Possessed by the Killer (Dark Possessive Mafia)

The floors were hard wood, and fancy molding wrapped around the ceiling and along the baseboards. He took me back into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, which was otherwise empty, and headed back down the front hall to the stairs.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said and laughed.

I followed him up to a front bedroom. “What is this place?” I asked.

“An investment,” he said. “Bought it a couple years ago. We use it as a safe house sometimes.” He cracked open the bottle—a screw top. “Want some? Sorry I don’t have glasses. We’re not good at planning ahead.” He took a long drink and offered it to me.

I took it and sipped from the rim. The white wine was fresh and cold. “What are we doing here though?” I asked.

He walked to the window and peered through the blinds. “We’re watching,” he said, and gestured for me to join him. “See that house there? The one with the red door.” He nodded across the street.

I saw the one he meant. It blended in with the rest of the block. “What about it?” I asked.

“We’re waiting to see if anyone shows up there.”

“Is that another safe house?”

He nodded, took the bottle from me, and drank again. “In a sense,” he said. “That’s my personal place. Another investment.” He craned his neck, looking around, and gave me the bottle again. “Stay here.”

He left me alone for a minute then returned with two mismatched chairs. I sat down and took small sips from the bottle as he paced in front of the windows with the lights off. The room got darker and darker, the shadows getting longer as the yellow street lights cut in through the slats in the blinds. He seemed anxious, and I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I got the sense that it wasn’t good.

“Are we in danger?” I asked softly.

“No,” he said. “Not at all. But I couldn’t leave you back at the house for this.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He only looked at me, but didn’t answer.

I passed him the bottle and he drank in silence. Minutes ticked past. I waited, not sure what was supposed to happen, and each moment that dragged along like a slime-covered crocodile drifting through a swamp felt like another chance for me to get away, or at least to say something. Dean didn’t seem like he wanted to talk anymore, and he kept stopping at the window to stare out at that house, looking for something.

An hour came and went. The bottle was finished. He sent me downstairs for another and had me order food on his phone. The delivery guy came and I tipped him in cash. We ate on the bare floor, barely talking, and it was agonizing, all this mystery.

Another hour came and went. “I seriously can’t do this anymore,” I said finally, standing up so fast the chair clattered down behind me.

He flinched as he whirled on me. “Don’t be so loud,” he said.

“What are we doing here, Dean?” I asked. “You can’t drag me around without telling me what you’re up to.”

He looked pained as he stared back at the house across the street. “It’s mafia business,” he said.

“I thought mafia business was my business,” I said through clenched teeth. I was ready to scream out of frustration.

“Shit,” he hissed, and pressed himself against the wall suddenly. I was tempted to go closer, but he waved me away. “Hold on.”

My heart raced up into my throat. He peered out and sucked in a sharp breath. I joined him, and stretched to look around him, out at the stoop, and saw two men standing at the door.

Two big men in black clothes, with black backpacks and motorcycle helmets.

“Don’t move,” Dean whispered as he carefully got out his phone. He typed up a text and hit send. “Watch.”

I felt pinned to the spot. I stared out the window at the two men. One knelt down and began to do something to the lock—and I realized he was trying to get it open. The other blocked him with his body, looking around like he was scanning for threats.

“What are they doing?” I whispered.

“Looking for us,” he said. “Now be quiet.”

The guy on his knees stood suddenly. Both men turned to the door—

Then it burst open, slamming into the first guy’s face. He staggered back as three men spilled out with guns raised, shouting at them. The second tried to run, but a gunshot screamed out in a wild bust.

“Fuck,” Dean said and ran to the door.

I followed, not sure what was going on, my breath coming ragged. “Dean,” I gasped as we reached the front hallway. “What is that?”

“Come on,” he growled as he threw open the door and ran out into the night.

I recognized the guys, now that we were closer. The man standing over the bleeding guy in black was the bald man from the club, I think his name was Trent. The other two wrestled the other guy in black into the house, and both of them were Dean’s soldiers. I saw them earlier in the night at one of the first visits.