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"Are you willing to take that chance though?"
Apparently, he is. The three of them stand and frat bro lunges for me. I leap back, knocking the table flying. Cutlery and condiments scatter everywhere. I point and fire my trusty pepper spray, but nothing happens. Fuck my life. It's been a while since I used it, and the damn thing must have seized up.
Just as I'm about to panic, the door chimes and someone walks in. Oh, thank fuck. Frat bro's friends freeze in place, but frat bro isn't deterred.
"You should leave, dude. We're kinda busy here," he says, his eyes fixed on me. I'm terrified. The scent of my visceral fear is like chump to a shark. Any minute now and he's going to be all over me, tearing me to pieces. I'm trying hard to keep my game face on, not to show any visible reaction to the threat I'm facing. But it's impossible. I'm not that good an actress.
"Yeah, I don't fucking think so."
I recognize the smooth-as-silk voice. A sliver of warmth trickles through my veins just as the sound of a gun cocking filters across the room. The atmosphere changes and frat bro switches from predator to prey. The color leeches from his face and he steps back.
"Easy there, pal. We're just having a bit of fun. No harm, no foul, right?"
"Wrong." Footsteps come closer and the three boys move away, but their exit is blocked. They're trapped and they know it. Frat bro looks fucking terrified, as well he should.
Christiano Faugno is not a man to mess with.
This idiot played Russian roulette and lost.
ChapteR 9
Christiano
The kid with the red hair stares at the business end of my Glock and pisses himself. Literally. I can't decide whether to be amused or disgusted. It's pathetic and I'm ashamed on his behalf. If I'd arrived ten minutes later, he'd have likely assaulted Cara, yet now the tables have turned, and he has no clue what to do.
"You've made a mess on the floor," I point out. Cara still isn't looking at me, but she's carefully moved well out of the way. The guy with the red hair has closed his eyes and his two friends have quietly distanced themselves. Sensible.
"I can give you cash, lots of cash," he blubbers. "My family is rich, like really rich."
I snort with amusement.
"Not as rich as mine." And it's true. The Faugno family has made billions from both legal and illegal enterprises. Who says crime doesn't pay, eh?
"Please don't shoot me!" He starts to sob like the pathetic littlestronzohe is, and I pull my phone from my pocket and hit record, making sure to zoom in on the dark patch around the crotch of his chinos. Seriously, if I'd pissed my pants the first time someone pulled a gun on me, my father - God rest his soul - would have fucking shot me himself. Twenty seconds of thisidiotasobbing is enough. I can't stand it anymore.
"Get pissy boy here a mop," I say to Cara, who's still standing behind me. "He may as well clean up his mess before he leaves."
She grabs the mop and bucket from behind the counter and pushes them toward the boy who's now sniveling and wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve. Gross.
"While you're mopping the floor, have a think about your misogynistic attitude toward women and how no woman deserves to have your tiny dick anywhere near her unless she specifically consents to it. Capisce?" He nods energetically. "Oh, and if you even think about telling anyone about this, the video I just shot will end up online, likely viewed by millions of people."
His eyes flare with anger for a microsecond, so I lean forward, trying not to gag at the acrid stench of urine and sweat.
"I know exactly who you are, Trace Cameron, son of Dixon Cameron, the CEO of DC Industries. Your father is well acquainted with my uncle, so trust me when I say he won't be happy if you piss me off anymore. Are we clear?"
He nods. "And that includes your little bros, too." I cast a sideways glance at his two friends. I have a feeling those friendships are about to die a sudden death.
"Get cracking then. I don't have all night." Trace grabs the mop and begins cleaning up his mess like the good little pup he is. I tuck my gun in my waistband and swivel around to look at Cara. She's not said a word since I arrived and I'm a bit concerned that she thinks I'm a psycho. Well, I am when the situation calls for it, but mostly I'm sane.
"I could do with a coffee about now," I say when her hazel eyes meet mine.
"Thank you for..." She stops and chews her lip while I concentrate hard on not ogling her tits in that, frankly, obscene tee-shirt. Neither of us says what we're both thinking: that I was nearly too late. If Romano hadn't told me where she lived and worked, if Rosie hadn't told me what I needed to know without insisting on drinks first, if I'd taken any kind of detour...who knows what kind of shit I'd have walked into.
The outcome would have been very different. Trace Cameron would be bleeding out on the floor for one thing, along with his two friends.
"Tesoro," I murmur, cupping her cheek with my hand. "You don't need to thank me. I'm just sorry I wasn't quick enough to stop thatpezzo di merdafrom pissing all over the floor."
"I didn't expect to see you again."
