“Warehouse is clear,” one of them says.
“Should have been sweptbeforethe meeting,” the one holding me says.
The arm loosens around my throat, is removed entirely, taking the gun from my temple. It’s decocked.
I gasp for breath, stumble backward. The strap of my purse slides down my arm and the contents spill to the filthy floor. I drop to my knees. The man behind me, he walks around to my front and I’m hyperventilating. I’m looking down at the ground, at the tube of lipstick rolling toward his shoe. It’s polished so perfectly I can almost see my own terrified reflection in it.
A hand fists my hair painfully and he draws me up to my feet, up on tip-toe. He drags me toward him.
“A sneaky little mouse.”
It’s him. The one in charge. Mr. Benedetti was what they’d called him. And the look in his eyes is dark.
“Sergio,” the older man says.
Sergio. That’s right.
He releases me from his gaze, but not his grip. I can’t turn my head, but I shift my eyes to look at the older man.
“You’re going to be late for the meeting. I’ll take care of this.”
Take care of this?By ‘this’ he means me?
Sergio returns his gaze to me again. He’s blurry because my eyes have filled with tears. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes.
“You deal with the meeting, Uncle. I’ll deal with our mouse problem.”
The grin he gives me coincides with the tightening of his fist. It forces the tears from my eyes.
“Do you want me to leave anyone?” his uncle asks. “A cleaner?”
Cleaner?
“I’ll take care of it,” my captor says, never looking away. I get the feeling he likes my tears.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” his uncle says, and a moment later, we’re alone as three sets of footsteps disappear out of the old warehouse.
“What’s a cleaner?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I don’t know why I ask it.
Sergio draws me into his chest. “Don’t worry about that, mouse. What’s your name and what do you think you’re doing here?”
I’m going to be sick or pee my pants or both.
He’s still studying me, his gaze is intense, like he’s gleaning information just from looking at me. Then he does something that surprises me. He takes his thumb and wipes it across my face, smears my tear across my cheek and just looks at it for a long minute.
“Well?” he asks again, when he returns his eyes to mine.
“I…I…”
“I...I…” he mimics me with a chuckle, and releases me.
I stumble backward.
“Down,” he says, his voice a low, deep command. He’s pointing to the floor.
“Wh…what?”
“Your wallet. Give it to me.”
