possessed not to plow his fist into this guy’s cocky face. But he had another problem now. He’d brought enough money for a run-of-the-mill transaction. He hadn’t brought enough cash to fuckingbuyRichelle—whatever that might cost. Unless this fuck was “selling” her cheap.
Somehow that was even worse.
Assuming that the blond for sale was even Richelle. He wouldn’t know that until he got in the damn apartment.
“Look, I’ll be straight with you. I didn’t bring all the cash with me. This place looked sketchy and no way was I walking in here with a ton of money on me and no guarantee you’ve got the girl.”
“Oh, I’ve got her.” Vinnie gripped the door and licked his lips. “We’ve both got her, right, Don?”
Mal gave Vinnie a grim smile and wished he didn’t have to play this the right way. This guy deserved a bullet between the eyes for even half of what he was insinuating. “Let me see her first, then I’ll give you a deposit and go to the ATM down the block. Pretty sure you don’t take personal checks.”
“You’d be right there, son.” Vinnie moved farther into the doorway and braced his arms on the frame. “Didja miss the part where I told you no holds? Only reason I’m doing this is because Crowley said you were in a fix and good for the cash. She’s untested, you feel me? Untrained. I know that goes for more, and I’m cutting you a deal because me and Crowley go way back.”
Mal shoved all of it into the back of his head. He couldn’t really think about the words, couldn’t absorb them, or he’d be pounding this guy and his fucking creep brother into the ground before either of them had a chance to draw a breath. And that wouldn’t be good, even if it would be immensely satisfying.
This was supposed to be easy. Clean. In and out. These types of fucks never operated alone. If he got into it with them, guaranteed there would be more assholes where they came from, and they’d probably be eager to gun for him—and possibly Richelle too. He had too much on the line with Lila to let this get out of hand.
The goal was to get Richelle out the door, nice and simple. Then he’d figure out what the hell to do with her. But she’d be safe, and this would be over.
If she was smart enough not to go back to the same bastards who’d nearly sold her.Soldher, for fuck’s sake.
