Page 12 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
“Next time, I promise you a trip to Central Park and we can run the paths.”
He barks and I speed up as we head to the West Village, giving him a little freedom. I cut strategic paths along the streets, watching for certain cars and noting the people who seem to sit and do nothing in them.
Harry—Clarita Harriet Federici, aka Hazel White—is an enigma.
She’s mousy in her demeanor, wears conservative clothes and a cross that sits on a delicate chain. Her hair is always clipped back, dark blond now.
I remember the bright-blond pigtails that the skinny little kid had.
She’s not skinny anymore.
She’s grown curves she hides under her big, baggy clothes. And I’d probably be nauseated by how good she is—volunteering, giving over swathes of her life to the poor and homeless, the battered and needy—if I didn’t think there was a lot more to her than she lets on.
Still…
Harry isn’t my type.
I like women to be submissive in the right ways, women who will do what I want, when I want, and where I want. I don’t hurt anyone, unless you count myself, but then again, I get them to do that.
Sex with Shiv was exhilarating, rough, wild, and with more than a touch of exhibition and edging. It opened something in me that’s grown over the years. My kink.Dom with a twist.
No two kinks are the same and no one judges. I keep it to the clubs, mostly. There?—
I halt my thoughts. I stand across from the church as the doors open and the parishioners spill out, the fat priest shaking hands and chatting with them as they leave. I look around.
People pass by but no one’s watching.
Then I see him. The ugly dude from three nights ago. He’s leaning against a black car just down the street from the church. He opens the door to the car and gets into the back seat. But the car doesn’t leave.
My stomach clenches and Arnold goes still. “Yeah, that’s a bad guy there, Arnold.”
When everyone’s gone, the church doors close and the priest heads back inside.
We slip farther into the darkened alley next to a nearby apartment building, the church still in view.
I tie Arnold to a drainpipe, out of the way and behind a dumpster. “No matter what, Arnold, be silent, okay, boy?”
He just looks at me but I think he understands.
If there’s trouble, I want him safe. An old familiar feeling’s coming over me, the surge of adrenaline I’d get before a kill.
For ten minutes I stand still, blending with the shadows, gun in my hand, eyes on the car and the church.
When Harry comes running down the stairs, her blond hair flying behind her, my heart flips and I picture the kid with frightened silver eyes. She crosses to my side of the road, no longer the kid, now a survivor, one I intend to protect no matter what.
It’s the least I can do to make up for everything she lost.
Bernardo gets out of the black car and crosses the street, too.
She walks past me, hesitating a split second like she knows I’m there, but she doesn’t look. I’m just a shadow.
And then the fucker runs at her. He grabs her and slams her into the brick wall. Right next to me.
She lands hard, a hiss of breath slipping from her lips.
“Get the fuck away from me,” she growls, whipping around and raising her fists to Bernardo.
He pulls a gun but I’m faster. I shoot him three times, chest, head, chest, an old signature move.
