Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(71)
With another round of hugs and a promise to call when I make a decision, I usher my sleepy pup toward the front door. My mind is churning over the proposition as I walk out onto the stoop, Fenway’s doggie bag slung over my shoulder and his leash coiled around my left wrist. I close their wrought-iron gate with a low squealing sound and peer into the dark night. Luca’s truck is idling halfway down the block — I head for it in a daze, still lost in thought as I pass my front door.
Former front door, I correct. Come Monday morning.
I’m so preoccupied with the possibility of becoming a full-time nanny — something I never in my wildest dreams would’ve considered doing six months ago, let alone six minutes ago — that I don’t see the massive figure lurking by my stoop until he detaches from the shadows and steps into my path.
“Delilah Sinclair.” His voice is full of menace. I can make out an ugly birthmark shaped vaguely like an eggplant on his face, even in the dark.
My feet freeze on the pavement. Fenway growls, sensing sudden danger.
“No, you’ve got the wrong girl,” I murmur, backpedaling away as fast as possible. I don’t make it far — another shadow materializes behind me. I bump into a broad chest and feel two hands land on my shoulders with Herculean strength, fingers biting into my flesh hard enough to bruise.
“Don’t think so,” the second man — who I’d bet a zillion dollars is bald as a cueball — hisses in my ear. “Think you’re exactly who we’ve been looking for. You and your asswipe of a brother.”
“LUCAAAAA!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME PLE—”
I don’t get the rest of my plea past my lips, because a giant hand slaps over my mouth from behind, cutting off my air supply. Not about to go down without a fight, I clamp my teeth down into Cueball’s palm until I taste blood.
“Fucking bitch!” he curses, hold loosening for a fraction of a second.
In that brief window of time, I execute the same maneuver I used to evade Luca during our maple syrup battle: an elbow to the ribs and a limp-limbed slip out of his iron-clad grip. I’m rather impressed with myself for actually managing to escape from his hold, as I start running.
Unfortunately, I forgot there are two of them — a fact that’s slammed back into my mind quite literally, when Eggplant extends his arm out and clips me straight across the chest in a classic “clothesline” move. It’s like running into a steel bar.
I bounce off faster than a rubber ball on concrete, lungs screaming painfully from the impact, and ricochet back onto the pavement. My tailbone slams into the sidewalk, followed by my shoulder blades and the back of my head, hitting so hard I see stars swimming in my vision. I moan, incapacitated by the pain of it. It feels like every bone in my body is broken.
Get up, get up, get up, I scream at myself.
My limbs refuse to comply.
I think I hear Fenway growling again, but it’s hard to focus through the haze of pain. When I feel a small furry body drop down close to my side, I force my eyes open. Immediately, I realize Fenway is not the one doing the growling.
The noise is coming from Luca.
He’s standing on the sidewalk with one hand wrapped in Eggplant’s shirt, punching him repeatedly in the stomach. There’s so much rage on his face, I worry he actually might kill him.
They have no idea who they’ve messed with.
He may be outnumbered… they may be huge and well-trained… but Luca fights like a man possessed, like someone who has nothing left to lose. If I had to guess who’ll win this altercation, I’d bet all the money in my checking account (all forty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents of it) on Luca coming out on top.
With considerable effort, I prop myself onto my elbows in a half-sitting position and blink rapidly until my eyes refocus. Through the darkness, I catch sight of Cueball sneaking up behind Luca, attempting to trap him in a headlock.
“Luca, behind you!” I croak, my voice breaking.
He somehow hears my warning. With a brutal shove, he tosses Eggplant against the brick wall of my building. The man hits with a sickening thud, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him crumpling against the ground like a rag doll. It’s a strangely incongruous sight, seeing a man like that broken on the pavement. Like a cat swimming laps or a bear blowing bubbles.
Girl, how hard did you hit your head?
After dispatching Eggplant, Luca never pauses; spinning around, he delivers an incredibly powerful roundhouse kick to Cueball’s chest. The thug goes flying backward into a nearby parked car and falls into the gutter. He does not get back up.
I blink and try to scramble to my feet, Fenway’s leash still gripped tight in my hand. A wave of wooziness crashes through me — I hit my head hard, if the spinning is any indication.
Luca appears, arms going around me to support my weight. His eyes are intense with worry and something else, something that looks a lot like fear. When his hand slips into my hair, it comes back out covered in blood.
“Fuck,” he mutters, scooping me up into his arms and sprinting toward the truck without waiting another instant. I can hear the jangling of Fenway’s leash as he trots along beside us on his short little legs, every now and then letting out a low whine that tells me, in no uncertain terms, he is not a fan of what’s been going on for the past few moments and would very much like to return to regularly scheduled cuddle time, thank you very much, humans.