Page 20 of Naughty Santa Daddy

Oh no.

No.

This can’t be happening. The panic bashes into me like a semi-truck. Emotions I’ve learned to control over years of focus suddenly no longer heed my instruction but threaten to consume me. Tears fill my eyes, clouding my vision as I’m passed through the window to an equally big man who’s been waiting to do his part. This one has dark flesh, making his angry brown eyes pop out against his skin. The other guy was Italian, I’d know the accent meshed with New Yorker anywhere.

I do what any sane woman would do in my situation. I choke on a sob, let my head go limp, and the moment the man holding me takes a step down the ladder, I rear back, headbutting the fuck out of him.

“Shit!” he growls, squeezing me to the point of pain. “You’re going to pay for that.” I know I will. There’s no doubt in my mind if these men get me to wherever they plan on going, I won’t be alive for long.

So, this is what the hospital drive-by was about. It was me all along. Even with the new identity and fake papers, I’d still been hunted all in the name of my papá, of myfamiglia,and their ties to the business. It never ends.

Tears streak down my cheeks, coating my face and chin in salty trails. Make no mistake, I’m no weak woman, only one caught off guard in an unusual circumstance. The fact it’s happening after being vigilant for so long is more frustrating than anything. Knowing my family home is on fire and my parents may be trapped inside, along withsoldatiand possibly Enzo, stabs away at my heart. I should be able to save them. This was far too random. It’s the only way they could’ve gotten past Papá to see this out.

With another burst of energy, I rear back again, but the man’s careful, expecting me to fight him at this point and moves out of the way before my head connects with him again. Not one to be evaded, I pitch forward and fall out of his hands. It’s about five feet from the ground, so the landing doesn’t hurt, just momentarily stuns me that it actually worked.

“Help! Papá! Enzo! Helpppp!” I manage to wail as loudly as possible before a boot connects harshly with my thigh, and then he’s on me, hand covering my mouth.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he retorts, but the other guy jumps the remaining feet down to land beside us.

“No, she’s not. We’ll get money for her, more than we can spend. Our orders are not to kill her. Pretty sure they want to do that part.” He grabs my legs so they can carry my restrained hands and legs while also covering my mouth. I’m sobbing at this point. My thigh screams in pain, and I’m sure there will be asize fourteen boot bruise as a reminder of this horrendous night. I couldn’t run right now if I wanted to. Hell, I probably couldn’t even crawl it hurts so fucking bad, but none of it matters, only the fact I can smell smoke and see flames coming from the side of my childhood home.

They make it to a dark green van advertising a florist not too far off the property and open the back door. I’m launched inside the already running vehicle, landing hard enough to make me cry out and then groan as I attempt to roll to my back. The door slams shut, and then I’m momentarily encased in quiet stillness. The vehicle vibrates back here with the engine on and Christmas carols playing lowly. A tall, skinny white dude is patiently waiting in the driver’s seat. He taps his fingers to the tune on the steering wheel, but my vision is too blurry to see anything of significance other than his side profile as tears continue to fill and spill over. I’m so angry, scared, and hurt I couldn’t turn the silent sobbing off if I tried to at this point.

The side door slides open at the same time the passenger’s is wrenched free as both men clamber inside. The passenger barks, “Drive! We need to get the hell outta here before too many people see that fuckin’ house burnin’ down.”

I stare at the ceiling as the van lurches forward and the Christmas carols get turned up.Eartha Kittcroons the lyrics toSanta Babythrough the space, and one name comes to mind.

Goliath.

Please help me.

If these guys did more than light a fire and my father and cousins are dead, you’re the only one who can possibly save me.

Chapter 8

Naomi Porter

Naomi Porter

Goliath

Thirteen Hours Ago…

Granny shuffles back and forth in her tiny kitchen, wearing a red robe and candy-cane-striped fuzzy socks. The room is barely bigger than a utility closet, but it’s all she’s ever needed, so she says. She’s an adorable sight, one I missed the last seven years, along with the delicious breakfast she made me. Nobody makes cheesy grits better than her.

From the three-person dinette covered in a Christmassy tablecloth, my gaze follows her every step. She goes to the gold eighties fridge, the one she refuses to upgrade for a modern version, removes boxes of butter for her sweet potato casseroles, then places them on the avocado-green seventies Formica countertop. She forever lives in the past, and I can’t say I blame her. Life today is fucking complicated.

I narrow my eyes and study her brown linoleum floors, which have seen better days. From my vantage point, I spot some squares with raised corners, and a few are curled. It’s so much worse than the last time I was here.

“I’m gonna replace the floors before you trip and break your hip,” I say as I fork another massive bite. “What kind do ya want? Lino again or real wood? Heck, we can even do tile if you want.” I fill my mouth and wait for her response. No surprise, I don’t get one.

Granny ignores me, going about her business as if she doesn’t hear a word I’m saying. Avoidance has always been her tactic when she doesn’t like something, as it is for most people. Naturally, she’ll try to talk me out of fixing up her humble abode. Refuse to take the dirty money I earn from the club, but that’s not the case this time. I’m legit now, working at Strike’s contracting business.

I don’t tell her as much because it won’t matter. Granny wants me in her town instead of a couple of hours away. That’s why the goddamn floors will be replaced before Christmas, so I won’t worry about her.

What am I saying? She’s my only living blood relative, my sweet Granny. Damn straight I’m going to worry about her every second of every day. Wish I could be in two places at one time…

I return my attention to her. It’s so like her to get a jump start on cooking weeks before the Christmas potluck at her church. ‘Early bird gets the worm’ is her motto.

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