Bound for Life (Bound to the Bad Boy #1)
Alexis Abbott
BRUNO
I ’m not doing this for me.
Drops of rain patter on the crumpled piece of paper I’m holding in my hand as I squint at the running ink on it. It’s the only piece of evidence for what I’m going to do tonight. Written on it is nothing but the address and room number Claudio gave me. Leaning on the back of my car, cigarette in my mouth, my lips curls into a frown at the thought of that smug bastard.
The scrape of my lighter is the only sound beside the rain in the alley where I’ve parked, and once I light my cigarette, I flick the tongue of flame on again to hold up to the scrap of paper, watching the red glow eat away at it and the words on it before there’s nothing but a blank scrap left. I let the little cinder fall to the ground and watch it die out in the raindrops on the asphalt.
I put out the cigarette and stick it in my pocket. I’m not leaving any evidence, even this far from what’s about to take place. It would be a rookie mistake. I’m young, but I’m not that stupid.
And with so much on the line, I will not take any chances.
I set off through the alleyways, staying off the main roads as much as I can as I wind through the streets of the Bronx. I’ve lived here long enough to know my way around, and I know that I need to keep a low profile tonight.
Not that it’s going to matter after I do what I’m about to. The Bronx is big, but my community is small. We’re tight-knit. Word will spread. It’ll be on everyone’s mind when they see me.
Mafioso.
I feel anger boiling up inside me as I walk, my footsteps nearly silent. That word cast a darkness over my childhood. I could sense it in every shadow. Now, that’s the very same inky blackness I walk in.
But for her, I’d walk through the fires of hell.
I don’t have far to go. I turn yet another corner, and a cat perched on a dumpster slinks off silently, a freshly-killed rat in its mouth. As I approach the corner, I glance out to make sure the way is clear.
I hold my place and keep still in the cover of the brick wall as a pair of drunk men stumble by, arm-in-arm. As they laugh their worries away, I go unnoticed. I wait for their voices to fade away around another corner before I slip around leaving the sidewalk and stepping onto the filthy, grassy space below an overpass. I can see my goal ahead of me.
It’s a hotel, and not the kind business travelers reserve for ritzy trips or vacations. I’m looking at it from the back under a worn-down overpass, and I know from experience it isn’t much prettier in front. It’s attached to a storage facility with a rusted sign.
I’m tall, standing at least a head over most men, and I have the broad shoulders to match. My clothes hide the muscular build under them, bulked up and toned from years of manual labor. You can see a hint of that life in my rough, powerful hands when I let them slip from my front pocket. I’m clean-shaven, so I have my hood up and a pair of sunglasses covering my eyes. Intimidating as I am, this hotel would let me walk through the front door up to the rooms if I wanted.
But if I’m going to sink into the shadows. I’ll do it with finesse.
I make my way to one of the pillars that support the overpass, and there I wait. I know time is passing, and I don’t have much of it. I glance to the service door impatiently. My window of opportunity is only open so long.
My job tonight is straightforward. A man must die. But like many men who’ve earned the mafia’s crosshairs, he’s skittish. Afraid. Always looking over his shoulder. A man like that could run at a moment’s notice. A man like that could fight viciously. So a man like that needs to be taken by surprise.
That takes bait.
Tonight, that bait is a woman. It’s a pretty common tactic for the mafia. They’ll set up a call girl to meet with the mark as if he’s going out for a good time, usually at a hotel like this. Usually at nicer ones, but this guy is apparently a real lowlife, an old loan shark they found out was taking a little more than his weekly cut.
They’re all monsters tearing each other apart.
Except the girls. I know what the mafia can be like with women. And all Claudio told me was that this girl is new, and that she’s not to be harmed, just dropped off somewhere on her way to her next job. I’ve got a bad feeling in my gut. I’m not just worrying about whether this girl will botch the whole job tonight. I’m worried I’ll be driving her to something worse, and that I’ll just be another set of hands sending someone innocent further in over her head.
And if I’m going to be working for the mafia, I’d better get used to it. There’s more at stake than my conscience, in my case.
But I don’t have any more time to think about this woman I’ve never even met.
I hear the click of the door, and I hear footsteps traveling out, along with the loud clinking of a garbage cart full of trash bags.
I waste no time. The second the janitor has his back to the door, I dart behind him and into the building. I’ve stepped inside a small utility room with a cleaner’s cart sitting unattended. Without wasting a moment, I grab a pair of latex gloves from it and move on. A moment later, I step out into the hallway. My hood up, and my heart is racing.
Maybe I was meant to be a hunter after all.
I know I’m going to be caught on camera. Maybe the mob wants me to take the fall for this. But if I’m fast enough and have luck on my side, the only thing the camera will catch is a tall hooded man with unclear features.
Room 232, I recite in my head. I head up the nearest set of stairs I can find, seeing nobody in the hallways. It’s late enough that most are asleep for the night. I glance at the room numbers on my way through the hall, and I feel a pulse race through my veins as I see the number I’m after.
I pass it by, heading to the bathrooms just a few doors down. One more stop, and the timing has to be perfect.
I enter the bathroom and head for the second stall down, entering and closing the door behind me. As soon as I’m in, I stoop down onto the cool tile floor and slip the latex gloves on. Carefully, I reach around the back of the toilet. My fingers brush against something small and plastic.
A janitor’s master keycard. It was planted earlier by a friend of the mafia. At least, that’s what they call the men and women that are either paid off or under threat.
As I take the card in hand, I check my watch, standing and turning around. Right on time. Now I have to wait for the mark to get in place.
But that thought’s interrupted as the bathroom door swings open, and footsteps echo in the ugly little room.
I freeze. My mind races with possibilities in an instant. Did the staff see me come in? Have the police been tipped off? Is it some random joe coming to waste my time? None of the options are good, and every muscle in my body is tense. Nothing can go wrong here.