Page 7 of Kept

“Marco,” he tells the other man, “get the car.”

He must be on the phone, since I hear a one-sided conversation. A one-sided Italian conversation.

Moments later, tires screech. A sleek black car pulls up. The trunk pops open.

The hand is still over my mouth, so what actually comes out is a pathetic whimpering and “nuuuhhhh nuuuhhhh nuhhhhh” sound as he walks me closer and closer to the trunk.

CHAPTER 5

Vincent

This casino is a pain in my fucking ass. It started as a way to reinforce our influence outside of the city and create a convenient place to launder money, as well as generate a decent, legitimate revenue stream.

Okay, it’s been an extremely successful pain in the ass. But a pain nonetheless.

Today’s problem comes in the form of a spineless sack of shit that has been beating his girlfriend. Two problems, the first being that no man that works for me beats his woman. Period. The second being that she also works for me as a blackjack dealer. Marco’s most recent romantic companion found her crying and trying to cover a black eye and bruises on her fucking neck with makeup in the employee bathroom earlier this evening.

So, Marco and I were trying to have a pleasant little talk with my soon to be ex-employee.

Possibly ex-human.

And then I heard this yelp.

Okay, so maybe the alley wasn’t the most private place to have this discussion. But it’s important to leave a certain impression when you need to. First, that this is the kind of problem I am going to take time out of my day to handle personally. Second, that it will be handled right fucking now and right fucking here. Also, I’m the head of la Cosa Nostra. If any beat cop had turned down that alley when I had my gun pressed to his head, the chances that he would turn right around and keep walking were high.

That doesn’t mean I need extra witnesses running around. At least, not ones I don’t know about.

She’s fast, I’ll give her that. I looked up just in time to see movement disappear back around the corner.

Marco was on her heels before I could even form the order. Dipshit got a pistol whip to the head and picked back up by one of the bouncers, conversation to be continued. I cut through an employee access passage in the garage and get ahead of them just in time to grab whoever pops out of the alley.

I won’t lie—I was not expecting her. Tiny, with platinum blonde hair and feisty as hell. She even got an elbow into my ribs when I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should.

Lucky she didn’t get to your dick.

I am trying, and failing, not to think about her perky ass rubbing against it while she thrashed around in my arms.

Thump. Thump. ThumpThumpThump.

She’s been going positively apeshit since getting tossed into the trunk.

From the driver’s seat, Marco laughs. “She’s really kicking up a storm, isn’t she?”

“Apparently.”

“I mean really, like, more than average.”

Marco signals to turn. You always signal. Last thing you need is for some rookie cop to pull you over for some bullshit traffic violation when you have someone in the trunk of the fucking car. We both notice the dramatic increase in the tempo of the turn signal.

“Fuck,” I groan. “Pull over. She’s got the taillight.” We’re almost back to Manhattan, so she’s had plenty of time to work on it.

Marco laughs and pulls into the warehouse district. We both walk to the back of the car, and he pops the trunk with the remote. She bolts halfway out of the car, panting, with tears running down her cheeks. Her eyes are red from crying, which emphasizes her blue-grey eyes. She’s shaking. Not a tremble or a shiver, but full-blown shaking.

“Jesus, fuck, what’s wrong with her?” Marco asks me in Italian.

Okay, so it’s not just me who notices. It’s not like we haven’t stuck people in trunks before. Yeah, no one likes it. But this is unusual.

“So? What’s the problem here?” I ask her.

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