Page 132 of Bitter Poetry
“I will arrange for one.”
CHRISTIAN
She asked for a female driver.
That stings. But also…
I pull up my nondescript white van behind the car where her driver is parked outside her father’s house. It’s a nice leafy street, so that will shield the view of the road and vehicles if anyone happens to be glancing out an upstairs window. Her sister’s not home. Her father is in a wheelchair, and I’ve never once seen him come down to see her off. I might not get an opportunity this good for a long time.
Game on.
I flip through some fake delivery notes while watching the car. She’s been in there for a couple of hours. If she follows her usual pattern, she should be coming out soon.
Her driver gets out of the car.
Angela is six foot and a former marine. She is not going to be having a good day if this works out.
C’est la vie, and all that.
Pulling my baseball cap down low, I open my door, jump out, and slide open the side door. With a parcel in my hand and my eyes on my cell phone like I am checking the address, I cut a path that will take me past Angela.
Her eyes track and then dismiss me.
I pivot, drop the empty delivery parcel, and take her by the throat. My knuckles are still sore from beating on Cosmo, and my grip is off. A brief tussle follows while I choke her out. Then I open the back door and shove her heavy ass inside—the bitch works out, so it’s all fucking muscle.
Working quickly, I administer a prepped injection that will knock her out for a good hour. I search her for her cell and the car key before slamming the door shut.
The back windows on all of Ettore’s cars are one-way glass, so that works out well.
I’m retrieving the parcel I dropped on the sidewalk when I hear the front door open. I carry on to the neighbor’s house and drop the box on the porch.
When I glance over my shoulder, Carmela is nearing the car, her steps slowing as she glances around.
I make a show of taking a photo of my fake delivery while keeping my eyes on the prize.
She’s peering through the car windows now.
I cut a path back toward my van, keeping tabs on what she’s doing out of the corner of my eye.
CARMELA
Where the hell has my driver gone? I just messaged her to say I was coming out, and now she has disappeared. This is fate punishing me for not letting Christian drive me.
I’m wrung out from the conversation with my father, where he cried and told me once more that this wouldn’t be forever. But today, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to sugarcoat my feelings.
And today, I didn’t believe him anymore.
I cup my hands to the one-way glass and try to peer inside.
A hand clamps over my mouth from behind, and another circles my waist. I’m lifted clean from the ground and manhandled away. Panic slams into me. I’m there in the attic room again, trapped and helpless, the dust clogging my throat… I catch the flash of a white van and turn feral. The delivery man?
He lifts me into the back, untroubled by my wild thrashing. The door rattles as it slides shut along the rails. My bag is tipped onto the floor while my captor is still holding me, his arm anchored around my waist and his palm over my mouth. He snags my cell phone and slips it into his pocket.
“Quiet, babe.”
I blink furiously, my mind playing catch up.Christian?
“Behave, and I will take my hand away.”
