Hell's Kitchen by Lili St Germain, Callie Hart Read Free Book Online

wouldn’t make a difference. He’ll find you and he’ll skin you alive.”
    “Sal and I aren’t going anywhere.”
    “Then enjoy what’s left of your life, moron.”
    “Gladly.” I pull out my cell and hit the speed dial for Sal, waiting with bated breath for him to pick up. He doesn’t, though. I let it ring and ring and ring, but I get no answer. What the hell is he doing? We agreed a long time ago that we’d maintain contact in situations like this. How bad is it that we have an action plan in case of kidnappings gone wrong? Like this happens every goddamn weekend. “Where the fuck are you, man?” I growl under my breath.
    “Boyfriend not picking up?” Tall and Beautiful asks.
    “Shut up and sit your ass down,” I snap. I haven’t turned my back on her. She’s dangerous and she knows how to fight. I don’t intend on giving her the opportunity to hand my ass to me, escape the storeroom and vault out of a window or some shit. I’ve known her for all of five seconds but I feel like it’s something she would do. I give up on the phone and slide it back into my pocket, giving her my full attention. “What’s your name?”
    “Why the hell should I tell you that?”
    “Because I can find out easily enough, and you know not telling me would be a massive waste of time. The quicker we get through this, the quicker you can go.”
    She shakes her head, looking away. “You must think I’m mentally challenged.”
    “Are you? Most people who find themselves in this situation are less mouthy.”
    “Oh, honey. I’ve been in this situation more times than I can count. I’m not gonna dissolve into tears and start begging for my life.”
    “That’s a pity. I do love when a woman begs me for things. And please … feel free to call me honey again. I like how that sounds, too.”
    She probably meant to barb me with the name, to condescend me, but I wasn’t lying. Her using that name on me sounded really fucking good. Like, way too good. I need to keep my focus here, but it’s not easy with her covered in blood and sweat and her clothes clinging to her, looking sexy as all get out. If Sal were here, he’d have probably already cut off three of her fingers but we’d know her social security number, bra size, the name of her childhood family dog, the works. I could hazard a guess at her bra size—34C?—but other than that …
    “My name is Gracie O’Connor,” she says, her voice turning cold. “Patrick McLaughlin has been taking care of me since I was a kid. You could say he considers me his blood. So the sooner you figure out what you’re going to do with me and do it, the better. And by the way,” she says, lifting her eyebrows. “You look at my chest one more time and we’re gonna be having words.”
    I’m about to give her a few when I’m cut short by a knock at the door. So much for no one ever coming back here. Fuck. I press my shoulder against the wood, praying it’s not Billie or Joseppi, or any of my father’s other half-witted lackeys. Gracie O’Connor is giving me an unimpressed look when I shoot her a warning glance. “Do not make a fucking sound,” I tell her.  
    “I’m trapped in enemy territory with Roberto Barbieri’s men at every turn. I’m not a complete idiot,” she hisses back.  
    “Theo? Theo, baby, I know you’re in there. Come on, open the door.”
    Fuck. Shandi. Yeah, that’s right, Shandi , like the drink but with an I instead of a Y. Total stripper name, which is exactly what Shandi was before my father decided to give her a job as a waitress in the restaurant. She wanted to clean up and Pops wanted a hot piece of ass working the floor to distract the diners from the comings and goings of New York City’s underworld elite. I’ve fucked her a few times here in this very room, which is what she must be looking for now—a quick roll to make the day a little more interesting.  
    She won’t go away. I know she won’t. Gracie’s eyebrows are arched, showing