Page 9 of Caught By the Kingpin
“You’re doing so well,” he says in the same low voice as the noise in the corridor beside us recedes.
He moves with sure, light steps to an old servants’ entrance. Pausing by the door, he squeezes me to him reassuringly as a black SUV pulls up.
I don’t know how, but he opens the door still holding me and before I’ve really thought through the implications of leaving with him, I’m on the spacious back seat, and we’re speeding away. I look back through the rear window, and there’s a flickering yellow glow in the window of the second floor as well as the fading crack of gunfire.
“What was that about?” I snap, turning away from the place I grew up in.
“You were in danger,” he replies calmly as he kneels before me. The back of this car is excessively spacious. “I wish you hadn’t forced me to do this.”
“Force you to abduct me?” I watch as he slices off the plastic zip tie from my ankles and rubs his thumb over the red place where my skin was constricted.
“The constraint. I hoped you’d come with me willingly, knowing you’re safe with me.” Marco moves to the seat and smooths his hands down my arms and over my hands. I consider kicking him as he releases my wrists, but it seems a churlish way to get myself tied up again, and I’d do better to wait for a chance to escape. And besides, him carrying me, restraining me, and kneeling at my feet has done something odd to my insides. Liquified them. I’m frozen soup, thawed and moulding to his heat.
It’s only when he clasps my hands in his that I see I’m trembling. Shaking uncontrollably all over.
“Did he die?” I ask in a whisper. Shock, I guess.
“I think so, yes.” Softly, like I’m a flighty woodland creature he’s captured and trying to keep quiet. “Westminster were very angry when they found he couldn’t repay his debt.” Marco doesn’t ask who I mean. My father might have been a sub-standard parent—the best things he gave were decent skin and strong impetus towards entrepreneurialism—but I probably should care he’s dead. A true daughter, a loyal member of the mafia, would feel sad.
I don’t. I feel nothing.
“And everyone else?” It’s not that I liked all the mobsters, but… Gone?
“I’m sorry, cara.”
The silence in the car is as thick as the noise and smoke we came from and my brain won’t work properly, still fugged with sleep and disbelief. Despite everything that’s happened, I can’t stop sneaking looks at my… I’m going with kidnapper? But I have a question mark over other possible terms to swap in, some of which are less disturbing, some… Not.
Saviour. Mafia boss. Guardian angel. Abductor. Inappropriate older crush.
…Stalker?
Is stalker better or worse than kidnapper?
Ope. Who knows?
He’s wearing dark trousers and a charcoal grey shirt unbuttoned at the neck and sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing muscled forearms covered with black hair that makes me long to pet him.
I keep my hands to myself and run my thumb over the bulging seams of my hoody as I look at him from the corner of my eye, my nose a shadow over what I’m trying to see.
I don’t know how long it is until we stop and Marco opens the door. I follow instinctively, but when I go to stand, he tuts and sweeps me into his arms, one hand at my knees and the other under my shoulder blades.
And oh god I shouldn’t like this mode of transport so much. Forget bicycles or roller skates, Marco is the most fun way to get from A to B. I surreptitiously sniff his skin and it must be pure pheromone, because I don’t know what he smells like except something that makes my insides quiver. The heat of him penetrates wherever we touch, and his hold on my bare legs is fire.
“Welcome to my home.”
“I can walk,” I protest as he strides across the gravel and in through a massive open door, spilling yellow light like a magic portal. Because this much enjoyment of being carried is not healthy.
“Without shoes?” he points out and, yeah. Maybe not. I shut up but there’s a low hum and I wonder if my ears are ringing from the gunfire.
“Put me down,” I insist as soon as we’re through the door, blinking at the light.
Marco nods and rolls his eyes with fond wryness and the hubbub peters out slowly as he slips me down his body. For a second we’re the only two people in the world. My hoody and top ruck up and the soft warmed cotton of his shirt brushes my stomach. I look into his light blue gaze and the hunger I saw in his face when we met is back, carnal and fierce. Low in my belly, something responds.
His hands are still holding me, stabilising me and I tip up my chin in invitation.
The hum brightens.
There’s… Applause. I turn my head away from Marco’s mesmerising gaze, and only then do I notice the rows of staff. Bulky mafia goons in suits, but also neatly dressed household staff all smiling, nudging each other, clapping and whooping. There are calls of, “Boss, finally!” and “Get in!”.
