“I guess we’re taking the trash out after all.”
I nod. Yes. Yes, we are.
Five minutes later, we’re in the alley behind the club. A place without security cameras currently. Or much in the way of lighting.
“Look, mate. I only danced with her.” The fucker holds out his hands in belligerence rather than supplication.
“Did she tell you who I am?”
“Yeah, her old man.” This comes with an ill-timed sneer. “I guessed you got off on seeing her with other blokes.”
“You touch her?” I ask, my feet following his retreating pattern.
“We just danced.”
“You didn’t give her anything?”
“I would have.” This time, he leers, his gaze sliding left to his friends for agreement. Maybe reassurance. But they’re too busy with Antonio. They look like they’re having fun, palms spread on the Range Rover positioned for a classic pat down. I should’ve guessed as much. Antonio was once a cop in Barcelona. He just wasn’t a very good one.
“Anchas,” he growls, kicking the insides of one of their ankles. “More wide.”
“What the fuck, man?” one of them complains.
Antonio answers him with a punch to the back of his head.
“Fuck!”
“Hands on the car,” he repeats with a kick to the ankle.
“Boss.”
I glance Antonio’s way, reaching up to catch the baggy that flies through the air. Pills, syringe, and a vial containing clear liquid.
“Which one of you assholes is diabetic?” I hold the baggy aloft.
The man in front of me shakes his head, his bravado slipping. “It’s just a bit of gear. Personal use, you know?” The smart-arse shoots me an angry glance like he knows what’s coming.
He really has no idea.
“Personal?” His eyes follow the bag’s descent, and he watches as I grind that shit under my heel. “I’m offended you would take me for that idiot. Now,that’spersonal.”
I glance down, and his eyes follow as I knew they would. When his head comes up, it’s met with a solid right jab to the nose. It’s always an effective start. The quicker, the better because this one thing will catch them off guard, even if your opponent is braced for trouble.
A sharp jab in the nose is disorientating and knocks a person off balance. And it’s fucking painful, which I can attest to myself. Tears. Blood. Broken cartilage. Shock. Temporary blindness, thanks to flooding tear ducts. Break his nose, and you leave your opponent shocked and crying…
…which gives me a moment to pull on the Italian leather driving gloves Leo had passed to me as I’d left the club.
He has good taste, I think as I duck from his blind swing. Then I land him a swift hit to the solar plexus. Get that sweet spot, and you’ll shut your opponent up, winding him. A few to the breadbasket and if you hit him hard enough, maybe some internal bleeding. Pull him closer, like a hug. And get him in the kidneys.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Pain. So much pain. He’ll be pissing blood for days.
My body takes over then, the animal inside rising to the fore. Pressure builds in my chest and my head, my heart racing, and my shoulders aching, biceps fatigued as I deliver punch after punch.
“Boss.”
I don’t stop. I'm on the ground now with my thighs spread over his waist.
