𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞

Curiosity Killed The Cat.

(Final Edit)

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨

My eyes narrowed as I caught sight of Miss Tequila standing there, a witness to Jaun Skavinsky's murder. I never let a witness live.

"Prendila, non possiamo lasciarla scappare!" I shouted to Dario and Dean as we ran after her in her obvious drunken state.
(Grab her, we can't let her get away!)

She was a witness to the murder I couldn't let her get away. Despite the amusement and slight admiration I felt towards her this evening—when she so impressively downed so many tequila shots without any disgruntled expressions visible on her face— it all disappeared.

My only focus was catching her before she could talk. If anyone from any rival Mafia heard about my slip-up in letting a murder witness get away, my entire family will be shamed. In the Mafia it was death before dishonor. Always has been, always will be.

I'd faster shoot myself with my own gun before I allow the Guerrero name to be tarnished because some silly little girl saw something that wasn't meant for her eyes. I could never allow it.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

I was alone and somewhere in between drunk and sober. I was in shock from witnessing a murder, three dangerous men were chasing me, and I was running for my life— in five inch heels. This was starting to resemble those Lifetime movies I watched in my spare time. And I didn't mean that as a compliment!

I heard the men shout to each other in some foreign language, catching a few words here and there. 'Prendila', 'Possiamo', 'Scappare' and a few more. I highly doubt they were friendly words and I was not sticking around to find out. As I drew closer to the back exit I could hear the loud music from the club stereos.

I was 'this close' to freedom. 'This close' to safety. 'This close' to the door. Then karma woke up and slapped me in my face. Tripping on a discarded piece of trash I fell to my knees. Are you fucking kidding me? Undeterred by the mishap, I flew to my feet and limped forward. Just as I was about to run inside, a large hand clamped around my neck and I was pressed up against a rock solid chest. My jaw was caressed by— a gun?!

Oh sweet mother of Abraham Lincoln.

"Going somewhere piccola?" a deep voice whispered in my ear.

He caught me. I was D-E-A-D! The man held my arms behind my back with one hand and caressed my face with the other. "It's not very nice to eavesdrop piccola, spying on big men while they're doing their business? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Naughty," he reprimanded as though I were some child in need of discipline.

Suddenly the fear—the terror I felt when he caught me, knowing he was going to kill me— all disappeared and was replaced with uncontrollable rage. I didn't care who he was or what he would do to me anymore. If there was one thing I hated more than anything in this world was people talking down to me.

"Let me go you sick, twisted bastard!" I yelled as I started to violently struggle against his iron grip.
"Fiesty and a foul mouth. I like it," he chuckled in an amused tone.
"What do we do with her? She's a witness," one of the men whispered to the man who held me.
"Rilassati Dean, non andrà da nessuna parte."
(Relax Dean she's not going anywhere)

At that instant when I was close enough to hear them speak, I recognized the language. These men were Italian.

"What's your name tesoro?" my captor asked me.
"Why should I tell you? You killed someone. I'm calling the cops!" I tried to sound serious when I said this, but any fool could see I was terrified, shaking in my boots. Well heels.