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liz-allyn · 2 years

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sugar and vice, pt 1 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: I have a meet-cute in a coffee shop. but for mob!peter.

words: 5.5k

warnings: Shameless TASM mob!daddy Peter fantasies, including, but not limited to, kidnapping, knives, bang bang shoot shoot, pining, eventual smut

Part 1

“Just a coffee, black. Biggest ya got.”

Wearily, yet still wired, Peter tapped his fingers on the stainless steel counter. It was late. Or early. Streetlamps still blazed in unholy darkness outside. It had been a long night. But he had felt like he’d been up for years.

Across from him, a young woman wearing overalls and a daisy-yellow bandana gave him a heavy nod. “Sure,” she replied, gravely. “I have to warn you, though. We over-roast our beans. It’s bitter as hell.”

He blinked at her, not expecting such honesty. She had a trusting face. Pretty eyes.

“Ya wanna sweeten it up for me?”

He could hear the lame pickup line of a younger version of himself. One that wore a confident smirk, walked with bravado. One that hadn’t lost what he had lost. The older Peter of today brushed that voice away. “I like bitter.”

He glanced up at her eyes and saw sympathy. “Oof, tragic,” she frowned, shaking her head teasingly, her coyness peeking through. She retrieved a paper cup and filled the dark liquid to the brim.

The personalness of it threw him off. Peter had wandered in like a zombie. He only briefly heard her ask for his order and his name, both of which he gave, and he expected nothing in return but the coffee. He watched her carefully, shifting uncomfortably. He was the only customer in the shop at this hour, but he didn’t expect to be seen.

“Here you go,” she declared, handing the cup over. “One large black graveyard dirt, extra tears.”

It wasn’t so much the joke, rather the way she beamed when she said it. It was like sunlight peeking through the curtains just right, casting a familiar space in an ethereal glow.

She glowed.

Seeing it awakened his senses. He felt the way flowers must feel, desperately reaching their petals out toward the sun after they’d been neglected through a long, dark winter.

Before he knew it, he was smiling back. Teeth bared, eyes crinkled, grinning like a fool. He thought his muscles couldn’t remember what smiling felt like. It ached.

She reached out, extending the cup towards him. But it was so much more than that.

His gaze darted from her sparkling eyes, to the curve of her mouth, back to the apples of her cheeks—

“Thanks for stopping by, Ben!”

The illusion vanished, as did his smile. He pulled away, staring at the stainless steel countertop for a moment. He thanked her and took the cup from her hand, dropping a couple of bucks in the jar. He didn’t spare her another glance as he turned on his heel.

For a moment there, he felt free. He’d forgotten what he was underneath the leather gloves, thick cashmere coat, the bitter coffee, and the fake name.

His hand found the door, the winter chill penetrating his glove. Just as he began to push it open, he heard a shout.

“Wait!”

He did, glancing back at her, against his better judgment.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, almost shrinking into herself with a sheepish expression. She blushed at the eagerness and volume of her own voice. “To have a great day.”

He blinked, brow creased.

“It’s, uh, sorry— it’s stupid,” she rolled her eyes, slapping her palm across her forehead. “But I’m… I’m supposed to say ‘have a great day’ and I always forget, maybe ‘cos I’m a little ADHD, and my boss always reminds me that I need to say it every time, but that’s awkward, right? Like it needs to come up in conversation, I can’t just blurt it. I mean, I can. Like, I just did. But that was weird, right? It was weird. And sometimes, I’m thinking about the next 3 things I have to do, or the thing I just did and I get… I don’t know, a little lost in the moment, and then it passes, and then I felt like I missed out, y’know?”

He stared. “No?”

“On saying what I want really to say,” she said with a voice full of warmth—gentle and genuine in tone. Her babbling ceased as she emphatically declared. “I really hope you have a great day. You deserve it.”

There it was again. That smile. Sincerity and kindness sliced through him like a razor. He was a child again, getting a kiss on the cheek from his mother. Her cheerful gaze lit him up inside, like setting off a roman candle beneath his ribs. It wrapped him in a firm embrace, filling him, shielding him, and grounding him all at once.

This time, he couldn't look away. Didn't want to. He waited until he could hear the flutter in her heart. He was smiling again.

“Thank you. I think I will.”

And as if she’d cast some sort of spell, he did. The way she enchanted him, he was certain if they lived 400 years ago they might accuse her of witchcraft. He always had a good day when he saw her. No matter how painful, or dirty, or bloody. She became his good luck charm. His ability to ‘have a good day’ became entirely dependent on seeing her.

