“Yeah,” I agree. “You behind on rent?”
I don’t know why I’m worried for her now, but I am. If she owes Don Pachino money and doesn’t pay it, he’ll swallow her business up in a heartbeat. That flower shop will become a money-laundering machine. Every delivery van will be driven by a soldier on Family business between making the flower rounds. It’s actually such a perfect setup, I’m surprised he hasn’t already moved on it.
She shakes her head, sending her golden-tipped curls rippling like a waterfall, but there’s still an ocean of worry in the set of her shoulders. I get it. She made the rent today, but she’s still worried about tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.
I put her back in the van. Considering what a shit show today was, I’m somewhat amazed this stop actually turned out okay.
I drive to her neighborhood, which isn’t that far from her shop in Little Italy. Parking is a bitch, so I circle around a half dozen times. I don’t want to park too far from her place because it gives her a better chance to scream for help or run or... whatever.
The stupid thing is that I know exactly how to stop any hint of that behavior. I know how to issue threats. I’ve perfected mean and cruel.
I could easily make her piss herself with fear without ever laying a hand on her.
But I can’t bring myself to do it. Even though it would make things simpler.
Make my job at her place clearer. All I’d have to do would be solidify the threat. Put the fear of the devil in her. Then do intermittent check-ins to make sure she’s still scared.
Intimidation is an easy game, really.
But that’s not tonight’s show.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do with her, but everything in me rebels at the thought of scaring her even more than I have. And honestly? She’s a tough cookie because so far, the only thing that broke her was the closet and the risk of not making her deposit.
So she trusts me against her better judgment, or she trusts herself to be able to handle me.
I don’t mind either of those scenarios.
We pass a motor cop giving tickets out. Hannah’s head jerks up.
I tense, a million ugly scenarios running through my head, the primary one involves her trying to open her door and jump out. But she immediately looks over at me. Nothing surreptitious about it. Not hiding what she just saw. More like she’s questioning me—did I see that cop?
I cock a brow. I really don’t understand this girl.
“What happens if you get pulled over?”
My brain scrambles to follow. Is she for real?
“You worried about me?”
She shrugs. “You don’t have a license.”
I throw on the brakes when I see someone pulling out and put on my blinker behind them. While we wait, I give her a total stare-down, trying to get into her head. “You scared of me at all, Flowers?”
I should want her answer to be yes. It would mean I’ve done what needs to be done to keep her quiet. Ensure she doesn’t talk. But for whatever dumbass reason, I love that she’s not all that scared. Because she’s into me.
Her eyes widen slightly like I just reminded her that she should be. “Yeah.” She sounds breathless.
“Not enough to want me busted.”
She’s still holding her breath when she gives her head a little shake.
Huh. Not sure what I did to win her allegiance, but I like it.
I park and throw my door open, walking around swiftly in case she runs.
She doesn’t. She hops out and tugs down her short skirt, which rides tight over those shapely thighs. Her mess of curls falls over one eye as she contemplates me.
I hold out my hand like we’re on a date and she invited me in instead of whatever the hell I’m doing with her.
