Driving the Mob (Steamy Standalone Instalove)

I hear a few of my men gasp from behind me, and his tighten their grips on their guns and lean forward as if getting ready for an order to open fire. I straighten, projecting the message I’m not afraid.

“Open fire, then,” I bellow, my voice echoing around this lonely rundown place. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

The door at the front of the warehouse creaks open and Juan steps out, followed by what seems like a hundred of his men. Cartel members, some of them in suits, some of them in tank tops, some of them shirtless – bloated with steroids and covered in tattoos – stand behind him like legionaries ready to go to war.

Juan tilts his head from side to side, all twitchy as if getting ready for a fight or snort a line of coke as he paces over. He tightens his fist and a knuckle duster glints in the sunlight, winking a challenge at me.

He seems even more swollen than the last time I saw him, as though he’s been injecting himself with more muscle-building drugs, taking the easy road like all cowards do.

“Don’t call me a fucking rat, Murphy,” he snarls.

I grin wolfishly at him, flashing my teeth.

“Don’t give me a reason, then,” I say. “You killed one of my men. You declared war. He had a wife. He had children. And you killed him. You cut off his fucking head.”

Wife. Children.

These were words that meant nothing to me until recently… recently, and yet it’s like I’ve felt this way forever. The craziness doesn’t feel as strange to me as it should.

It feels right.

She’s mine.

Forever.

And this bastard wants to change that.

“I didn’t cut off anyone’s head,” he says, with a snakelike sneer.

“Yeah, not personally,” I growl. “But one of your men did. I know that much. So send the prick out, we’ll take him, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Give up one of my men?” he says, and his soldiers chuckle throatily behind him. “You must think I’m as stupid as you.”

I scan my eyes over them… there’s probably around forty, plus the men in the warehouse windows. We have around the same number.

This could turn into a bloodbath at any moment.

“I think you’re a coward,” I tell him flatly. “I think you hide behind the word Cartel thinking it makes you tough. I think I’d dismantle you like the amateur prick you are if you ever had the balls to fight me for real.”

The color drains from his face and he takes a shaky step forward. “Be careful.”

I laugh, making it purposefully obnoxious. He’s so full of bluster and drugs and foolish confidence, he can’t tell I’m paying him, maneuvering him exactly where I want him.

“Why? You’re not going to do a damn thing. Oh, you’ll send men to jump someone without giving them a chance to fight back. You’ll hide behind your goons. But you won’t fight, Juan. Not in a million years.”

I reach behind my back and take out my gun, causing all the men to stiffen, dozens of guns aimed at me cause my men to tense up and respond.

I smirk, tossing the gun onto the ground.

“There.” I spread my hands again. “Show your men how tough you are, Juan.”

A smart man would be able to think of something to say to get himself out of the challenge. He’d say something like, We’re not animals, fighting in a pit. We’re leaders. Have some self-respect.

But Juan isn’t a smart man. He’s a violent goon here to peddle drugs to the most vulnerable people in my city.

“Well?” I smirk when he gapes at me. “Or are you too scared, you rat fuck?”

He takes a step forward, aiming his fist at me, the knuckle duster glinting. “Be. Careful. Murphy.”

“Say that a thousand times, Juan, and it still won’t sound tough. You’re just proving how scared you are. Right now, by not accepting my challenge, you’re showing your men how scared you are of me. What sort of a man lets another man call him a fucking rat to his face, a worm, a lowlife loser whose little prick doesn’t work because he’s popped one too many pills…”

Ah.

I see the moment I press the right button, the way his eyes widen, the way his whole body stiffens.

Panic streaks across his features and then rage floods into him as he takes another step forward.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he says.

I laugh, not having to force it. It’s the most ridiculous thing he ever could’ve said to me.

“Are you going to hurt me with your pathetic threats?” I say. “Because you’re not going to swing at me, Juan. I know that for a damn fact.”

His lips tremble and he glances behind him, at his men, as though gauging their reactions. They all try to stare impassively, but I notice a couple of the shirtless ones twitching angrily, as though they’re willing him to charge at me.