Page 39 of Chicago Sin

“Who sent him—someone from prison?”

“Yeah. Probably. I iced a gang member on the inside. Might be revenge for that. I don’t know. I’m staying low until I figure shit out. I won’t let it affect the job you gave me or any Family shit. Lo prometo.”

“Call in sick to that job for a few days. You get paid time off. Let things settle. Figure this shit out.”

I nod my head and stretch out my hand to shake the don’s. “All right. Will do. Thank you, Don Pachino.”

“Don G,” he corrects, clasping my hand and letting me know I’m still inner circle. Only his closest soldiers called him by the more informal moniker Don G, for his given name, Giovanni.

I stand and nod at the rest of the group.

“Hey, Mando, want another dance?” Arturo calls.

“Not tonight. Thank you. ‘Preciate it. All of you.” Jesus fuck. I have to force the niceties over my dry lips, and they all sink like ashen lies.

I can’t play this game anymore.

I remember I used to be so good at it. The best. Now it’s like I’m playing a stranger’s part. It all feels so foreign and wrong.

I beeline it out of there and to Hannah’s van.

Fuck—Hannah.

I sure as hell hope she fell asleep.

Chapter Seventeen

Hannah

I jerk awake when I hear Armando come in, and Shadow, who was curled up in front of my chest, jumps off the bed and stretches. I blink at the digital bedside clock. It’s been two hours since he left. I slept fitfully for the last hour after I finally calmed myself down with slow breathing. Now all the adrenaline of the stressful day rushes back, so I’m wide awake. And still very pissed.

He comes straight to my side and crouches in front of me. “You’re awake.” He peels the duct tape off my mouth.

“You’re an asshole.”

He ignores that and unties my bound wrists from the bedpost. The moment they’re free, I swing them at his face. His reflexes are way faster than mine. He snaps them up in an iron grip. “Hey.” He modulates the grip, loosening slightly. “You want to spend the night tied up?”

“Go to hell.”

He stops work on the knot on my tights and arches a stern brow. It’s tragically sexy, which pisses me off even more. I shouldn’t find any of this hot. He’s confused me with sex, blurring lines, so I can’t tell what’s what. Actually, I guess I’m the one who started it with that kiss back at the shop. But now, I’m a jumbled mess. It’s like I just willingly dove headfirst into an abusive relationship where I’m bonded to my abuser, craving his affection and ignoring the fact that he’s holding me prisoner.

It’s way worse than all the misguided relationships I’ve been in. Worse than Jarod, who cheated on me three times before I stopped believing he was sorry. Worse than Eric, the guy it took me six months to realize only thought of me as his booty-call. This is the definition of a toxic relationship. It’s not even a relationship. It’s Stockholm Syndrome.

Ragey tears fill my eyes again, and I fight some more, wrestling to get my bound hands free.

He tightens his grip, dropping a knee on the bed to hover over me, pushing my hands closer to my chest to trap me. “Hannah.”

“You stink of cigar smoke,” I hurl at him, like he’s a lover come home late from a night of partying with the boys. Then I catch another cloying scent on top of it, and my stomach drops out. “Oh my God! You’re covered in shitty perfume! You fucking dick!” I’m unprepared for the flood of betrayal that fills my lungs.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey.” He straddles me. Somehow, he worked the knot loose on the tights while I flail at him, and he pins my wrists down beside my head. One wrist is still wrapped in the fabric. I keep fighting him, the pain of my stupidity for screwing this guy gushing like blood between us. “I was at a strip club,” he says like that makes it all better. When my mouth elongates in horror, he adds quickly, “For a meeting.”

Right. Apparently when you’re in the mob, that’s where meetings take place. On second thought, I’m inclined to believe that part.

“Everyone bought me dances because I’m fresh out. I wasn’t into it, Flowers.”

“Oh, I’m sure you weren’t.” My voice drips with hurt and sarcasm.

His face contorts into scorn. He normally shows so little in his expression that it takes me aback. “You think I needed that shit? After what you gave me?”