Page 43 of Consumed By the Mafia

The cabbie swung his arm forward, pointing his blunt at her. “You psycho, stalking bitch! I did my time!”

Understanding slammed into Ryoma a heartbeat before Abby released his arm, and his hand, and took a half-step forward. The cabbie with the bad habits he’d thought to press for an off-the-books ride was, by some unfathomable stroke of questionable luck, the driver responsible for Abby’s parents’ homicide. She had said she’d lost track of him, but damn.Wonder who was really stalking who?

Abby used his moment of realization to draw her gun. “Four years doesn’t come anywhere near balancing the scale, you bastard. Do you think they only had four years left? Do you think I stopped mourning them after four years? Do you think my grandparents stopped mourning their daughter after four years?” Her finger curled around the trigger as he backed up, the blunt falling from his hand. “I was still achildwhen you were set free from your so-called punishment, and you think you got what you deserved?”

Ryoma laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing just enough to get her attention. Hopefully to keep her from dropping a body right there in the parking lot. He kept his glare on Wells. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, pal. You’re gonna take your keys out of your pocket, slowly, and toss ‘em to me. We’re going to ride in the backseat while Abby here does the driving. You’ll hand over your phone and any other electronic, signal-producing device you have on you voluntarily because you don’t want me to start slicing. I’m very good at drawing out the pain. Do you understand?”

Wells’s eyes went wide again, darting between them wildly. “F-fuck…”

“Refuse, or try to run, and I’ll just shoot you,” Abby said. “And I’ll sleep so damn good.”

Ryoma struggled to keep his mean face on as a combination of pride and lust surged through him. It was probably for the best that Wells admitted defeat and dipped one hand into his front pants pocket.

“Okay, okay. Christ. Just don’t kill me, you fucking lunatics…” He pulled a set of keys from the pocket, held them up for emphasis, then tossed them weakly through the air. They clanged onto the surface of the cab and slid another foot, bringing them within Ryoma’s reach. “Can I at least finish my—”

“No,” Abby said firmly.

Ryoma snatched up the keys, walked around his girlfriend, and finally held them out to her. “I’ll keep him in line, baby girl.” He tapped the fob to unlock the car. “You get us back to the city.” Bringing in an unplanned, unaffiliated guest was not on anyone’s to-do list, and seeing as how he’d lost points recently, it wasn’t going to be the most welcome thing. But sometimes shit happened.

Abby nodded, accepted the keys, and lowered her gun.

Wells twisted as if to run.

Ryoma clothes-lined him at the throat and caught him roughly by the arm, just barely keeping the bastard from cracking his head. He stomped out the forgotten, half-smoked roach, then dragged the groaning felon into the backseat of the cab. By the time he had the weakly protesting male buckledin, Abby had opened and fished through the trunk and was returning to his side.

“Murdering asshole creep keeps duct tape in his trunk,” she said, holding a partially used roll of silver tape out in offering. “Might help.”

Ryoma didn’t fight the grin this time. “Baby girl, I’m so fucking proud of you.” He pecked her on the lips before letting her duck into the driver’s seat as he bent back in to wrap up the murdering asshole creep’s ankles. Her mumbled sounds of disgust as she took her seat only made him grin wider, and a part of him worried he really had finally cracked. Instead of thinking too hard on it, he yanked the bastard forward against the seatbelt, wrestled with the man’s arms, and managed to wind some tape around his wrists, too.

Only then did he round the car to take his own seat, in the back where he could easily wrangle Wells back under control if necessary. It also helped sell the ‘just another cab’ lie to passerby.

“You’re both psycho,” Wells declared as Abby put the car in motion. “Who even carries knives like that with them? You almost cut me!”

Ryoma shrugged and let the remaining tape fall to the floor at his feet. “You shouldn’t have struggled.”

“You—you won’t get away with this. I did my time. I’ll report you.”

Abby accelerated as she merged with the flow of traffic. “Pretty sure you’d get in trouble for that firearm Ialsofound in the trunk,” she said. “And I bet the cops would love to lockyou up for those three outstanding warrants. So go right ahead. Report us.”

Ryoma bit back a groan, his body responding very unhelpfully to the tone of her voice and sharp way she’d spoken.Might have to add a little role play to the list of future fantasies.

Wells scoffed. “You mouthy bitch. I always regretted you not catching one o’ those bullets that day.”

Ryoma let out a breath. “See, shit like that is why I have to hurt you, Corey.” He reached over, shoved a hand behind the man’s back, and snapped a finger. “You talk to my woman like that, you suffer. It’s real simple. I recommend shutting the fuck up.”

Wells’s shrieks settled slowly into whimpering and he tipped himself sideways, leaning against the glass and breathing hard. But he stopped talking.

“Ryoma,” Abby said, “I need to know where exactly I’m going. You have a destination in mind, right?”

He leaned forward to better see out the windshield, orienting himself. “I know the perfect place for our honored guest.” He pointed to a sign. “Take that exit.”

fourteen

Coming Alive

Ryoma’s directions wound themback to the edge of the Passaic, this time inside Newark city limits. Abigail parked the hijacked cab in front of a small, two-story building that was nestled between larger, newer, and better-kept buildings. The one in front of them resembled a clichéd portside warehouse. When they hauled the man responsible for her parents’ murders inside the building, that sense of cliché only escalated.

Two long, parallel tubes of fluorescent lights flickered to life and revealed a wide-open, high-ceilinged space that was undoubtedly the stuff of many nightmares. A lone steel beam ran the length of the ceiling between the lights. Hanging downto the floor from that beam was a thick, ominous chain that reminded Abigail of the one from the basement of the safehouse. Around them the space was sparse. There was a lone chair shoved off to the side, up against the row of lower cabinets that spanned most of one wall. An undecorated butcherblock countertop sat atop those, as if purposefully left open and available.

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