Page 47 of Chicago Sin

Hannah walks back and jerks to a stop. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer—instead I ask, “You paying the same expenses Mary Alice paid?”

She steps closer, her body rigid. “More or less. The rent went up by two hundred when I took over, and I also have to make monthly payments to Mary Alice for the business.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

I give a low whistle.

“What?” There’s a mountain of defensiveness in her voice.

I shouldn’t push, but I want to dig into this. Figure out what went wrong. “You run the numbers first before you entered that deal?”

She goes a little pale. “What do you mean?” When she pushes her hair over her shoulder, I see her hand shaking. She may be perfectly capable of handling me—a legit killer who’s taken her prisoner—but she’s over her head when it comes to running her business, and she knows it.

I catch her trembling fingers and hold them. “Ah, I just mean, I can see why you’re hurting. There wasn’t much wiggle room to begin with.”

She stares down at our joined hands like they’re foreign objects. Christ, she looks like she’s going to pass out. She pulls out of my grasp to hold onto the edge of the desk and blinks rapidly.

“Hey—don’t freak out. It’s workable. It just means you can’t do the same thing Mary Alice did and expect to make any money. You gotta make changes.”

She leans heavily on the desk, like her legs aren’t holding her up. I want to pull her into my lap and tell her everything’s gonna be okay, but I’m not her hero. And I’m too cynical to believe it’s gonna work out unless she changes strategy.

“What changes?”

I stand up and fold my arms across my chest. “I don’t know. You gotta drum up new business. Make new connections. Work new angles. You’re paying Mary Alice for her good will—the steady business she had—but you might be overpaying. And that business has dwindled.”

Hannah’s eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back. Someone walks in, and she hurries out to the shop floor, throwing a death glare at me over her shoulder when she arrives.

I keep an eye on her. She’s within earshot, so I could hear if she asked the customer to help her and see if she tried to slip them a note or something. Honestly, I don’t expect her to try anything, but I’d be stupid to blindly trust. No one does that, especially not when it comes to a beautiful woman.

Hannah rings up a cheap bouquet for the woman, sending me another angry glance over her shoulder.

I crack my neck. Why do I feel like such a dick?

I was only honest, and I was trying to help.

Still, I don’t like seeing her pissed. Same as last night—when I left her tied up—something uncomfortable slithers in my gut.

Feelings.

Fuck.

Do I even want to feel again?

Maybe life is fucking easier when you’re numb and can’t make yourself give a shit about anything.

I should stay and keep a close eye on Hannah, but I’m itchy to solve my own shit and end this fucked-up situation with her, so I pull out my phone and walk to the back of the shop to call Luis, a guy I used to know. He owns a pawnshop and is happy to move things off the books, too. He’s a fence of all things big and small. He’s connected with most everything underground in Chicago—including the gangs.

He picks up with a “Hey.”

“Hey, it’s Armando, from the Pachino Family. Been a while.”

“Armando. You out?”

“Yeah, just got out.”