Chapter One
Luca
This asshole is pissing me off. We’ve been going around in circles for five minutes, and the longer we stand out here, the greater the likelihood someone will spot us. I have a sixth sense about these things. It’s why I’m still alive at the ripe old age of thirty-one.
“Espinoza, enough already. Either sell to us or don’t, but we set the price. Your tequila is good, but it isn’t nectar from the gods.”
I’m watching Carlos Espinoza, some lackey for the Mexican Culiacán Cartel, try to maneuver me into paying more than the agreed upon price. I know it’s so he can skim off the top.
“It’s as close as you’re going to get. You’ve upped the order, so the price per case goes up.”
My uncle, Salvatore Mancinelli, is the New York don. He negotiated this deal, and I warned him it was a bad idea. But what do I know as his underboss and heir? I’m not backing down.
“Haven’t you ever heard of a bulk discount? The more I order the better the price should be. No one else around here is buying from you. You know we’re your only choice in three out of five boroughs. You aren’t going to the Bronx because you won’t get more than pennies there. You aren’t going to Queens because you don’t want to run into the Colombians. You aren’t going to Manhattan because then you face the bratva along with us. And what are you going to do in Staten Island? Sell to us anyway? We control Staten Island and Brooklyn when it comes to liquor stores, so take the money and go.”
“Luca, there are plenty of liquor stores in Brooklyn that aren’t owned by Italians. I’ll go there.”
We aren’t friends. He’s patronizing me by using my first name. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. I have other solutions for this shit.
“And I’ll just take what I want from them for free. That’s not a half bad idea. The deal’s over. Take your shit with the worm in it and go.”
“Motherfucking racist. Not all tequila has a worm in it.”
“You’re selling Mezcal. It’s known for the fucking worm. I wouldn’t start calling me names, you penche hijo de puta.” Fucking son of a bitch.
He has twenty-five crates of stolen tequila that he’s trying to offload because he knows he can’t sell it at his own liquor store.
“What did you call me?”
Carlos takes what he thinks is a menacing step forward, and his two bodyguards do the same. Not smart. Neither of my two bodyguards nor I react, but the three men in each of my cars open their doors. They won’t do more than that. It’s just a reminder that the Culiacán can try, but the Cosa Nostra still run New York City.
“This is the third and final time I say this. Sell or leave.”
Every head turns toward the liquor store’s back door as it opens. A gorgeous blonde steps out, and I wish I had the time to appreciate her beauty, but she’s about to die. Carlos and his men draw their guns and pivot toward her. My men pull their weapons too, but we keep them pointed at the Mexicans. The woman stands like a deer in the headlights for a second before ducking behind the industrial garbage dumpster like a frightened rabbit. Three shots hit the metal almost at the same moment. That’s all it takes for my men and me. The two bodyguards standing with me aim for a guard each, and I set my sights on Carlos. We squeeze our triggers, and the men fall.
Screeching tires tell me Carlos’s driver takes off. I hear more gunshots as at least one soldier in my cars tries to shoot the escaping vehicle. Glass shatters, but the sedan keeps going. I hear more tires squeal as one of my SUVs takes off and chases the guy. I holster my gun and wave my men to do the same.
I inch forward toward the trash can, but I see the shadow shift. The woman bolts from the other side. She’s still the frightened rabbit, but I’m the fox pursuing her. She’s fast, I’ll give her that. But she has to be at least a foot shorter than me. My legs are a lot longer and cover a lot more ground with each stride.
She weaves among the cars, most likely believing it’s harder to hit a moving object. She isn’t wrong, but I have no intention of shooting her. I push myself harder and pounce as she darts out and tries to cross the last stretch of parking lot to reach a better lit area near a bus stop. I lunge.
“Stop running, piccolina. I won’t hurt you.”
I wrap my arms around her and pull her back against my chest, but I’m quick to spin her around and put space between us as I grasp her arms. Of course, she fights me.
“If I wanted you dead, I would have shot at you, too.”
“It doesn’t mean you won’t kill me after.”
She’s breathless as she continues to struggle. I almost let go to take a step back, insulted at what she implied. But I can’t blame her. If I were a woman, I’d be terrified of the same thing.
“I’m not going to rape you. I’m going to talk to you.”
“Talk? You are not a man who talks if you just killed a guy.”
“To keep him and his men from killing you. I told you, if I wanted you dead, I would have shot at you too. And I wouldn’t have missed.”
She stops struggling against me, but her eyes continue to dart from one place to another, trying to find somewhere to flee. I know I can keep her in place with only one hand, so I release her left arm. I still have a firm hold on her right one, but I haven’t held it nearly as tightly as I could.
“I’m Luca. I know you figured out you interrupted something you shouldn’t have. Did that man know who you are?”
“Yes.”
“What about his driver? Would he know you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
“Piccolina, we won’t get very far if yes is all you can say. Are you willing to answer me with more than one word?”
“No.”
I knew that was coming, and I grin. I can’t help it. I wasn’t wrong about her being gorgeous, but I doubt she wants to know that’s what I think. At least, not if I want her to know I won’t assault her.
“Fine. I have more than twenty questions I can ask that you can answer with one word. Do you work at the store?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ah, an improvement.
“Did Carlos know you were still working?”
“No.”
“Do you have a car, or do you take the subway or bus?”
She raises her chin and remains silent. Smart but counterproductive.
“The subway or the bus will get you killed. You’re too easy to find and follow. Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Can you stay with someone instead of going home?”
She refuses to answer.
“If that man knew you and you sometimes work in the store, then he knew where you live. If he found that out, so will someone in his cartel.”
“I know. Let me go. The longer I stand here, the more likely someone is to come back for me.”
“No one will touch you while I’m here.”
“Arrogant. If he shot at me, he would have shot at you.”
“And he would have died, anyway. What’s your name?”
“Jane.”
“Look, I know you won’t get in one of my cars and let me drive you somewhere. In most cases, I would say that’s a smart move. But you did nothing wrong tonight except for leave work at the wrong time. I know that, and you know that. But the Culiacán won’t see it that way, piccolina.”