Bratva Sinner (A Possessive Mafia Romance)

I went back to the bathrooms. Luke followed, not saying a word. If he had something on his mind, he didn’t show it, only scanned the place like he was pulled taut and ready for any trouble. I liked that about him—the constant edge of his strength, like at any second he might explode and destroy everything around him in a massive burst of raw masculinity. It was dangerous and alluring.

The women’s room was surprisingly clean. The far toilet even still had blue stuff in the bowl. I climbed up and stood on my toes as I reached toward the drop ceiling. I pushed it up and felt around—but there was nothing.

I sucked in a breath and got down. I went to the next toilet, tried again.

“You okay in here?” Luke stepped inside.

“It’s the women’s room,” I said, as if he cared about that. I reached up and found nothing.

I got down and went into the last stall.

“You sure it’s up there?” he asked.

“I’m positive.” I repeated my performance: stand on seat, up on toes, lift drop ceiling, feel around.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

I went back to the last stall, checked again, went through all three, checked them all five times, but nothing.

“Fuck,” I said, throwing my hands up.

Luke watched me carefully, eyes narrowed, arms over his chest.

“Are you sure you hid it there?”

“I’m sure,” I said, glaring at him. “Now you think I’m a liar, but I’m not. I freaking swear I put it up in that stupid ceiling. I remember I got dust in my eyes and it stung and I thought it might be freaking asbestos, I mean, look at this place, it probably was.” I walked to the sink and turned on the water, splashing water over my hands then onto my face, trying not to panic. I dried off with a fresh paper towel.

Then I stepped back and looked around.

“What’s the men’s room look like right now?”

Luke shrugged. “Haven’t checked.”

“Go look.”

“You want me to see if it’s in the ceiling?”

I shook my head. “No, just see if the place is clean or not.”

He hesitated, frowning, but he listened. A few seconds later, he came back in. “Pristine,” he said. “Toilets look scrubbed.”

“Clean in here, too. Those paper towels are brand new. There’s still blue stuff in that one toilet and the mirror’s practically sparkling.”

“Someone cleaned in here,” he said slowly.

“Exactly. Who’s most likely to notice if a ceiling tile got moved?”

Luke turned and left the bathroom. I hurried after. He approached the bartender, pulling himself up to his full height like a cobra preparing to strike.

“Got a question for you,” Luke said.

The bartender scowled. He was an old guy, tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears, face pitted and craggy like the moon. “Whatcha need?”

“Who cleans these bathrooms?”

“What, you want her number?” One of the old drunks laughed. “I doubt she’s into guys like you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimmy,” the bartender said then looked at Luke again. “Her name’s Marie. I can give you her number if you want.”

“I’d appreciate that.” The bartender rattled it off and Luke typed it into his phone. “Got it, thanks.”

“I just don’t want no more trouble, okay? Cops were sniffing around here after and my regulars don’t like cops.”

“Oink,” Jimmy said, grinning a gap-toothed smile.

“You won’t see us again,” I said.

Luke nodded to the bartender and left. I followed him quickly, and out on the sidewalk, he looked around like he expected the police to come swarming out from the drain pipes.

“What are the chances she’s got it?” he asked me, frowning at his phone. “I mean seriously.”

“I don’t know, but it’s worth a phone call.”

He grunted and lifted the phone to his ear.

7

Luke

Marie was a small woman with light brown skin and dark hair with the tips dyed red. She wore jeans, a simple cotton shirt, and dark yellow rubber gloves that looked well used.

“You the guy that called?” she asked, frowning at me.

“Luke,” I said. “I’d shake your hand, but—” I shrugged, gesturing at the gloves.

She snorted. “No problem, no problem.”

“This is Cara.” I gestured toward her. “We were hoping you’d talk for a minute.”

Marie frowned at the pair of us. We stood in the bathroom of a barbecue restaurant on South Street, a popular spot that got a lot of foot traffic. Marie was about halfway finished with the men’s room and a light sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. She looked forty, maybe younger, it was hard to say, and her English was pretty good, though lightly accented.

“You want to talk, you put on gloves and help.” She gestured toward a utility bucket with cleaning supplies. A pair of blue rubber gloves and a pair of red gloves hung over the side. “You clean, I talk. Deal?”

Cara snorted and walked over. “This wouldn’t be my first bathroom.” She grabbed the red gloves and yanked them on.