Page 28 of Trapped

As the frenzy in the crowd grew, my mind drifted to the clink of hangers moving across racks in my boutique.

A grizzled man in his forties bumped into my table. His cup jolted, sending beer sloshing over the rim and onto his shirt, darkening the fabric. He hardly noticed, his boozy gaze diving into my cleavage. He barked something, his words lost in the noise.

I leaned forward. “What?”

“I said, you look like you could use another!” He belched, adding, “Let me buy you a drink.”

I could use a refill. Santino kept me on an annoying two-drink maximum for reasons he’d never spelled out, but I liked to indulge.

I smiled at the man. “That’d be nice, thank you.”

He grinned back. “Comin’ right up.”

Vitale’s bulk slid in front of me, blocking the man’s view.

The drunk man scowled. “What do you want?”

Vitale’s posture hardened. “No one talks to Santino’s girl.”

No one?

Well, that explained Vitale’s curt response to my every question for the last month.

Drunk Guy seemed to take it personally. He bristled. “Why don’t you let her decide forherself?”

When the man jabbed a finger in Vitale’s chest, he grabbed the finger and twisted with a sickening snap. The man screamed, clutching his broken finger.

The roar in the fighting ring pulsed. On stage, a man wearing blue gym shorts raised his gloved fist in the air, his face splattered with blood. The crowd went nuts. They banged on the ropes separating them from the ring. A scuffle broke out in the stands before men in suits handled it, pulling them apart.

A familiar citrus scent with a touch of sea salt swirled in my nose, and Santino stood beside me. His presence didn’t just shift the air. It clenched like a lover’s grasp around my throat. His hand slid over my shoulder, gripping it gently. The warmth from his touch settled my frayed nerves.

“He broke it!” bleated Drunk Guy, mistaking Santino for a concerned manager. “He’s a fuckin’ maniac. He should be locked up. All I did was ask to buy her a drink.”

That echoed like a horrible punchline to a poor joke.

Santino glanced at me, glowering, and threads of heat coiled around me. Then he stepped forward, squaring up to Drunk Guy. Santino towered over him. It must’ve been a territorial thing because the men in my family acted the same, lots of dick-swinging and posturing. I would’ve rolled my eyes, but too many of Santino’s cronies watched me. Undermining him in public wasn’t a good look.

Drunk Guy’s brow furrowed. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re hitting on my girl,” he growled.

Those words should’ve suffocated me, but they wrapped around me gently like luxurious silk. Everybody knew me as Santino’s whore. His fuck buddy, his gun moll, whatever. We weretogether, but not in the ride-or-die sense. I was the girl he screwed. That’s it. But Santino said it like it meant something.

I had to stop this. It was all my fault.

I hooked onto Santino’s arm. “Baby, it’s not a big deal.”

Santino’s eyes locked on mine. They widened slightly, dipped down my halter top dress to the peep toe shoes, up my legs and waist, lingering on my boobs. When his starving gaze crashed into mine, my knees wobbled.

“Santino, he’s harmless.”

The man snorted. “You think I’m some kinda joke? You’re just a little slut who likes the attention. If you weren’t such atease, you wouldn’t need a bodyguard.”

Santino lobbed a punch into the man’s gut, who doubled over and groaned. Then he motioned for his guards. They grabbed Drunk Guy, who panicked.

“I’m sorry?—”

Santino ignored him. “Take him out back.”

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