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7

SAbrINA

W ho knew Monte Castelli could turn into such a joyless stickler for rules?

The last fifteen minutes have consisted of a nonstop lecture about what I’m allowed to say and do at tonight’s card game in the basement of Gino’s.

“If you win,” he says, “don’t gloat under any circumstances.”

“ If I win? You mean when I win.” I cut the deck of cards and restore the pack with a flawless riffle shuffle.

Monte assumes he doesn’t have my full attention and moves off the couch to park himself directly in front of me on the coffee table. He’s so close that our knees are nearly touching. The scent of his cologne turns my brain a little giddy.

He leans forward, propping his elbows on his thighs, his expression super serious. “You need to listen to me, Sabrina.”

Monte might be getting on my nerves at the moment but he’s also extremely adorable when he’s being all tense and sincere.

“I swear I’m listening,” I assure him in the midst of noticing the way his Gino’s Pizzeria t-shirt can’t hide the shape of his muscles.

He exhales noisily and runs a hand through his black hair. Everything about his posture screams, “WHAT AM I GONNA DO WITH THIS GIRL?”

Really, his panicked attitude is insulting. My entire life has been spent in the company of mafia creeps. I can handle them. I’m not stupid enough to provoke professional killers or shove my winnings in their fat faces. Diplomacy may not be my top skill but I know how to use it when I have to.

“These aren’t good men,” he says.

“Mafia bosses never are.”

He sighs. “They see women as disposable playthings.”

“I’m aware. My father kept a revolving door of mistresses stashed in every borough of the city and added a few on Long Island. I’m sure this bunch is no different.”

He flings his hand in a gesture of annoyance. “Maybe you should change your shirt.”

I look down and see no cleavage. Everything is covered. “What’s your problem with my shirt?”

“It’s a little too tight for game night with mobsters.”

“I hate to break it to you, but the real problem is not that my shirt is a little too tight, it’s that my boobs are a little too big. Every shirt I have will stretch the same way. Anyway, what century are we in?”

“The year doesn’t matter when you’re in the company of a pack of horny scumbags.”

“Horny? Gross. These guys have got to be in their seventies.”

Monte’s jaw tightens. Then he reaches behind his head, yanks on his shirt and swiftly pulls it off.

My belly flutters and my pulse speeds up. We’re alone in Monte’s apartment, sitting inches apart, and now he’s taking off his clothes.

“Here.” He dumps the shirt in my lap. “You can put this on.”

The sight of his bare chest is deeply distracting. “Out of the question. It doesn’t match my Harlequin-patterned skirt and tights.”

“So what? Your outfits never match.”

“The vibe I’m going for is Queen of Diamonds. Sorry, but your shirt does not make an appropriate contribution.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters and gets to his feet. He stalks moodily to the kitchen, flings open the fridge, hauls out a beer, unscrews it with one sharp twist of his hand and throws the cap on the floor before he pours the contents down his throat.

Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the view. His broad back is as flawless as a sculpture. The gun holstered on his hip had been hidden by the shirt but now it’s in plain sight. The arm holding the beer shows off his largest tattoo on the left bicep just beneath his shoulder. A large cross is embellished with the colors of the Italian flag. Arched along the top is the word Famiglia . The caption finishes with the words è tutto on the bottom.

Family is everything.

This is not just an empty slogan to Monte. I’ve seen him interact with his father and brother enough to understand he’d lay down his life for them.

“Can I keep your shirt anyway?” I ask him. The warmth of his skin still clings to the fabric. A deep tug of desire stirs and throbs as I hold it in my hands.

He finishes his beer. “What the hell for?”

Because it smells like him.

Because I want to hug it and cuddle it and maybe sleep in it.

Nothing stalkerish about that.

“Souvenir,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I want a Gino’s Pizzeria shirt?”

“Fine, keep it.” He tosses the beer bottle in the trash. “I’ve got about a dozen of them anyway.”

There’s a ping from his phone and he checks it with a sigh.

“Is it time?” I ask.

Despite Monte’s scowl, I can’t help feeling excited. While I’m obsessed with the endless options of online gaming, there’s something very basic and appealing about rounds of traditional poker in an old basement.

Besides, I like the idea of impressing Monte. I want him to see me in action and find out that I’m more than just a helpless klutz with eclectic fashion sense. I’m actually good at something.

