Page 103 of Mob Princess

“Why not? You were the easiest person to get to this week. Your injuries meant you were more susceptible to the sedative hitting you harder. You aren’t moving as fast as you usually are. You tire more easily. I picked off the runt in the pack of antelope.”

“What do you want with my family?”

Silence.

I didn’t expect an answer since that would clue me in on who this is. But I hoped it might be someone naïve enough or prideful enough that they told me something that could help me figure this shite out.

I wait, but this person says nothing more. Instead, I hear a door slam in the distance. It surprises me when no one appears. If I’m in a school gym, then those loud doors likely led outside. I strain to hear anything, but it’s silent again. I suspect what woke me was the door slamming when whoever this fucker is came into the building. The dose is wearing off, but not completely. Something had to disturb me.

I spot the doors that appear to lead into another part of the school and the ones that lead outside. I move my ankles and wrists to see how my circulation is and to figure out what’s keeping me tied to the chair. Zip ties have my wrists restrained behind my back. My arms pulled tight is why the needle in my elbow stings. Duct tape is around my ankles and the chair legs.

I test whether I can stand. It’s fucking awkward, but not impossible. I shuffle my feet a few steps forward. This will take forever, but I can cross the gym. I may have to rest because the shitbag is right. I’m not at full capacity yet. But I’m stronger that he realizes. Strength of mind and strength of body.

I need to find Lina.

Nothing matters more than getting free right now because making sure Lina is safe is my only priority. I can reflect on what I heard later. I can consider whether this is connected to the shooting and whether this is connected to Ewan’s attack. I can plan revenge once I’ve touched Lina and am convinced she’s okay.

I don’t know how long it takes me, but I’m drenched in sweat. My incision prickles. I want to throw up. But I’m at the doors that lead outside. There’s a vertical rectangular window in each door, so I look both ways. The parking lot is empty. Good. I press the metal bar that opens the door but don’t push. No alarm sounds. I open it a crack. The brick exterior has rough edges. I’m likely to rub off seven layers of skin, but I can twist enough to work the plastic zip ties until I cut through them.

The moment my arms are loose, I move back inside. I keep a chair leg propping the door open. I peel the clear tape off my arm, taking half the hairs on my arm with it, then ease the needle out of me. I’d love to toss the needle aside despite the biohazard that would leave for someone else to clean up, but it’s biohazard. It has my markers on it. I use my teeth to hold on to it while I lean forward to get the Duct tape off my ankles. Once I’m free, I pick up the plastic chair. Not ideal, but it’ll work. I carry it with the legs out in front of me. It might protect me from a bullet, but it’s a battering ram or sword if I need it. I’d just need to buy myself time to run.

I sweep my gaze over my surroundings. I look up at the building. I’m already in Mott Haven. But it’s daylight. Probably around seven or eight. My family doesn’t panic, but they’ll be in full-blown war mode by now. I’ve been missing for four or five hours. I need to get in touch with them somehow. I head toward the street and keep watching my surroundings. I don’t have a phone, so I can’t order an Uber or Lyft. I don’t have my wallet to pay for a cab.

When I get to the edge of campus, I put the chair down. Now’s the time to blend in and not look—questionable—with a plastic chair that clearly comes from a school. There’s only one place you find this specific shaped and uncomfortable chair. I know where I am. It’ll be a walk, but I can get to our place.

The abandoned train station hasn’t been in use for over a decade. The city’s done nothing with it except send an inspector around occasionally. We’ve made the entrance to our hideout practically invisible. If you don’t know where to look, you won’t find the door we cut out. We have a satellite phone that we only use for absolute emergencies. I think this counts.

I already noticed I don’t have my watch. I can’t send an alert. I also don’t have my belt. Whoever this is must know those are two things syndicate men almost always wear no matter where they go. It’s where we hide our trackers. The Diazes and my family favor the watches. The Kutsenkos and Andreyevs along with the Mancinellis favor the belts.

My suit coat is gone. I still have my tie on—surprised they didn’t use it as a noose—so I pull it off, wrap the syringe in it, and shove it in my pocket. I unfasten the top three buttons, including the collar, and untuck my shirt. I roll the right sleeve up to match the left where the fucker injected me. Probably more than once since they left the needle in. I don’t blend in, but I don’t look as suspiciously out of place.

Fuck. I spot a liquor store we do business with—extort. I could use their phone, but then they’d know something happened to me. Why else would I need to use it? Who doesn’t have their cell with them every day all day?

It’s worth the gossip. I duck inside and look around.

“Hey, Manny.”

“Sean?”

He gets uncomfortable real fast. His gaze darts around. Is he hiding something? Or is he afraid I’m here to do a random collection?

“Yeah. My phone died, and I need to make a call. Can I use yours?”

I could say please. I should say please. But manners aren’t what I’m known for here. At least I asked.

“Sure.”

I know where it is since I’ve seen the clerks on it enough times. I definitely am not using his personal cell phone. I walk around the corner and pick it up. I prop it against my shoulder and use my knuckle to dial.

“Sean!” Dillan’s so loud I nearly pull the phone from my ear after I greet him.

“Yeah. Aguardiente.”

“Ten minutes.”

That means he’s at the station. There’s no way it would be that fast if he wasn’t in the Bronx already. Aguardiente is a distilled spirit that, ironically, the Colombians favor. The name’s what got our attention when Finn and I were checking out the area to see who needed “protection.” Mott Haven is heavily Dominican, Puerto Rican, and Mexican. Not a Colombian hang out. If only. That would have pissed the fuck out of Enrique.

I hang up and roll down my sleeve enough to wipe it over the receiver and keypad. I step around the counter and glance up at the security camera. No erasing I’m here. I listen for Manny and whoever else is here. Someone’s talking in the stockroom. I get closer.

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