He shouldn’t go back there. He should try the Starbucks down the street. But he couldn’t help it.

She’d pour him basic drip coffee, announcing aloud to the whole shop as she handed it to him. “Here you go! Extra large, extra-hot dark roast, with extra-darkness and a splash of angst.” There was affection in her gaze despite the sarcasm of her voice.

“One extra large coffee, black as the devil’s soul.” She’d whisper to him privately, gifting him with a good-luck smile, even when the coffee shop was full of people during the morning rush. In those moments, she made him feel like they were the last two people on the planet. And it always made something in his belly flutter.

“I have an extra-black ‘Fault in Our Stars,’ with a shot of ‘The Road’ for my friend in the suit!”

Her friend. He couldn’t help but blush. How could he come to this place every day, stand in line, and feel like he was coming home? She was magic.

The coffee really was awful.

“Let me know if you ever want me to sweeten that up for you,” she graciously suggested, as the cup left her fingers. The brush of her fingertips against his felt like wildfire. Her comment was innocent, but his mind wasn’t. “I think I can make it taste better—I have some window cleaner left.”

He was smiling again. It blossoms into something reciprocal. That should be enough. He shouldn’t be greedy. He should walk away now. He should run.

“What would you suggest?” he asked coyly. It was the first time he had ever done so.

A million saccharine-infused terms of endearment flowed through his mind—sweetness, sugar, gumdrop, sweetheart, sweetie, cookie, peach, muffin, angelcake—most of them were trash. (Really, Parker? What is this, high school? Whaddya doin’? You ever talk to a woman before? Why do you sound like somebody’s grandpa? Such a creepy —

Some of them weren’t appropriate between friends. None of them appropriate coming from a stranger.

That’s what he was, deep down. God, this precious girl—she was so trusting. Was she friendly like this with everyone? No, he had noticed as time went on. She’s warm and kind to everyone she meets. But not like this. Not the way she is for him.

“Ooh, getting adventurous, are we?” she teased him, stars in her eyes.

For him. All he could do was stare back in awe at the Milky Way in her gaze. He would follow them and venture on any journey where they may lead.

“How do you feel about lavender and honey?”

Flowers and sugar for Brits and fancy people. He quirked his brow at the concept. “In coffee?”

Her eyes twinkled with excitement, as she spun around and began her concoction.

For him.

He needed to leave. But he followed the length of her arms, the delicacy of her fingers, the way her hips moved as she danced around her workstation. He was hypnotized again.

He imagined dancing with her. Letting her body flow and wrap around his like curtains billowing in the breeze. He barely registered that she was holding a new cup out toward him. While he was daydreaming, she had written his name on the cup and drew a little heart next to it.

He stared at it. It’s not exactly his name. But it’s the one he’d given her. And in return, she had given him so much.

He took the cup from her hand and couldn’t help but feel like he was undeserving of her kindness. Or her attention. Or her heart.

“Don’t make that face,” she softly admonished as if she could read his mind, or she might have read his sad look as disproval of her efforts. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

She gave him a smile. She gave and gave and gave. Gave him a reason to keep living. She didn’t even know.

He took a sip. It warmed his tongue, his throat, his heart. It ached.

“S’good,” he hummed, honestly surprised. He was telling her the truth. He reached for his wallet with his free hand, retrieving a wad of bills. He always paid in cash.

She waved him off, mock offense on her face. “No, silly. That’s not how gifts work!” Her laugh sounded like church bells.

She was a gift. For him. His flower. His Honey.

“This one’s on the house,” she assured him, as he hesitantly lowered his wallet. She whispered low, in a tone that burned him up inside. “It’ll be our secret.” His mind felt like it was rebooting. She said it innocently, but he was anything but. She scoffed with a flippant laugh, “Just don’t tell my boss, okay?”

Her boss. He knew about her boss. Tod. With one ‘D’.

Some mornings, particularly Monday through Thursday, he’d see the pencil-like man stiffly pacing the back of the bar while she and another young girl kept up with demand. Hawkish eyes, always watching. Always judging. Rarely picking up a milk jug himself.

He dominated the register. Peter hated handing him cash. His face reminded him of a cheese grater if it could look unhappy. “Are you sure you don’t want a pastry?” he offered the ‘add-on’ with what was supposed to be a smile.

