Page 58 of The Boss
“Things are about to get weird,” I mutter to Marlon before ducking into the bathroom. She explained—via code in a handwritten note that came with this “wedding gift”—that because of possible sensors, I need to tuck the little mechanism, already sealed in a tiny ziplock bag, into my underwear. Either that or actually insert it into my body. I’m a spy but even I have my limits.
Once it’s secure in my panties, I pull on my favorite black jeans. I wear a black lace cami under a thin sweater and a leather bomber jacket. Boots, ponytail, mascara. Quinn doesn’t care all that much what I look like, it seems, so I’m done fussing. Strategizing about my appearance—wearing the right thing in order to make a specific impression on a set target I was hoping to get information from, or on a target my father wanted to use me for—has been part of my daily life since I was a tween.
It feels good to abandon the habit.
I don’t know what Quinn meant by evening but if I need to for some reason, I can loose the sweater and change my look for a club. I grab my eyeliner and lipstick and stick them in my jacket pocket. Might as well.
“Ready,” I say to myself. I hustle out of the room and down the front hall and staircase. “Ready!” I repeat when I reach the front steps.
Quinn opens the back car door for me. I get in and he climbs in after. I have to force myself not to look at him. I can still smell him though, unfortunately. He smells good. Not like cologne, though. More like a spicy deodorant and leather and just…him.
“When we get to the city you’ll get your phone and access to the cafe wifi,” Quinn starts beside me. I let myself look over, “But obviously we’re monitoring everything you say and do, wife.”
“Obviously,” I mimic him.
But he doesn’t smile or even smirk. Or roll his eyes.
“Luna,” He says, serious.
“Quinn,” I try again to annoy him.
His eyes flash to the driver in front then back to me. His voice is low, but not quiet. “Do I need to remind you what I do to spies?” My playfulness dies a quick death at the darkness in his eyes. Smug Quinn, the smirking, beloved leader? He’s gone. “Check in with your family. Reply to emails. Post your selfies and do your online shopping or whatever else and do not. Fuck. Around.”
I narrow my eyes, wanting to take back every admirable or even slightly positive thought I ever had about this monster. He’s so fucking condescending. “If I do, then you get to kill me, then this torture will be over, right?”
“You think you’d simply be killed? Death is a gift. Traitors get no gifts, no mercy.”
I keep my gaze steady and try not to tremble as I shrug one shoulder. “So, you torture me then. What’s a little torture to Skulls Quinn?” I say, my voice weaker than the bravery it took to even talk back to him.
“I told you. I don’t enjoy hurting women.”
“Well then I’ll be sure not to get caught.” I say before looking away.
“Mo shaol a mhilleadh!”He scolds through gritted teeth. But somehow, the frustration, it makes him softer, more human. Like the real Quinn is back. He grabs his forehead and rants on, “Woman! Why do you keep pushing? You think I take lightly to threats?”
“Non sei l'unico che sa imprecare in un'altra lingua, sei un grosso, confuso, splendido stronzo!”I fire back, telling him he is not the only one who can curse in another language. Idiot. I go on, “And which is it, I need to watch myself or little me is no threat to big bad Quinn?”
He dips his chin and lowers his eyebrows as if to say we both know it’s both. He hardly sees me as a threat and he sure as hell will hurt me if he has to.
He’s calm after our little storm, watching me. His nostrils are still flared but his breathing is slow, his stance relaxed and perfectly still.
Meanwhile, I’m shaking.
I look away.
You will not cry right now Luna Mancini! You will not!
I don’t let myself sniff as I look out the window. I’m afraid, sure, but deep down, I’m angry. Angry that he sees me as a little gnat flying about, not a credible threat, but a nuisance. Angry that I’m not, in fact, much of a threat.
All my power is gone, my name, my notoriety, vanished. And the kicker is, I’m still a virgin after all that plotting and planning! I thought I’d use my body to rule them all, yet I have a husband who doesn’t want me, a clan who doesn’t respect me, and I rule no one.
Whatever happened with Quinn last night, the moment of camaraderie we had cleaning together, the olive branch he offered when he stood behind me, wiping the nasty floor. It’s over. I can’t let myself get emotional. Get interested or attached.
I have one bullet left in my metaphorical gun.
As Mac wordlessly hands me a bag with my phone and laptop inside a few minutes later, I say a silent prayer that Vix Volotov has armed me well.
I pass by Quinn as I enter a generic coffee shop on the edge of some suburb. He grabs my wrist, glares down at me, a warning, then lets me go. I use all my training to fake brave indifference. I roll my eyes and don’t look back after I enter the cafe. Mac and another guard are with me. I ignore them and head straight for the ladies room. Inside, I make quick work of getting the baggy out of my underwear.
