Page 7 of Mine to Love
“Like us?” Zane asks. Suddenly reminded of their presence, the bartender spins around, startled. “And what exactly do you mean by that?” Zane takes a threatening step forward with his arms crossed. If I weren’t ready to end this, I’d let him play with him a little longer, but we’re all soaked. And I can’t think straight until I know that Darcy and Delilah are safe.
“I just…I…criminals! There, I said it, low-life thugs!” The bartender faces me then, spitting at my feet. I cock my head to the side as my eyes narrow.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Xander says then. His words are a warning, not a threat. Neither he nor Zane make any movestoward the man on his knees before me. They know he’s mine. And as I look him in the eyes, I find myself both sick to my stomach and thankful I took it upon myself to deal with him tonight. I’ve seen this expression before. Arrogance and self-righteousness in the face of death are characteristic of predators. It reminds me of faces I wish I could forget, but never will.
Having decided his fate, I take off my mask. Zane and Xander do the same. They know what this means. As I reveal myself, the pathetic asshole finally puts the pieces of this most unfortunate evening together. “It’s you. Mr. Moretti?” He looks up at me, dumbfounded. After all, how could a low life thug afford the drinks at hisfinebar or the suits I constantly cycle through?
I squat down, still gripping my gun, so that he may memorize my face and remember the last words he will ever hear. “You disrespect me and my colleagues,” I say then. “Although, you’re most egregious offense, and reason for your missing teeth and blood dripping down your face, has nothing to do with me.”
It’s then that realization dawns on him. “This is about that blonde bitch with the kid, isn’t it?” he asks. His words flatten my lips into a grim, straight line. In a matter of seconds, I drop my gun to the ground and lunge at him. I take him down by the throat. Locking my arms, I put all the force of my upper body onto his neck while using my legs to hold him in position.
“You do not speak of her in that way!” I growl. “You do not speak of her at all. You do not deserve to breathe the same air as her and in seconds, you won’t breathe at all.” My head feels hot and my vision blurs as adrenaline courses through me. I see just enough to watch the man beneath me humbled by death. As his arms flop to the side and I feel his life source leave him, I release my grip.
“Boss, we’ve got it from here,” Zane says, taking a step toward me.
“I’m not done yet.” I pull a knife from the hidden pocket beneath my belt and use it to carve the mark of the Amato crime family into his chest—an X meant to signify the execution of an enemy. Though he doesn’t move, assuring me he’s dead, I slit his throat for good measure. He was right to call me a criminal. I am. I own it. But I am also a gentleman, and a gentleman defends and protects the innocent, especially the ones he cares for. And I will not stand to see Darcy disrespected. “Now, I’m done.”
As I stand and collect my weapon, Xander says, “Never thought I’d see that again,” as he takes in my handiwork.
I holster my weapon as the pouring rain rinses away the bartender’s blood from the concrete beneath us. It’s then that I look at them, finding them curious and proud. They want to know about the blonde the bartender referred to, but they know better than to ask. Instead, I say, “We may not have a King. We may not have power. But we have each other. We have loyalty, respect, oaths, and traditions that bind us together. Never forget that. A threat to one is a threat to all. Disrespect of one is disrespect of all. And we will handle those threats and disrespect as we always have.”
“With pride,” Zane says.
“With custom,” Xander says.
“With honor—for the ones we love,” I finish. Nodding, I lower my head. “Now, take care of this, will you? And take care of yourselves.”
“You too, Boss,” they both say.
With their parting words, I return to my car. As I sit, sopping wet on the leather seat, I make a mental note to have it cleaned. But that task comes second to the most pressing. Reaching for my phone, I quickly dial The Compound. It’s our French Quarter base of operations for the soldiers still loyal to me and Alister. Milo answers.
“I need you to find someone for me.” I give him all the information I have on Darcy and Delilah and tell him her last known location. He’ll be able to tap into the cameras around the Quarter and track her from Broussard’s. I just pray by the time he finds her she hasn’t found herself in any trouble or the bartender won’t be the only body I drop tonight.
7
I messed up.I knew it a half mile back, but we’d already come too far out of the city to turn around. While the first women’s shelter was only a four-minute walk from the restaurant, it was already full by the time we got there. So, that left me with two options. The first, find a place for us amongst the garbage in the sketchy alleyways of the French Quarter. Given the liveliness of the New Orleans nightlife and the fact that anyone—drunk or otherwise—could stumble upon us at any moment, I didn’t think that much of a choice. The second, walk the mile and a half out of the French Quarter to the next nearest shelter on the outskirts of the Marigny.
It seemed like a better option, even though there was no guarantee that they’d have availability either. That is, until it started raining and everything became darker, quieter, and less populated the further we got from the heart of the city. I didn’t know it was possible for a landscape to change so drastically in just a mile and a half. Tonight has enlightened me. Gone is the Southern sophistication I found on Royal, Conti, and Bienville.
With my cream-colored dress sticking to my bare skin, I stand now, completely exposed, sopping wet and physicallyexhausted. With Delilah in my arms and two backpacks strapped to my shoulders, I sink my head in defeat outside the locked door of the fully occupied shelter. I close my eyes then and hold in the scream threatening to escape me.
I should’ve accepted Mr. Moretti’s offer. I understand why I didn’t. I was afraid of him, of what he would do once he got me alone. And, even if he wasn’t a predator and the job was real, it reminded me too much of my former life for my comfort. Every day, I would wake and care for a man like a slave. I would cook, clean, oblige his every request, all while avoiding eye contact and doing my best to keep Delilah hidden. That isn’t the life I want for myself or for her. But now… Now I find myself truly afraid of whatever semblance of a life I still have,andfor Delilah.
While the small awning above the door of the shelter offers us a welcome reprieve from the relentless rain, it does nothing to ease my mind. We are surrounded by darkness and graffiti-covered warehouses. There are very few streetlights and no restaurants or bars, no hotels or businesses. This place is void of the people—witnesses—I was once afraid of and now crave. We’re alone. Though, I fear not for long.
While walking to the shelter, we passed through a residential area before making it to the industrial zone we’re in now. As we passed various houses, I noted a few men watching us from the opposite side of the street. Some sat on their porches smoking cigarettes and herbs. Some stood around their cars. Others were simply walking when they called out to me.
While the rain muffled most of their words, the looks on their faces as they examined my damn-near naked body told me loud and clear to keep walking, keep moving. That’s what kept me pushing to the shelter, afraid to slow down or turn around, afraid to rethink my decision. This shelter was our only hope, and now that hope is gone.
It’s then that headlights force my eyes open. I gasp and turn toward them.
“Mommy?” Delilah asks sleepily.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I lie.
While the incoming car is still a decent distance away, I quickly turn and round the corner of the shelter. Putting Delilah down, I slip the backpacks off my shoulders and leave them behind so that we can move quicker. Pulling her into my arms again, I take off running. Truly, there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The warehouses are long, flat-sided buildings. Which means, unlike in the French Quarter, there are no nooks and crannies, no alleyways to hide in. So, instead, I focus my attention on a parked school bus just up ahead.
There’s a streetlight near it, allowing me to make out certain details of the bus. It’s old and rusty, covered in graffiti, which tells me it’s likely abandoned and may be unlocked. If we can make it to the bus before whoever is in that car spots us, we might survive the night.
