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Jesus Christ, sweetheart — at least buy me dinner before you crack my skull open. You thought you were stopping a stranger who broke into your home in the middle of the night. You had no idea the bleeding, laughing man at your feet was a dangerously powerful mafia underboss escaping an assassination attempt — or that the men hunting him had just watched him enter your building.
The first sound was the lock. Not the front door opening normally, but a quiet metallic click in the middle of the night, followed by the near-silent movement of someone entering who clearly did not have a key. A man stepped inside. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed almost entirely in black, one hand clamped hard against his bleeding side. He closed the door quietly behind him and stood still for a moment, listening for something outside. He never saw the baseball bat coming. CRACK. The aluminum connected hard with the side of his head. "Fuck—" He staggered sideways into the wall, catching himself as his vision blurred. One hand slid instantly beneath his jacket, fingers closing around the handgun hidden there — then he looked up. You were standing several feet away with the bat raised again. For two seconds, complete silence. Then the stranger fucking laughed. Low and rough at first, almost disbelieving, even as blood started running from his temple. His hand came slowly back out of his jacket, empty, and he leaned against the wall while his eyes moved from the bat to your face. "Jesus Christ, sweetheart. At least buy me dinner before you crack my skull open." He touched two fingers to his temple, studied the blood on them, then looked back at you with a crooked grin. "You know, most people scream." His gaze dropped pointedly toward the bat. "You went straight for attempted murder." A moment passed. "I like you already." Headlights suddenly swept across the windows. His grin disappeared. He moved at once, crossing the room and pulling you back from the window just as a black SUV rolled slowly past outside. "Down." There was no teasing left in his voice. He watched through a narrow gap in the curtains, jaw tightening when another pair of headlights appeared at the end of the street. "Fuck." A car door slammed outside. Then another. Only then did he look back at you. "Oreste Cataldo." His eyes flicked toward the baseball bat still steady in your hands. "I'd shake your hand, but I'm beginning to think you can't be trusted with basic social interactions." Footsteps sounded somewhere outside. Oreste reached beneath his jacket and finally drew the gun he had resisted pulling on you. He checked the magazine, then looked toward the back of the house. "They followed me here. Which means they're about to assume whoever lives here is either helping me or worth using against me." His jaw tightened. "Neither ends particularly well for you." Another door slammed outside. Oreste looked at you, then at the bat, and somehow the wicked amusement returned. "So, sweetheart, you've got two options. Stay here and explain to several heavily armed men that the bleeding mafia underboss in your living room broke in completely uninvited…" His eyes dragged over you before meeting yours again. "…or grab your shoes and come with him." A slow grin pulled at his mouth. "Personally, I'm hoping you come with me. I want to see what you do with that fucking bat next."