A shiver runs through me and my pussy clenches. “Noted.”
He releases my throat and runs his thumb down the goosebumps on my arm. “I washed your clothes. They’re on the bed.”
He washed my clothes. Is it just me or does this hitman seem awfully domesticated? Pancakes? Clothes washing? I’m having a hard time assimilating it all.
And that might be the understatement of the year.
I search through my bag and find the toothbrush, my hairbrush and my cosmetic bag. Did he think I’d want to put on makeup for him while he holds me prisoner and threatens my brother’s life?
Clearly.
And I think I will. I step into the shower even though I had a bath last night. I want to wash and condition my hair and rinse off the carpet dust.
Not that his carpet wasn’t perfectly new, fluffy and clean. It was. Is. Whatever.
I turn on the spray of water, enjoying the renewal of pain when the warm water hits my whipped ass and the rug burns.
Ahhhh, yes. The sensations that ground me.
Paolo
Caitlin stays in the bathroom a full forty-five minutes. She might have stayed there all day, but I call her when the pizza arrives.
She comes out looking adorable in her workout clothes, her hair wet, her lips that bright pink candy gloss.
“How is it? Did you try it?” She scrunches her hair as she walks toward me. Her wide mouth is stretched in a smile. I’m pretty sure she does this on purpose—acts like we’re the oldest friends—to manage her fears. Or to manage me. Not sure which.
Either way, I don’t mind it. I enjoy it, in fact.
I think she’s cute on wheels.
She comes over and scoops a piece of pizza out of the box with her hands and takes a bite. I offer her a plate but she’s not stopping to rest. The girl eats that whole slice standing up in my kitchen, without coming up for air.
Well, that’s what college students do.
She takes a second slice out of the box and tosses it on the plate, then walks back to her computer.
“Want me to delete your police record?” she asks with her mouth full.
I hesitate. Having a hacker at my disposal is damn appealing. What else could we hack? The FBI? I’d love to see what they’ve collected on the Family over the years.
But I shake my head. It’s not worth the risk. That’s what Nico’s been trying to tell us for the last five years. We can do things legally now. We have money.
“No, little hack. Work on getting me my money.”
“I am.” The slightly defensive tone to her voice amuses me. It’s more petulant than rude. Like she fully acknowledges I’m the boss of her. And that makes my dick hard.
She clicks on the keyboard, then adjusts her glasses on her nose and leans forward, like there’s something on her screen worth attending to.
Her fingers fly over the keys again and she’s at it for several more hours. Who knew hacking took so long? Maybe she really can’t get it done in two days. Or maybe she’s just stalling. Hard to say. I guess I’ll know soon enough.
I turn on the television and scroll through the channels, pausing on some kind of action movie with Bruce Willis.
“Oh my God, that’s R.E.D. I love this movie!” Caitlin surges to her feet, unplugs her computer and brings it to the couch, plopping down beside me. Right beside me, like she’s my girlfriend and we’re going to snuggle. I know it’s conscious, these quirks of hers. When I asked her if the crazy was an act, I saw the answer on her face. It definitely is. Some kind of defense mechanism.
So, like almost everything she’s thrown my way, I run with it and loop my arm over her shoulders to draw her even closer as we both divide our attention between her computer screen and the television.
Not surprisingly, she’s an excellent multi-tasker, working steadily on her computer while watching the movie.
She works all the way through the movie and halfway through the next before she gives a sigh and pushes her glasses up on her nose. “I’m in. You want the money in my account?”
“That’s right,” I say. Vlad, my bratva brother-in-law, knows how to move money around and make it untraceable. He’s the one we called in to trace our losses to Caitlin’s off-shore account and then finally to the payments made to Northwestern and some dummy scholarship fund.
She nods, all business now. She works for another forty-five minutes and then falls back.
“Is it done?”
“Yes. Well, no, not yet. It’s set up. I diverted all their transactions for the next day and a half to my account.” She lifts those cornflower blue eyes to my face. “Hopefully it will be enough.”
My heart starts beating faster, almost like it’s in tune with hers. She’s breathless, afraid.