Nearly all of my poker experience has been online so this game will be different. My father was an avid poker player. One time I begged to tag along to one of his games. He ridiculed me in front of his men and they all laughed me out of the room. I never asked again.

Before we return downstairs to Gino’s, Monte covers himself with a different shirt. What a pity, although I suppose it’s for the best. He intends to remain in the room during the game. I would have had trouble keeping my eyes on my cards and off his body. However, he looks mighty dashing in this new button down black shirt that’s rolled to the elbows to showcase his imposing forearm muscles.

Monte zips down the flights of stairs with the speed of a panther. I’m a little slower, holding onto the railing, careful of my stiff ankle, refusing to be tempted by his offer to carry me to the bottom. I need to get my brain in game mode and swooning over Monte Castelli will interfere.

The street has been dark for hours and the ‘Closed’ sign has already been flipped around at Gino’s. Stevie stops cleaning the counter long enough to let us in. The only other occupants are sitting in the back; a trio of grim looking fellows who probably emerged from the womb on a quest to become mafia soldiers. Surprise registers on their faces when they see me but they return Monte’s curt nod and resume eating their pizza.

“Your dad’s downstairs,” Stevie says to Monte and gives me a friendly wink. “Good luck, Sabrina.”

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Monte pauses at the door to the basement steps and faces me with a skeptical expression. “You can back out. In fact, I wish you would.”

“You worry too much.” I poke him in the stomach. I’m lucky I didn’t jam my finger on his washboard abs. That shit is hard .

Monte opens the door. Male voices blend together in the room below. There’s an outburst of bawdy laughter. Monte scans my face. I know he’s wishing I’d chicken out. Part of me wants to, if only to please him.

Instead, I stare right back and wait for him to move. He descends the short flight of stairs slowly and checks to make sure I’m right behind him.

“There’s our guest of honor,” bellows Pete Vecchio, who is already seated at a large round table with three other men.

Only one of the other men is familiar. I met Bruce Tarantella this afternoon when he and Pete showed up at Gino’s for lunch. Sal is here too, although he’s not at the table. He never plays. He’s arranging bottles on a liquor cart. His gaze zeroes in on his son. The hint of concern on his face gives me a moment of pause.

But Monte is now handing over his gun to a severe looking, jowly fellow who then turns to me.

Monte instantly steps between us. “She’s not carrying.”

The man narrows his eyes but has to look up to meet Monte’s glare. “You know the rules, Castelli. All weapons go in the safe and everyone who walks through the door gets a pat down.”

“You’re not touching her,” Monte snarls. “So back the fuck off.”

“Whoa.” Pete holds up a hand to make the peace. “No need to get riled up. Carlo, the girl’s okay.”

Carlo appears quite unhappy to be called off but he obeys his boss. He sticks Monte’s gun in a locked cabinet and then settles down to lean against the wall and glower at everyone.

The dealer’s name is Frank and he works at an Atlantic City casino when he’s not overseeing friendly mafia card games. I wind up sitting between Pete Vecchio and a slim, quiet man called Little Pete. Monte joins his father at the liquor cart and the two of them exchange some terse words before Monte reluctantly settles down and sits on a barstool. A few more men arrive and Carlo gets called back into action before they are allowed to join us at the table.

Pete Vecchio, who the others are now referring to as Big Pete, grins at me as I neatly stack my poker chips.

“Fair warning,” he says with a wink. “Just because you’re pretty doesn’t mean we’ll let you win.”

In response, I fold my hands on the table and arch an eyebrow. “Rest assured, Big Pete, I’d be deeply insulted if you did.”

Big Pete cracks up and jerks a thumb. “I knew I liked this girl.”

The other players all join in with Big Pete’s laughter. It’s clear that within the mafia hierarchy he sets the tone among this crowd.

I have to wonder if he knew my father. He must have. All these men probably did. Albie Barone, the Baron of Brooklyn, had been squatting at the top of the New York mobster food chain for decades before his head was blown off.

“We play Seven-Card Stud here,” Frank says, clearly directing the comment to me, the only newcomer.

“None of that Texas Hold ‘Em crap,” adds a man called Eddie D. He sits across from me. The gold chains around his neck are thick enough to sink a boat, there’s an alarming amount of wiry chest hair peeking out of the unbuttoned top of his shirt and he periodically sucks on an oxygen tank. But he smiles at me, gold tooth and all, so I smile back.

