Page 22 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
I jump out just in time.
Canal Street is a madhouse. She makes it to a nearby corner and hails a cab. That’s when I know where she’s heading.
I start walking to her destination.
The church would be a place of comfort. Unless, of course, you’d just been told that you had to marry under some ancient ceremony that involved blood.
Which it does. So I don’t think she’s going there.
I make my way to St. Mark’s Place, then down to Avenue A where I lurk in a funky bookshop, watching over the top of a book for a sign of her.
She might go home, but she likes the coffee place across the street.
I know.
It’s my business to keep an eye on her.
To make sure she’s safe.
I never spy. I only observe.
She might see it as stalking, but whatever the fuck.
I keep her safe from a distance.
The coffee place is smart because she can do what I’m doing. Watch. She can make sure the coast is clear before she hops to the next hiding spot.
Too fucking bad it isn’t.
The blue of her coat isn’t a special blue, but somehow, it’s woven itself into something more because of her. Iassociate it with Harry. The bold color stands out in my mind like the ferocity of the woman wearing it.
Finally, I see her darting down the street and into the coffee shop. I count the minutes until she’s outside again, holding a steaming to-go cup. When she starts off down Avenue A, I follow. We head down East Seventh, then past Avenue B, and at Avenue C, she cuts across to East Fifth. I pause, taking in my surroundings as my senses start to spark. The chase isn’t much as I know her destination, but it still has power to light me up from the inside.
Deep down, she knows I’m on the hunt.
And that ignites all sorts of things that I know better than to let flare.
Then she suddenly cuts into the community garden, El Jardin del Paraiso, which is locked but easy enough to get into.
I follow.
For such a religious woman, I find it interesting that she went to her uncle’s on a Sunday without going to church first, and she didn’t hesitate about where to go, church or home, when she got off the train.
It tells me more about her anger and fear and that there’s way more to her than just a simple churchgoing girl.
It tells me she is, at her core, Harry the survivor.
“Stop,” I growl once I’m close enough so she can hear me.
She hesitates and then breaks into a run. I grab her and pull her into me, right up against me.
“Do you get your rocks off over little girls?” she rasps, struggling in my tight grasp.
“Is that really how you see yourself? As a kid?”
Her eyes narrow and she tugs, trying to break free. I tighten my hold, subversively liking her body against mine. “No, asshole, I think there’s something wrong with you and there’s no way in hell I’m marrying you.”
“You’re not a little kid. You’re an adult. You understand doing things for your survival.”
