Devil in a Suit - A Mafia Romance

I swallow a moment of surprise at the perfect, unaccented English flowing flawlessly from his lips, but I choose to take his support instead of asking why the hell he's in an ESOL class if he already speaks the freaking language.

"I don't believe it," I tell him. "Nor do I care. I just want them to stop being disruptive. That's all."

The thin man waves a hand at the smoker. He barks something in Italian and, immediately, the man stubs out the cigar. But he takes a vicious pleasure in grinding it into one of my cookies and then tossing both into the trash. Trying to, at least. His aim isn't as good as his ability to annoy me. They bounce and end up on the floor.

"Pick that up!" I snap.

The thin man shakes his head. "Don't push your luck," he mutters. "I think it's best if you get back to your instruction."

I stare at them for a long time. A few violent thoughts go through my head, including a vivid image of stiletto heels coming into kissing contact with arrogant Italian balls. But in the end, I know I've been backed into a corner. Time to take my minor moral victory and go home.

"If he lights up again," I say, "I'll shove it so far up his ass his liver will get lung cancer."

Lucille snickers and even Sofiya laughs. I make a mental note to start incorporating more humor into my lesson plans.

I get back to my teaching, but the whole time I feel the Italian's eyes on me. His beady eyes don't fit in his face properly. They go back and forth as I walk around the front of class, never leaving me. I get the uneasy feeling that something bad is going to happen.

Which, unfortunately, is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

"You let me know if you want me to orchestrate that pendejo," Lucille says with plenty of finger wagging.

We are standing outside the rec center, the sun long gone now. The parking lot is pitch-dark in its absence, since several of the street lamps are broken. Johnny, Max, and Sofiya have already left, but the Italians are taking their sweet time. The thin man is ushering them into a black minivan like they're headed out on a field trip, almost invisible in the night.

"Orchestrate?" I ask, confused.

She makes a snip-snip motion with her fingers by way of explanation.

"Oh, castrate."

"Cut his balls off," she says. "That clear enough? You want me to stay?"

I shake my head. "I'll be okay."

"Too tough for your own good," Lucille tuts, giving me a hug. "See you next week."

She struts away and I return to the rec center, winding my way through back to the classroom. I normally hang around for a little while to prepare for the next class. If I'm feeling particularly charged up, I'll sometimes sketch a little. But tonight, I just want to get my things and go home. I throw my handbag strap over my shoulder, lock the door behind me, and head back towards the lobby to leave.

No such luck.

He's waiting for me in front of the glass double doors-Mr. Lung Cancer, with a nasty gleam in his eye.

"Rude lady," he says, clearly trying hard to find the words. "Slut lady."

I reach slowly for my purse, which contains my pepper spray. I think, not for the first time, that I need to get a gun. Nothing drastic; a small caliber, something for defense. He sees me reaching for the flap of the bag and he waggles an eyebrow at me knowingly. He expects me to open it, and he wants me to know that he knows what I'm trying to do.

So I do the exact opposite. I stride to the left, shove open the side door, and walk out into the night. That jerk can wait in there until the sun rises for all I care.

"Rude lady," I hear from behind me. He moves way too quickly for an ogre. In a flash, I'm somehow backed up against the exterior wall of the building, his bulk a shield I can't get past. Thankfully, he's not touching me. Yet. "Teach some respect."

I assess my options: a knee to the gonads, spit in his eye, rake his cheek with my fingernails. All viable, but I need to make sure it's effective enough so that I can duck and run. And he looks intent.

"Women need respect," he goes on, sounding like a sexist caveman. Tarzan love Jane. Jane grovel for Tarzan. "I teach."

"No, what you'll do is back the fuck off before I make you regret it," I hiss. Miraculously, I sound calm. "I mean it. Back. Off."

Over his shoulder, I see a limo pull up. Wait, a limo? The sight is so strange in this rundown part of town that for a second, everything seems to stop. Mr. Lung Cancer glances at it. Something in him changes, melts.

Who is in there?

The back door swings open. The man who steps out and strides over to us is jaw-droppingly handsome. Over six feet, muscled, his thick arms filling out his steel-gray suit. Even in the low light, I can make out the glinting blue-green of his eyes, sharp and intelligent.

As he exchanges words with the thin, scarred man, he barely glances at him. He stands like a man used to being in control. The only thing that moves is his hand, a tiny twitch in his fingers, as though he's strumming an invisible guitar. He's clean-shaven, with slightly smirking lips. A proud sneer in the set of his jaw. He must be thirty, maybe a little older.

I turn away from him, a little unnerved by how flustered I've gotten. This is not the time to be swooning over good-looking strangers.

"You have five seconds," I tell the big Italian, "or I'm going to make you regret it."

"I'd listen to her." The handsome stranger is talking to the Italian but looking at me. "She doesn't seem the sort to make idle threats. Step back."

The smoking asshole steps back right away. Bowing his head, he makes as if to apologize. The limo man waves a hand toward the minivan, and my would-be-attacker skulks off like a dog with its tail between its legs.

"I must apologize for my friend," the stranger says, those blue-green eyes like jewels at the bottom of a pool of water. His voice is deep, smooth, and tugs at things within me I haven't felt for a long time.

I push it all down. New life does not equal new man. Nope. No way. I have far too much at stake to throw that kind of dynamite into the middle of things.

"I was handling that," I tell him.

"Oh?" His lips twitch ever so slightly, threatening a smile. He seems amused. "And how, precisely, were you going to handle it?"

"What? You think I can't deal with one handsy jerk? I've dealt with worse, believe me."

"I do believe you," he says. "Or rather, I believe that you believe it."

"Oh, we're doing riddles now?" I ask sarcastically. "How fun. Now, if you'll excuse me ..."

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order," he interrupts, still standing completely still. Except for his eyes, and those lips: full, tempting, arrogant as hell. I repress a million warring urges. "Don't you?"

I gape at him in disbelief. A thank you? Clearly, that guy and his friends are this dude's employees or whatever. Which means this is the one who's responsible for them being here in the first place. Which means, really, that he's the one who's been disrupting my class.

And this asshole wants me to thank him?

Maybe when hell freezes over.