“I know the rules,” I say.

Frank deals so rapidly his movements are almost ethereal. I’m jealous of his technique and I could benefit from observing him. That will have to wait. Right now I’m focused on the cards.

This group is clearly used to playing together. The game proceeds at a quick pace. Cards fall, snap decisions are made, chips are thrown in the pot. In Seven-Card Stud, some cards are face up and others remain face down. This gives players the opportunity to calculate which cards might still be in circulation.

In person play is totally unlike online gaming. I’m more tense than I expected to be. It doesn’t help when I look up and find Monte hunched on a barstool with his dark eyes fixated on my every move. My concentration briefly breaks.

The betting rounds go quicker than I expected. I fold at the fifth round and lose a small pile of twenty dollar chips. The last two standing are Big Pete and Eddie D. Big Pete emerges from the showdown as the victor.

“I think you’re my new good luck charm,” he says to me as his fat hand sweeps the chip pile.

It’s kind of amusing to see a bigshot mafia boss get so euphoric about winning a few hundred bucks. The money must be pennies to him, maybe less. It’s all about the triumph, the thrill of the win.

Well, I can certainly relate to that.

When Frank starts dealing again, I blot out everything but the game. The men sitting around me become as remote as virtual players. All I see are the cards on the table. The only sounds worth paying attention to are the fall of the chips. Even Monte needs to be mentally set aside for the moment. My brain memorizes and calculates. I won’t fold this time. I’m confident in my hand.

The last showdown round is between me, Big Pete and Bruce. I’ve already concluded that Big Pete never folds, whether he has a good hand or not.

He doesn’t have a good hand this time. All he has are a pair of Jacks.

Bruce has three-of-a-kind.

But I have a flush. I win.

This results in some surprise, and some amusement. Big Pete jokes that maybe he’s my lucky charm instead. After collecting the pot of chips, my eyes connect with Monte’s.

His sexy smirk threatens to wreak havoc on my attention span. I do believe he becomes more outrageously good looking every day.

I’ll allow myself to brood over this fun fact later, when I’m finished sitting at a poker table populated by gangsters. Tonight I can crawl into Monte’s bed with his shirt and my vibrator to let all kinds of X-rated scenarios play out.

Big Pete calls for a round of rum and coke shots. Sal has already anticipated the request and is ready with a tray of glasses. These games have been a Gino’s tradition for decades, going back to when Gino himself was in charge. When I asked Monte if his father participates in the games, Monte thought the question was funny. He said Sal Castelli would never gamble. Not in life and not with cards.

Frank is shuffling the cards to prep for the next hand when the door at the top of the stairs swings open.

“I’m crashing the party,” booms a deep male voice, followed by the thud of heavy footsteps.

A few shouted greetings ring out but I hear a hiss of annoyance from Big Pete. Monte sits up straighter, his brow furrowed. His gaze darts to me and doesn’t waver. I get the feeling he’s trying to get a message across but mind reading isn’t one of my talents.

The new arrival wears a pricy suit and a lot of gold. His black hair is slicked back, practically pasted to his head, and he’s at least twenty years younger than the old timers at the table. His cold eyes take inventory of the room and land on me with a spark of interest.

“Where the hell ya been, Lenny?” says Eddie D before gulping another breath of oxygen from his tank.

“Chicago.” Lenny cracks his knuckles. “With no planes flying I had to take the long way home in a rental car.”

Carlo shoots a glance at Big Pete before prowling over to confront the newcomer. “Hand it over.”

Lenny chuckles, reaches under his blazer and withdraws a pistol. “Take it.”

Carlo snatches the gun but keeps his hard glare intact. “And the blade.”

Lenny snorts, yanks up his right pant leg and pulls out a knife that was strapped to his ankle. “Careful you don’t cut your own fucking balls off.”

The next problem to deal with is there’s truly no room at the table. Since I’m the one who’s not a regular player, I expect to be ordered to step aside.

This might not be the worst outcome. Monte’s tension has clearly kicked into overdrive since this Lenny person walked in and Monte is far from the nervous type.

But it’s Little Pete who rises from his chair and meekly says, “Take my seat, Lenny. I’m already down half my chips and was going to take a break anyway.”

Big Pete exhales heavily and exchanges a cryptic glance with Eddie D, who shrugs. The second Little Pete scampers out of his chair, Lenny drops into it. His cologne is heavy and unpleasant. He instantly swivels to appraise me more closely.

