Den of Sins: An Interracial Dark Mafia Romance (Chicago Sin Book 1) by Alta Hensley & Renee Rose

Author:Alta Hensley & Renee Rose [Hensley, Alta & Rose, Renee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-04-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Hannah

I definitely didn’t expect Armando to let me go to work. I thought we were going to have another throw-down that I would lose. And I also didn’t guess he would come with me.

It’s weird and wrong that I’m semi-excited by the idea. Like my boyfriend is coming to hang out at work with me.

I keep reminding myself I’m his prisoner not his date, but then he holds my hand and opens my door, which sends my body into a riot of flutters and thrills.

I wasn’t totally paying attention to the route he took, but when he turns into a car repair shop, I sit up straighter.

“What are we doing?”

“Getting a new alternator in this thing. Come on.”

I grab my purse, open the door and hop out, noting he’s not snarling orders at me not to move any more. Trust is growing.

“I don’t have money for an alternator,” I tell him when I walk around. I figure he already knows, but it’s best to be clear.

“I got you covered,” he says.

“I can’t let you do that,” I say.

His face morphs to one of an authoritarian. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you that the van isn’t safe or reliable. So, I’m fixing it. This isn’t open for discussion.”

It shouldn’t be swoon-worthy, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes my nipples go hard. It’s a flash of the old Armando—the slick, smooth-talking guy who used to come into the shop when Mary Alice owned it and flash huge wads of cash. It’s that confidence and ease, a bit of swagger. Like money is no problem, and he’s happy to provide. Definitely sexy to me.

He talks to a mechanic, telling him what he thinks is wrong with the van, and then we step inside to fill out paperwork. He has them fill it out in my name but gives his phone number and name as the contact then asks for a shuttle ride to the shop.

It’s not that hard, but I’ve been overwhelmed by the idea of even bringing the van anywhere since the problems started. Mostly because I knew I couldn’t afford any repairs. But also because I was afraid they’d take one look at me—a young Black woman who knows nothing about cars—and try to screw me over.

Nobody would ever try to screw Armando over. At least not anyone in his right mind.

He’s silent on the ride to the shop, sitting beside me but actually somewhere far away.

I nudge his leg with mine. “Thanks.”

He turns his head and looks at me, no hint of a smile, his face that dangerous, blank mask. I don’t think he even heard me. “What?”

“I said thanks.”

He blinks at me for a moment more, like it takes a while to come back to the present and process my words. Then his gaze drops back away. “My pleasure, Flowers,” he mutters.

I think about slipping my hand into his, but I resist. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through—fresh out of prison with someone trying to kill him.

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