Page 11 of Kept

I don’t know why I shoved him behind that dumpster. I don’t even remember thinking about it, or making the plan. I’m still shocked as shit it worked. I remember thinking that I needed to draw attention away. I remember intentionally slamming my heels down on the pavement. I remember hearing the man chasing me yelling. I thought they were both back there.

Then suddenly, I’m wrapped up in this massive set of arms, my feet dangling in the air. I remember how warm his body was pressed against mine, the goosebumps that rose when he talked against my ear. I remember the warm cedar and spice scent, the smell of the leather glove over my mouth.

Fuck. I could feel his cock getting hard as my ass brushed against him.

Plus, what did he say when I elbowed him? You’ll pay for that. I hate that I’m so turned on by both of those things. Of the things that I should be feeling right now, desire is certainly not one of them.

I study the man sitting in front of me. It’s only fair, as I have the distinct impression he’s studying me too. He’s obviously attractive. He’s well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. Admittedly, as a dancer I’m accustomed to being lifted up by others, but I might as well have been a doll for all the effort he took to throw me around. He has tanned, olive skin. His hair is dark, almost black, and he wears it short and neat, like he’s expecting to walk into a Wall Street boardroom any minute. It goes with the dark, obviously tailored suit—minus the gun. I’m pretty sure most men who wear suits to work aren’t armed. Except maybe FBI agents.

I’m pretty sure he isn’t an FBI agent.

His eyes are the most unnerving part. Intelligent, rich dark brown eyes surrounded by thick lashes. I don’t imagine they miss much of anything. As he locks his gaze on mine, I realize with certainty that he is capable of great violence. I know a killer when I see one. What I don’t see is cruelty. There is a big difference between a violent man and an evil man.

“Why am I here?” I ask again.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What is it that you think you saw back there?”

I snort. “I’m not an idiot. I didn’t see a goddamned thing.”

He smirks. “And how am I supposed to trust that?”

I shrug. “Self-preservation. I’m not suicidal.”

“Tell me,” he says, locking those eyes with mine, “have you heard the expression ‘two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead’?”

I swallow, realize my mouth is suddenly dry, and take another sip of my water. “You weren’t alone in the alley. Therefore, you don’t really believe that.”

I see the corner of his mouth quirk up for the briefest of seconds. “Trust is earned. Marco is my brother. And my second-in-command.”

What? “Huh?” I know my face is scrunched in confusion.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Have you always lived in New York?”

I shake my head.

He smiles, full lips revealing a set of straight white teeth. It’s irritatingly charming. He walks to the bar and replenishes his drink. He holds the bottle out to me, but I shake my head.

“More of a vodka or wine girl myself,” I tell him, for no apparent reason.

He strolls back and stares out the window, watching the ships moving around the river for several minutes. Finally, he turns back to me. He’s casually leaning against the glass, one hand in his pocket, one holding his drink, and a grin that looks like the cat that ate the canary.

“My name is Vincent De Luca. I’m the leader of la Cosa Nostra.”

Oh, shit.

I may have spent most of my life in Colorado, but I know what that is.

It’s the fucking mafia.

People have odd responses to stressful situations. Sometimes when faced with an overload of information, the human brain just can’t process any more. Most first responders will have stories of giving someone terrible, life-altering news only to have the recipient become preoccupied with menial things, like needing to finish the dishes or the laundry. It’s not that they don’t care about the news, their brains just need a fucking minute.

As the room fades to black, that’s my last thought.

Just a fucking minute.

CHAPTER 7

Sarah

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