“What a nice change of scenery,” he says, and leans in, officially too far into my personal space. “And who do you belong to, sweetheart?”

I fight the urge to retreat and hold my head up as I answer with one word. “Nobody.”

At the same time, Monte loudly declares, “She’s with me.”

Lenny cracks up. “Sounds like someone’s drawing up ownership papers a little prematurely.”

Monte’s jaw flexes with anger. Sal claps a hand on his son’s shoulder and murmurs to him quietly. Monte continues to stare at us and doesn’t respond to his father at all.

Big Pete leans on his thick arms and moves his head to see past me in order to address the man on my other side. “Lenny, this is Sabrina. She’s visiting.”

Lenny’s shoulders flex with a breezy shrug. “First time for everything. I guess that includes inviting some pussy to the player’s club.” He breaks into obnoxious cackling but pipes down quickly and extends a hairy hand in my direction. “Lenny Lombardo. You’ve heard of Lombardo Construction?”

“Nope,” I reply and extract my hand from his grip as swiftly as possible. He squeezed too hard and my skin feels bruised.

His eyes roam over me in a way that makes me wish I’d taken Monte’s warnings seriously. I know nothing about Lenny Lombardo but I can sense danger. And I haven’t missed the scowl on Big Pete’s face or the way the remaining players seem irked by his unexpected presence.

“What’s your last name, Little Miss Sabrina?” He rolls a chip between his ringed fingers. “I know an Italian beauty when I see one.”

“Barone,” I answer automatically and his smile vanishes.

Because I am the biggest fucking moron who ever touched a deck of cards.

I should have recognized the warning signs. Big Pete didn’t mention my last name for a reason. That same reason has Monte on the edge of his seat, poised to dive into action with one wrong move.

“That’s quite a name in these parts,” says Lenny Lombardo. His mild tone doesn’t erase the new spark of fury in his eyes. “I know who you are now. Albie Barone’s daughter, right?”

Big Pete clears his throat. “She’s also Vittorio Messina’s niece.”

Lenny takes a pointed look around. “I don’t see the Sicilian Snake here in the room. Do you?”

Bruce shoves his chair back from the table. “If we’re not playing then I’m gonna go take a shit.” He flashes a crooked grin at me. “Beg your pardon.”

“Shit happens,” I say, hoping that the sudden tension in the room disappears.

“Sit down,” Big Pete says. “We’re still playing.”

Bruce shrugs and does as he’s told.

But Lenny Lombardo slides an arm across the back of my chair. His stale breath is rank enough to gag over. “I lost a brother the day of the Valentine’s Massacre. He was in Greasy Vito’s with a face full of lasagna when the bomb went off. Never even got a chance to defend himself.”

Of course I know about the Valentine’s Massacre. My father, suspecting he’d been betrayed by rival mafia boss and close associate Richie Amato, decided to wipe out Amato’s entire kingdom. A bomb was planted at the restaurant where a big Amato family meeting was about to start. Anni’s husband Luca, the nephew of Richie Amato, was there that day. So were Monte and Nico. They were fortunate to be outside when the bomb went off and managed to find cover before a drive by shooter attempted to pick off the survivors.

Lenny Lombardo seems to be waiting for my response so I say the only appropriate thing that comes to mind. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

From the narrowing of his eyes, it’s clear he thinks I’m being a smart ass. I’m not. I’m very sensitive to the fact that my father was a sadistic monster.

“Afraid that’s not enough to pay the debt,” he says and my stomach flips over.

Big Pete bangs a fist down on the table. “Cut the bullshit, Lombardo. We all lost people that day. Hell, I lost a nephew. But this little girl didn’t have nothing to do with it so shut the fuck up and play fucking cards.”

Lenny’s grin is icy and his eyes don’t leave my face but he backs up a few inches. “Go ahead and deal, Frank. I’m ready.”

Frank waits for the nod from Big Pete before he loudly shuffles the cards. Once. Twice. Three times. The ripping sound made by the cards is ominously loud in the quiet room.

My heart thuds and I try to take a few deep breaths without looking obvious. I’m tempted to excuse myself from this next hand. This isn’t fun anymore. I’d much rather be upstairs in Monte’s apartment where it’s safe and there are no oily mobsters breathing on me.

