Fingers wrap around my hand, making me jolt back. But I can do nothing to stop Roman from dragging me behind him. My mind is running a thousand miles per hour, and it still isn’t fast enough to comprehend the fact that Mickey will be in there.
He’s going to fight someone.
And he’s going to get paid for it.
How long has he been doing this? When I returned to Mickey after I was taken away as a teen, I thought he seemed a little calmer. I explicitly remember thinking he wasn’t itching for a fight every few minutes and brushing it off as puberty. He must have been around fifteen years old.
Oh God, is this how he paid for all my gifts?
How did he keep this from me? How did I not know? I can’t count how many times Mickey has picked me up, bruised and bloody, and I barely questioned it because he would give me the same answers each time.
They deserved it.
You should see the other guy.
Don’t you worry your pretty little head.
My stomach churns and I focus on the back of Roman’s head. I’m mildly aware of the strange looks I’m getting and the occasional scowl, but I’m reeling too much to fully pay attention. We go down a corridor, where the deafening noises are muted, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s been here before. I’m not sure when he might have had the time to drive to Chicago, but he’s moving around the place like this is his home.
Damien and Roman stop before a set of doors, where a man leans against the wall beside the entrance. He’s shorter than Mickey, with slightly smaller muscles and a tattoo of a rose peeking through his faded buzz cut.
He’s another gangster, if the teardrop tattoo and the skull on his neck are any indication.
“Hey, Bella,” he purrs.
A shiver rips down my spine. How does he know my name? Not Isa, butBella? Only Mickey calls me that; no one else.
The way he’s looking at me isn’t leering. It isn’t ogling, either. The only word I can think of to describe it ischallenging. He’s looking at me like he’s waiting to start a fight… with Roman.
“Isabella,” Roman corrects, squeezing my hand and pulling me behind him. I’m all too happy to oblige.
The man with the buzz cut raises a shoulder and drops it in a noncommittal shrug, clearly not caring what Roman wants me to be called. Pushing off the wall, the guy stuffs his hands into his pocket and moves closer to me.
“Did you like my handiwork on your boyfriend’s chest,muñeca?”
Doll.
Even after all the comments I get from random men because of my childish hairdo, I can’t bring myself to retire the pigtails.
His question slowly registers. What does he mean abouthis handiworkon Mickey’s chest? When I look at Roman in question, he’s grinning from ear to ear like he’s pleased with something I said. Or didn’t say.
Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he says, “This is Rico. He’s the fucking annoying cellmate I told you about.”
“I thought that was Tao?” I whisper.
Rico’s laugh bounces across the concrete hallway, and I feel self-conscious more than anything. Today, Mickey told me stories about his time in prison, but he’d get distracted and jump to another topic, so I never really got the full picture.
“You didn’t tell me that she’s funny,hombre.But no,bella, we like Tao.” He says the word with an accent, like he’s calling me beautiful, rather than my actual name. “Yang makes us money. We like money.”
Roman ignores him and turns to me. “Remember what I said about staying by Damien?”
I nod skeptically.
“That does not include Rico. You arenotallowed to be alone with him. And you—” He whips around to Rico "—If I see you talking toIsabella, you’re a fucking dead man.”
From where I’m standing, I don’t think his threats are empty. Rico apparently disagrees. He must have a death wish because he gives Roman a big, goofy smile that says that he’s going to go out of his way to make sure we’re left alone together.
But it’s odd… I’ve never seen Mickey act so…civillywith another person after being taunted. Death threat aside, this is the first time I’ve seen him interact with someone else for more than five seconds without using his fists.
