“Since now,” Dom said. “I trust you to make a good decision. Just keep me posted, okay? So I can simmer Isha down if it goes tits up.”
Another sigh escaped Mickey. Though Dom couldn’t see him, he nodded. “I will. Thank you.”
“No sweat. Drive safe.”
Dom hung up. For a moment, Mickey was frozen in place, then his gaze fell on the time: Three o’clock.Fuck.If he had any chance of hitting the bank with the De Luca cash before closing time, he had togo.
He tapped in a call to the number Mrs De Luca’s daughter had called him from. It rang and rang as he drove out of the service station and around the roundabout to the northbound junction until it eventually clicked into voicemail, and Mickey considered the possibility that he was wasting his time. That he’d get back to Bletchley to face a closed front door and the fact that nothing had changed. But he had to try. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t lost sleep over the De Luca case. Only fantasising about Benito had kept him from climbing the walls.
Unbidden, heat rippled through Mickey as he rejoined the motorway traffic.Stop it. You don’t have time to think about that right now.But as committed as he was to helping the De Luca family keep their home, pushing Benito out of his mind was impossible. His dark eyes. His soft hair.
His addictive inked skin and cut body.
Even his rough voice made Mickey shiver.I wanna see him.
And maybe not just to fuck. Benito’s company was... intriguing. Mickey had replayed every moment they’d spent together more times than he cared to admit, but was nowhere near close to cataloguing it all. Each time, something else gave him pause.
Each time, he was left wanting more.Cravingit harder than the devil in his veins craved blood.
And he’d articulated it in the worst text message in the history of text messages. He’d wanted to die when he’d read it back the next morning.hopefly. mbe the wek after if wrk stays crezy. Damn. He might as well have sent hieroglyphics. Maybe Benito thought so too. Either way, he hadn’t replied.
Mickey’s Ford Focus ate up the miles. He ditched the motorway at junction thirteen and drove into Bletchley.
Barnfield Court loomed in the distance. The sight of it made his stomach clench. Always did. As tower blocks went, it was far from the worst Mickey had known in this life and the one he tried to forget, but there was something about this one, an ominous fog he couldn’t shake.
He parked outside and jogged up the grimy stairs to the De Luca flat.
The daughter was sitting on the landing, her back to the shiny front door, face drawn and tear-streaked. “You came.”
“I did.” Mickey crouched to her level, keeping his distance. “If someone had answered the phone when I called back, I’d have told them.”
“That was my phone. I’m not allowed to answer private numbers.”
“Fair enough. That’s a good rule. Is your brother here?”
“He went to get the money.”
“Where from?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about your mum? Will she talk to me? Even if your brother makes a payment today, she still needs to agree to a recovery plan.”
The girl’s eyes reddened. “She’s in her bedroom. She won’t come out. You have to speak to my brother.”
“I can do that. Do you know how long he’s going to be?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Mickey sat back on his heels, considering his options. The landing was cold and draughty and no place for a kid to be hanging out with him—an adult she barely knew. “Look, I said you could have until five, so I’m going to wait until then for your brother to come back, but you need to go inside and wait with your mum, all right? Where it’s safe and warm.”
“It’s safe out here.”
“I’d feel better if you went inside.”
“I don’t want to.”
Mickey sighed. “Okay. Well, at least tell me your name—”