Page 61 of Protected By the Mafia

Felicity released a breath, then, and looked around some more. With Problem One hopefully secured, she needed to think about the looming threat of Problem Two—the next Ink Blot who would inevitably walk through that door. It was the only way in or out of the room. There weren’t even any windows, unless there was a window in the space behind the curtain. She honestly didn’t know if the door was locked, but it felt stupid to try and check. She’d seen for herself at least half a dozen gangsters just hanging out in the building, utterly immune to the sight of her being dragged around, on her way in.

Going back through that door without a real plan or protector was suicide.

She turned her attention again to the kitchenette. The potato peeler and zip ties would do her little good in another confrontation, so she checked the cupboards. Bagged rice, instant oatmeal, bread, some canned goods with pop-tops, a small toaster, a small single-serve coffee maker, and plastic dishes. Felicity rolled an idea through her head and pulled as much as she could out to see at once. It looked like Tristán had been planning to hold her here for the long-term. That bastard.

There were five canned items. Not exactly a lot, but it was a small kitchenette. She fingered the pull tab on one and glanced back at the rope, envisioning a crazy idea.

Tristán grunted at her, eyes squinted and bloodshot.

She flipped him off for good measure, then peeled off one of the lids. She took it, and the pot, and walked back over to him. She’d been careful the way she had tied the knot in the rope, leaving a large section simply extended under the bed. It was a lot of rope, to her mind. Now she had a use for it, and maybe a way to cut it.

Tristán tried to roll toward her, swinging weakly in her direction.

Felicity raised the pot and he retreated immediately. It was surprisingly disappointing. She lowered it, careful to keep it out of his reach, and pulled the rope to her so she could see about cutting it. Can lids had sharp edges, but they weren’t exactly true knives, so it took some sawing. At one point her grip slipped and she cut into her own hand a little, but she had good reflexes so it didn’t bite in too deep. Still, the lid and the rope were dotted with her blood by the time she was done. But she succeeded, and the pain barely registered beneath her pride.

Felicity took her items, kicking her half-brother’s legs out of her way when he tried to trip her up, back to the kitchenette. First, she washed off her hands in the built-in sink, using the bar soap that at least looked new which had been set there. She wrapped one of the towels around her palm in lieu of a bandage, despite that it made maneuvering awkward, then started moving things over to the doorway.

She threaded the rope through the still-attached pull tabs of the remaining canned items, tied one end of the rope to the doorknob, and anchored the other end beneath the toaster. Everything was spread in a small arch, within the swing of the door. Not only would whoever entered have to watch their step, but even if she’d somehow fallen asleep, they would make too much noise for her to miss. It wasn’t as good as setups she’d seen on television, of course, but she was proud of herself when she sat back and looked at the combination of carefully placed cans and small appliances. If she could have rigged the bag of rice to somehow fall on the head of whoever came through the door, she’d have done that, too.

Tristán made another strained groan that somehow sounded like “fuck.”

Felicity stood, picked up her pot, and walked back properly into his line of sight. He’d shifted enough to assure her he was trying to stay alert, trying to figure out what she was doing. But it was also clear he wasn’t fully succeeding. She didn’t know exactly where she’d hit him with her wild swing, but apparently an adrenaline-fueled metal pot to the skull was effective. Looking at him on the ground, tied up and wounded and still trying to glare at her, made all her messed-up, complicated feelings rush to the surface.

She stepped closer and kicked his feet to keep his attention. “Hey, asshole. You know you’re the last, right? You know your parents are dead. Manny’s dead. It’s just you, since I’ve never really been part of that family.” She watched his eyes widen, as much as they were able since apparently his entire face was swelling, before sinking into a spiteful glare.

He made more sounds that might have been attempts at words. She was starting to suspect his jaw was badly damaged.

Felicity didn’t blink. “And I don’t have to be part of that family anymore.” She raised her wounded hand, turning it so the diamond faced him. “I’m engaged. I have a new family now, one that doesn’t hate me or abuse me. I’m happy now.” Her chest burned as his glare intensified. “I’m happy,” she repeated, “and I’m not going to let you destroy that. So fuck you, Tristán. Fuck you straight to Hell.”

She said nothing more before turning away from him and striding out of his sight, around the bed, so she could put her back to the wall. She didn’t want to sit in the nasty old chair he’d been sitting in, either. So as a small added defense measure, she tucked herself as best she could between the side of it and the bare wall, sliding down and settling in. She had no idea how long she would be stuck there, no idea how long it would be before someone came through that door or even if Tristán might somehow escape her tie. But that was why she held onto her pot.

It took Mikey over an hour to isolate and clean up one single image well enough to bring in the few eyes they had. Cristiano was too impatient to wait for a third-party to do the pickup, so he swung by himself and coerced Miguel into his car. It wasn’t the most subtle thing he’d ever done, but he absolutely did not give a fuck.

“Yo, man, what gives? I didn’t miss a call,” Miguel said as Cristiano pulled into traffic.

“No time for that,” Cristiano replied. “Need you to look a picture and tell us if you recognize someone.”

“You couldn’t just text it to me?”

“Quality’s not what we’d like. Deal with it.”

Miguel leaned back in his seat but stayed quiet for the remainder of the short drive. Until they arrived at the unlabeled office front, at least. “Where the hell even is this place, old man?”

Cristiano cut the engine and met the boy’s stare in the rearview mirror. “Right now, it’s a work in progress. Follow me.” He shoved from the car, too agitated to be grateful that Miguel did as he’d been told, and led the way into the building.

The building was three stories tall on the outside, but Cristiano went straight for the stairs that took them into the fully finished basement where he knew Mikey was working. No one tried to stop him. One man nodded in recognition as he held open a door, looking vaguely uncomfortable. He wasn’t in a mindset to feel guilty about that.

The basement was lit up, several desks with veritable walls of monitors set throughout the space. Berto glanced their way as Cristiano passed his seat, nodding in acknowledgment.

Behind Cristiano, Miguel let out a low whistle. “Damn. This is nice.”

Mikey stood from behind the largest desk and waved Cristiano over. “I have the image on my central monitor,” he said as they approached. “If I blow it up any bigger, it gets too distorted.” He held out his hand, stopping Cristiano before Cristiano could round the desk properly. “Do not break my equipment, please. What you’re going to see is not my fault.”

Cristiano felt the glare settle on his face. He couldn’t stop it. “Move, Mikey.”

Mikey sighed and stepped out of the way.

Cristiano reached back and half-pulled Miguel forward. “Your eyes are the ones we need.” Not that he didn’t follow behind the boy to see the image for himself. Whether Miguel knew who it was or not, he wanted to have a face for the man who’d taken his woman.

---