Page 55 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption
“Really? Didn’t seem like you thought that last night when you were all ‘More, Torin, give me more.’”
I wrap my fingers tight around the molding on the wall, not knowing what to do. My heart’s hammering so hard it might crack all my ribs.
He sets the mug down and all humor vanishes. “Get moving. Now. We’re going home. And Harry?”
“What?”
“Don’t fucking try to sneak out again.”
A sleek black car waits outside the church, and for a moment, a terrible flashback of Bernardo and the alleyway assaults my mind. But I shove it into the dark corners, burying it, pretending I’m not shaken as Torin opens the back door and waves me inside.
I slide onto the cool leather, the air scented with citrus and rosemary. It’s oddly clean and fresh and soothing when it really should smell like sin and darkness.
“Mikey, this is Hazel, my wife. You’ll be her personal driver for the next few weeks, if you canspare the time.”
“My time is yours, Mr. Murphy.”
Torin sits back and pulls his buzzing phone from his pocket. “Don’t try my patience. It has an end, Harry, and you don’t want to reach that point.”
He raises the phone to his ear and listens for a minute. “Yeah, okay. Yes, tell him I’ve got a gun. Yes, I’ll be home soon. Five fucking minutes, Dec.”
He hangs up but the word I’m clinging to is gun.
If I can get that… soon… then I have a better chance of making it if I run. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to abandon the network. But I don’t want to be in this situation, either. I could shoot him again. I could do anything.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It’s not going to work. You need me to get through this. You need to stay home and stay safe. Got it?” he says, like he can read my mind.
“Got it.”
Asshole.
Last night was a repeat of the night before. I was stuck in the bedroom alone, refusing the dinner left outside. And damn, that was hard because the takeout smelled like Giorgio’s Pasta Joint, a beloved staple in Little Italy, and I was starving.
The only time I saw Torin was when he came back from whatever he went to do.
And his face…
It scared me.
I was ten again. Seeing him for the first time through the flames and smoke.
That exact dead expression. Steel and stone. A demon rising from hell.
He’s gone today, too. I venture out of the room at somepoint to explore the brownstone a little, picking up the mug of black coffee left outside the door. Though it’s still warm, the place is quiet and no one seems to be home.
That’s not completely true. The family’s out, but there are creatures here.
The dog and cat, who follow me around, and a big burly man at the door.
Shit. He’s got a guard?
Fucker.
The place, I come to quickly realize, is huge. It’s got a locked basement. There’s a back courtyard beyond the kitchen, but it’s part of the private one that leads out of his room. I didn’t even try the door there or here in the kitchen. Both are alarmed and I don’t want to set them off.
So I wander the floors and drift back downstairs, trying different doors as I go.
When one opens, I step into an office. It smells like smoke, whiskey, and a touch of roses. There’s a vase on a podium with red roses, gorgeous, expensive ones that are in need of an arrangement. My fingers itch for activity.
