Page 54 of The Mob: Shio Cuppacio
“Aye!”
That one-word syllable froze me in my tracks. With one knee bent, I had a foot on the stair, ready to crawl back to the bed I was already calling my own. Shio’s tone—deep, gritty, andmandón(bossy)—hit harder than I expected. My papa used to think he could put me in my place by raising his voice too. Shio wasn’t my father, though. His voice wasn’t just commanding; it sent shockwaves through my brain. When he spoke, my body chose to listen.
“Shio…” I sighed. “I spend my days sleeping until at least noon, shopping, and partying.Solana no hace ejercicio nunca(Solana does not exercise, ever.)”
I wasn't the smallest person, and at one hundred sixty-nine pounds and five feet seven, I could stand to hit the gym. Still, even with my reckless eating and weekly drinking, I looked good naked. I hadn't gone up a dress size in two years, and men still tripped over their tongues when I walked into the room. Turning to face him so he could see I was serious, I zipped my jacket because I was starting to feel a cool breeze. Now that I was able to see him in the light, I’d done a double-take of the man before me. With his arms crossed at his crotch and shoulders squared, his black workout attire fit his body and his mood from head to toe. The Nikes on his feet reminded me of my brothers, which reminded me of home. If I were there, I’d still be sleeping in bed.
“Shio! It’s too early,” I whined, hoping he’d change his mind about whatever was on his agenda today that included me.
Shio wore an expression, though, that said he wasn't buying what I was selling. “Actually, it’s late. Thirty minutes, to be exact. I’m usually done with my cardio and finishing up my first rep by now.”
“Who works out at five in the morning?”
“Shio Cuppacio.”
“Well,Solana Ledesmadoes not.” I was bantering with him, but hadn't made a move to go back up the stairs.“My papa sent me here because… I really don’t even know why. But whatever he thinks you can fix, trust me, amigo… the gym isn't it.”
There were at least eight different machines in the room I’d yet to enter, including a StairMaster. I didn't work out, but I'd seen enough online to know that even though that machine gave you the best butt, it was intense. There was no way in hell I was getting on that contraption.
“To be honest… I don’t know what the fuck your father thinks I can do with you either. But you here now, and under my roof, you do as I do. I work out six days a week, but for you, we’ll start with two and build from there.”
He scanned my body in a non-seductive way. I could see his eyes evaluating me, which was good because I didn’t want to die from heavy weightlifting. Still, his gaze made me shift my weight.
“Everyone can benefit from working out,” he said as he turned and walked toward the dumbbell rack. “You should want to be the best version of yourself. Working out makes you live better, sleep better, breathe better,fuckbetter.” His voice dropped an octave on the last two words he stated, or at least my mind imagined it did. My neck heated, and if there was a mirror, I was almost certain my cheeks would reflect a flushed face.
“You can work out in socks, or you can slide those gym shoes on next to you,” he said, snapping me from my internal thoughts.
Looking down, there were a pair of shoes, exactly like his, but in my size. I wanted to ask where all this had come from, but I had no right to question anything. I had no money, no friends here, and no clue how to navigate this foreign land. I was at his mercy.
Once I had the shoes on, I dragged my feet until I was standing within arm’s length of him.
“Working out and eating better are among the hardest things you could do as a human. Consistency produces results and builds healthy habits. There is no man of substance walking the earth who wants a wife without some kind of routine to ensure she’s taking care of herself.”
The Rodríguezes didn’t have any substance. They wereanimales—pigs, to be exact. They had no regard for anyone outside of one another. The only “routine” they’d ever want fromme was one that involved me on my back or on my knees, with one of my holes readily available. Just the thought of me being my fiancé’s personal sex slave for the rest of my life made me want to vomit. Of all the men my father could have chosen for me, I had to end up with the worst of themalditos(bastards).
“Aye.”
Blinking away my crude thoughts, I focused on Shio.
“We gone start off on the treadmill. Light day for the newbie.”
Nodding, I walked over to the treadmill, looking at the machine like I’d never seen one before. Stepping on the belt, I looked at the screen, wondering how to start it. Shio reached in between and began pressing buttons, close enough for me to feel his authoritative aura. Trailing my eyes from his face to the flexed veins in his arm, I swallowed a moan creeping up my trachea. The tattoos on his dark flesh were tastefully done, the ink telling a story far more interesting than my own life.Chicago—the only word I could read, permanently drawn on his skin, stood out the most. Picasso himself must have been the lucky artist responsible for the art on him. They were too well done. My older brothers also had tattoos, and since they were fair-skinned, the details were visible. Looking at Shio’s arms, it proved their ink to be cheap, uneven, andculeros(ugly).There was no comparison; Shio’s ink was perfect. Everything about him was, down to the crisp sheets in the guest room and the natural oils placed at every sink I’d encountered in my three days here. Too clean. Too controlled. Meticulously cautious.
Extremely attractive.
As he continued tinkering with the settings, an alluring scent wafted up my nose. It was masculine, rich, and strong. I leaned in slightly, trying to catch hints of his aroma as if it were my oxygen source. The moment I inhaled deeply, I felt a calming sensation. Lavender—as if a warm blanket had been wrappedaround me, followed by praline—a sweet and nutty sensation, like my favorite ice cream. It was the only reason I could identify it. Oud and bergamot couldn't be missed either, dark and heavy. Before I could delve deeper into the scents radiating off this fine specimen, the machine hummed to life, forcing my feet to move.
“¡Dios mío!(Oh goodness!),” I screeched out.
No warm-up. No warning.
The belt was moving too fast for walking, but too slow for running. A manageable jog was forced out of me, but I was maintaining for now. Just as my body had grown accustomed to the pace after a few minutes, Shio reached in again, the delightful scent overpowering me, and increased the speed.
“Wait. Wait! This is too fast.”
My heart rate tripled, and my lungs became desperate for reprise. My forehead was now drenched in sweat as the belt roared at an alarming speed. I felt at any moment I’d trip over my feet and topple into the elliptical behind me.
“I don’t know what the fuck your father is cooking up over there across the water, but I’m not the nigga to plot on,” he spoke in an even tone like I wasn’t fighting for my life millimeters away from him.