Lenny’s chair remains too close to mine as he tinkers with his chips. “Don’t look so nervous, honey,” he says in my ear. “If you find yourself in a hole we can always make an arrangement in skin trade.”

Even before his words register, an unwanted hand lands on my thigh and swiftly slides under my skirt. Bile rises in my throat. The sounds in the room grow dim. I can’t explain why I’m frozen.

Nor can I explain how Lenny Lombardo suddenly disappears from his chair. At first, all I see are flailing limbs amid the shouts of men.

Before my eyes there’s pure chaos. Monte has Lenny Lombardo on the floor and is strangling the life out of him.

It’s an odd moment to be in awe of Monte’s speed and strength. He must have vaulted over here at warp speed to seize my tormentor by the neck.

“CASTELLI!” roars Big Pete.

Lenny’s eyes bulge and his face is turning purple. His arms and legs thrash uselessly.

As for Monte, he’s crouched on the floor with one thick forearm securely looped around Lenny’s neck and he’s having no trouble keeping it there for as long as he wants.

Now I understand why all weapons are collected at the door. Stick a pack of unruly mafia men in a basement and there’s a high likelihood that all hell will break loose.

Though I grew up at the center of violence, I’ve rarely witnessed acts of violence in person. This is about as up close and personal as it gets. Fear has turned my muscles to lead. I can’t seem to utter a sound. Every second feels endless.

Amid all the yelling and the awful sound of Lenny Lombardo choking to death, there’s also an outbreak of laughter. Some of these people have an odd sense of humor. Bruce is positively howling. Eddie D is having so much fun he needs to shove his oxygen mask back on his face.

The basement door flies open. The guards we saw devouring pizza in Gino’s earlier come thundering down the stairs. The second man trips and knocks his predecessor off his feet. The two of them go airborne and land on the cracked concrete floor with a very loud smack. Bruce shrieks with hilarity before he descends into a coughing fit.

Big Pete mutters, “Son of a bitch,” and motions to Carlo, which is worrisome because Carlo is the caretaker of the guns. If Monte refuses to quit killing Lenny Lombardo, then he might get shot.

This new and terrifying thought knocks me out of my frozen trance long enough to jump to my feet and screech, “STOP IT!”

Miraculously, everyone listens.

Bruce quits laughing. The two dudes who fell down the stairs sit up, looking dazed, one with a bloody nose. And Monte loosens his grip on Lenny Lombardo, who rolls away and gasps and then vomits on his expensive suit.

Sal stalks over to Monte and furiously yanks his son to his feet. Meanwhile, Carlo has managed to unlock the cabinet and extract a gun. He’s not yet aiming it anywhere scary but from the way he glares at Monte it’s clear that could change in a heartbeat.

It’s not courage that prods me to move in order to stand in front of Monte as a human shield. This entire situation is sort of my fault. All my life I’ve been warned not to go where I don’t belong and tonight I was too stubborn to remember why. If Monte gets hurt, then I’m to blame.

But Monte apparently has no use for a human shield. He’s gruff about shoving me behind his big body. Now I no longer have a good view of what’s happening but I can hear Sal trying to be the voice of reason.

“Okay,” says Monte’s father. “Things got a little heated for a minute. Everyone can relax. It’s over.”

Lenny Lombardo is still wheezing and rolling around on the floor. I’m not looking forward to his full recovery.

The murmur of voices picks up but I still can’t see much because Monte refuses to allow me to escape from his protective custody. I’m wedged between the basement wall and a fortress of Castelli muscle. My nose is practically pressed into the middle of his back and he holds me in place with one stubbornly rigid arm. Every time I try to peek around him, he shifts and cages me in even more tightly.

Under different circumstances, I’d enjoy being this close to him. He’s warm and he smells excellent, like amber and pine. The hard muscles of his ass are pressed against my belly. Alas, this really isn’t the time to get horny.

“I think the best idea is for Monte to take Sabrina home,” Sal says. “Don’t you agree, Big Pete?”

Big Pete blows out a loud sigh. “Yeah, that’s probably about right. When that asshole gets up again he’ll start making noise. Fuck, we were having such a good game too.”

“Get out of here,” Sal mutters to Monte while Big Pete keeps carrying on about how much it sucks when poker night is ruined because some uninvited dipshit shows up and makes trouble. “Wait in the apartment for instructions.”

