“Well, Antonio doesn’t,” Sweatpants replies, eyebrows lifting like he’s one-upped him.
I think there’s a stand-off of some sort. Sweatpants stares down Mark, Mark stares down Sweatpants. I sweat my ass off. I can’t process what’s happening. Just a minute ago I was worried about a cake, and now there’s Mark with a gun, and some Castellanos flunky, apparently? And also, Mark is in league with them?
“I’ll take her. I’ll take her right now.”
“That’s not what I was sent to do,” Sweatpants states. “They moved on our guys. It’s war, and Antonio wants blood.”
“Oh, all right,” Mark says, more easily than I appreciate. “Well, let me call Sal first, clear it with him. Then I’ll hand her off to you. Bruce with you?”
Sweatpants shakes his head, sniffling and looking back over his shoulder. “Nah, didn’t expect this to be too hard. Bruce is setting up something else.”
Mark nods, his grip on me tightening. “I’ll call you after I talk to him.”
“Why don’t you just call him right now?”
Mark jerks his head toward the ceiling. “Morelli’s got this whole place under surveillance. They’re probably already on their way.”
Sweatpants mutters a really filthy curse—honestly, even after listening to Mateo’s mouth it makes me grimace. Then he nods in acquiescence. “All right. You need help with the girl?”
“No, she won’t give me any trouble,” he says, glancing down at me. Then he smirks a little, not a nice smile, and it makes my stomach hurt. He’s supposed to be my friend, and I’m an idiot for believing that. “Actually, I think she likes me, don’t you, honey?”
“No,” I mutter, looking away from him.
Sweatpants seems vaguely amused by this.
Mark’s smile turns self-deprecating. “Maybe not. You wanna escort me to the car, make sure she doesn’t try to run?”
“Sure,” Sweatpants says, flipping the sign on the door to closed and following Mark as he drags me out the back.
“You’re going to regret this,” I inform him, looking around for something, anything I could grab onto. Maybe I could hit Mark—but then there’s Sweatpants, and he wants me dead, apparently?
My phone. I left my phone on the counter. How will they even know I was taken? Yes, Mateo has this place under surveillance, but he doesn’t monitor it. No one will even know to look for me until I don’t come home from work, and that’s hours from now. I could be dead by then.
That terrifying realization settles on me and I miss a step. Mark scowls at me and tugs me closer. “I’ve had my eye on this one for a while,” Mark goes on, conversationally. “Boyfriend’s a real asshole. I’ve had to listen to all the girl talk. Kind of glad this is finally happening.”
Sweatpants snorts. “Yeah, she looks like a real princess.”
I realize it’s absurd to be offended by the observations of those who plan to kill you, but I still am.
We approach Mark’s car, an old, beige rust-box. I recall Adrian coming in to buy a cake, asking me about Mark. It’s the only sliver of hope I have. If Adrian looked into him after he left, maybe he found something.
It’s only a sliver though, because if he had? Mark wouldn’t be here. I don’t know how quickly they’re able to find information on people, but I’m kind of banking on Adrian crashing in to save the day any minute now.
“You are so dead,” I inform Mark, since all I can do at this point is lash out. “You’re basically a ghost already, that’s how dead you are.”
“Yeah?” he asks, almost congenially. “Which one of your boyfriends is gonna kill me?”
I glare at him for that one, and he actually looks genuinely amused.
“Sorry, it was too easy,” he states.
I raise my eyebrows haughtily. “It’s okay. Get your laughs in while you can, Casper.”
“You’re so cocky for someone whose life is in my hands,” he informs me. “I feel like Mateo got a much better response than this under those circumstances.”
I give an outright guffaw. “You’re no Mateo.”
He frowns, then pulls a slight pout. “Hey now, you don’t have to be mean.” We’re at the passenger side of his car now, and he glances from Sweatpants to me. “I don’t suppose you want to be obedient and just get in the car?”
I just glare. I haven’t decided how to play this. Mark wants me dead less than Sweatpants, so I probably don’t want to be enough trouble that Sweatpants tags along. But I also don’t want to get in the car, because as soon as I leave the bakery, I don’t know how anyone will find me to rescue me.
Once I’m handed off to Sweatpants, my chances of saving myself significantly decrease.
So I decide, “I’ll get in the car.”
“Oh, good,” Mark says. “That makes my life slightly easier.”
I’m not happy about it, but I slide into the passenger seat of his car, crossing my arms over my chest, wanting to make sure he understands how huffy I am.