Riding Dirty: Luciotti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) - Kara Hart Page 0,5

walked right out. “Keep the change. I'll see you around.” He muttered without even looking at me. Something told me I'd be seeing him again soon.

2

Lucas

Life in the shadows wasn't always pretty. I hadn't slept in days and I hadn't eaten either. The boss of the family made it absolutely clear I couldn't call him from any cell phones. “Watch out for pay phones too. We don't want trouble from the big guys upstairs. Got it?” He warned me.

I got it. No calls. I stood inside the factory and observed the workers, rubbing my sore hand. The encounter with that woman yesterday rubbed me the wrong way. The way she spoke to me, as if I was some piss-ant on the side of the road. How about a little respect for once? Was that too much to ask?

I loathed the modern world. People like me didn't get any credit. I was just a speck of trash to them. No matter. When they saw me bust through their door with a baseball bat, their tone always changed.

Anyway, that's not what I was aiming for by coming up here. No, I was on the lookout for something more. I wasn't exactly the kind of guy to enjoy the small town kind of life, mostly because I hated eyes on me. Normally, with a job, I went in and got what I wanted. Then I got out as fast as I could, leaving without a trace. Unfortunately for me, this job was a little bigger.

A drink. I need a drink. I grabbed a bottle of homemade whisky, made in the derelict city of Detroit, poured myself three shots and tossed them back. The burn. That was the kick I needed.

I walked outside and looked at my old Cadillac. It was a piece of shit. You'd think with all the money I seized that I’d be rich. Hell no. Every cent went to my piece of shit brother Ricky, the “family man.” His wife got caught in a hellfire of bullets one day, and suddenly he was a stand-up guy who deserves all the respect in the world. Ricky lost his wife and, for that, my sympathies go out to him. But honestly, he was a lazy slob.

I walked over to the front seat and turned the keys. It revved alright, but it wasn't catching.

“Just my luck.” I scowled. The whisky had set in, causing me to feel upset over the smallest things. I pounded on the steering wheel and dashboard. “Stupid fucking car!” I yelled.

There was no time to dwell on it, however. I suddenly heard footsteps behind me. I put my right hand on my pistol and gripped it hard. If someone had found me, their face would have new holes in it in just a few seconds. I turned to my left, clutching my gun.

“Hello!” A voice uttered. An old man stood in front of me. I quickly put the safety on my gun and took a deep breath, placing it in under my seat. “You called a mechanic?” He asked me, still giving me that dumb small town smile.

“Uh, yeah. The thing died on me. Got it towed here, but it won't start,” I said.

“Ah, I'll have a look at it,” he said. I popped the hood for him and he looked inside. I couldn't help but notice he was missing a hand. “Cadillac, huh. This is a classic beauty, a luxurious vehicle.” He admired the engine.

“It's a piece of junk.” I said. “It was my father’s.”

“Well, your father has some good taste.” He turned a valve and sighed. It didn't take long for him to figure out what was going on. “Well, I think I've figured out the problem.”

“What is it? Expensive?” I eyed him. Fucking mechanics were prone to their lies.

“It won't be cheap,” he said, frowning. “Your transmission is shot and you've blown a gasket. I'd be happy to tow you into town. I've got a shop near downtown, I could fix you right up.” He shut the hood and wiped his one hand clean.

“Back into downtown? Shit, I just came from there earlier.” I shook my head and spit onto the dirt outside.

The old man straightened his greasy shirt out and wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead. “It's about the closest shop to you right now. There's another mechanic further south but he’ll cost you more and your car will hit the fan again soon enough. Anyway, it's your call. I just tell it