Monte doesn’t argue. He throws an arm around my waist and hugs me to his side as he marches me upstairs. I don’t even get the chance to collect my chips or wave goodbye.

Stevie stands in the middle of Gino’s with a broom in his hand and alarm written all over his open-mouthed face. “What the hell happened?” he says.

Monte probably doesn’t mean to be rude but right now he isn’t pausing to explain anything to anyone. He ignores Stevie and moves fast, dragging me along with my face mashed against his shirt and his arm an immovable steel band around my waist.

When we reach the apartment stairwell, Monte decides very quickly that he’s not in the mood to deal with my dainty and slow stair climbing technique so he throws me over his shoulder. With my brain still reeling from the trauma of recent events, I’m so shocked I can’t even muster an objection.

Maybe Monte should have been a firefighter. He has a gift for rocketing up narrow stairways with an adult body draped over his shoulder. He’s not even breathing hard. Also, I’ve never been too curious about how a sack of potatoes feels but now I think I have a pretty good idea.

By the time we reach the apartment door, I’m feeling dizzy from the impact of being groped, then observing a life and death struggle, then getting conveyed up multiple flights of stairs at a dizzying pace. It’s a lot to take in and I’ve never been very adaptable.

Despite the fact that I’m now squirming to be released, Monte won’t set me down until we’re inside his apartment. My head is spinning and I’m unsteady on my feet but Monte cups my chin in his hand and stares down into my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks with the first hint of anxiety showing up on his face.

Not really. I kind of want to vomit.

“I’m fine,” I say with a fervent hope that I don’t start crying. This is mortifying enough already without snot running out of my nose. I swallow hard and feel my eyes sting with hot tears anyway. “Monte, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop.” He releases my chin. “Sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Actually, I’d much rather have a shot of that throat-burning whiskey from the cabinet above the sink but this doesn’t feel like an appropriate moment to start making requests.

My trembling legs manage to carry me to the sofa while Monte fills a water glass and brings it over. He’s watching me so I gulp back a few sips since that seems to be what he wants. The simple acts of swallowing and breathing does help calm me down.

“What happens now?” I ask when my heart rate is no longer frantic.

He rubs a hand over his jaw and sits. He shaved today. Yet there’s already a faint hint of dark bristle on his face. He could probably grow a full beard in a week. He’d definitely look sexy with a beard.

This might be the wrong topic to dwell on right now.

“Lenny Lombardo is a made guy,” he says and a frown deepens the grooves in his forehead. “Part of the old Amato crew.”

While I’m not up to speed on all the particulars of the mafia code of conduct, I understand what this status means. It means the jerk downstairs is damn near untouchable. It means that if anyone ignores this protocol there will be consequences. Even I know that mob punishments don’t consist of a stern scolding and an HR write up.

The situation has become more dire. Monte nearly strangled a made man to death. Because of me.

I’m miserable enough to be bold and reach for the hand resting on Monte’s knee. He absently pats the back of my wrist in solidarity and stares moodily at the wall, lost in thought.

Whatever comes next, we’re in this together. I’m on the verge of telling him this, but then I reconsider whether the news would make him feel better or worse. After all, I haven’t exactly improved his life since landing in New York.

A handful of tense, silent moments pass. We both jump when his phone goes off.

“I’m here,” he says into the phone and then just listens.

Though I can’t make out specifics, I’m close enough to hear Sal’s voice supplying a string of instructions on the other end.

Monte replies with, “Got it,” and then, “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes. We’ll leave through the back exit so just keep the party inside until then. I don’t want to run into any of them on the way out.”

Sal says something else and Monte sighs before saying, “Love you too, Pop. Fill Nico in. Tell him not to come back here tonight.”

Monte stands up and returns the phone to his back pocket. “Pack up,” he says. “We’re leaving the city tonight.”

“But-”

“Three minutes, Sabrina,” he snaps. “That’s all you’re getting so you better pack fast.”

The look on his face makes it clear he’s not willing to compromise. He’ll throw me over his shoulder again if necessary. While I have some complicated and not altogether unpleasant feelings about getting bodily handled by Monte, I’m definitely unwilling to be without my luggage again so I do need to move.

With my nerves cresting once more, I get to my feet. “Don’t you need your gun? You left it downstairs.”

He snorts out a humorless laugh. “I have another one. Now do as I say. We’re leaving.”