Peter’s eyes shot over to his Honey as she was artfully pouring foam, adding her magic to someone else’s cup. She refused to look at Peter and he hated it. It reminded him of a defense tactic. Don’t look at the thing you don’t want to be taken away. As if he was a prized possession that she wanted to hide away from Tod, who might accuse her of having ‘favorites.’

It stirred wild emotions to be thought of that way, especially by her.

How dare her boss accuse her of any wrongdoing. How dare he threaten her.

“I’m fine,” said Peter, with a chill he hoped Tod could feel.

He needed to leave.

He needed to take his Honey and his Lavender Latte and just go.

He shook his head. His brain was lagging again. He turned away from the straight-backed scarecrow before a robotic ‘thank you for being a customer’ could be responded to.

Peter waited. Eyes on the floor. Eyes on the exit. Eyes on the windows. Eyes on her, but only briefly. He waited and daydreamed bitterly, waiting for her to call out a name that wasn’t his.

“Honey Lavender Latte,” his enchantress called out. Hearing her voice caught him from his downward spiral. He made eye contact with her as he took the cup from her hands. Warmth radiated from her eyes, although muted. It was enough to soothe and comfort him.

She blushed, sheepishly, unable to contain the smile in her voice. “Have a lavender-ly day.”

His mood lifted. Such a silly girl. Witchcraft, indeed. “Thanks, Honey,” he replied, without thinking.

Her big eyes widened for a moment, and her heart quickened. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked away, unsuccessfully hiding her teeth.

Peter would call her that a million times in a row if it would elicit that reaction.

“Have a great day,” Tod interrupted, murdering the moment.

Poor girl. She cowered slightly, like a dog hearing the word ‘no.’ She took a breath and put on a smile, turning back towards her work.

Tough girl. She didn’t need Peter to defend her.

He glanced over at Tod with a deadpan expression, and walked out of the shop before he did or said anything else stupid.

The world was full of Tods. It was also full of monsters. Sometimes Peter was one of them. No Tod was truly worth his attention.

Except for that one time.

A Tuesday morning in the middle of the holiday shopping season. Peter stood in line patiently, arms crossed, gritting his teeth. He glowered behind the bar at Tod, standing too close to his Honey. She gazed up at her boss helplessly, watching him turn red in the face, as the flagpole of a man waved his arms wildly. Clearly agitated, he kept his volume low but his body language screamed at her.

“What I need your help with is this,” Tod hissed as he towered over her. “I need you to tell me what is the best method for getting information into your head. How can I communicate with you in a way that you’ll understand?” His voice was soft although he flailed like a wavy-arm inflatable man in a car lot.

“Tell me honestly,” he sneered, dressing her down in front of a line of customers. At this point, Peter didn’t need any superpowers to be able to hear the conversation. She visibly fought the urge to cry. “Do I need to write it down? Do I need to scream at you? Do I need to throw something? Do I need to take you aside and have an hour-long conversation?” She kept her eyes on the ground as he kept pelting her with icicles. “Tell me your preference here. What is it that you’ll respond to?”

The scene came to an abrupt end when the glass of the shop window shattered. The sound silenced him finally. The front door swayed limply, having been yanked off its hinges and slammed into its frame. His Honey glanced around the shop with concern.

Peter was no longer there.

He didn’t come back that day.

Neither did Tod.

Some sort of accident, his Honey told him the following week, although he already knew the details. She explained to him why the shop had a new manager, a well-composed woman named Leyla. By the airiness of her mood, he could tell she greatly preferred Leyla’s managerial style.

She was happy, and that made him happy.

And that should be enough.

He should leave. He should run. Get as far away from her as possible.

But he was intoxicated by her. Drunk on her sweetness and her Honey Lavender Lattes.

He looked at her like she was the queen of the hive. He’d let her take that crown, any anything else she could ever want, if he had the chance. He’d worship her. He already looked at her like she was a goddess. The devotion in his honey-tinted eyes was clear to anyone who bothered to look.

“Peter Parker!”

Hearing his real name while he stood grinning like a fool in front of his Honey one afternoon made him flinch, sending a shiver up his spine. He turned around, yanked from his reverie, watching three men stroll into the shop.

He positioned his body in front of her, obscuring her from their view. His hands were tight balls at his sides.

Peter was familiar with two of the faces, but razor-sharp focused on the mountain in a suit they called Filch. He’d seen that greasy face more times than he’d want to admit, shrouded in darkness and cigar smoke. Seated at the hand of Wilson Fisk.

His jaw locked in place.

Filch looked overjoyed to see him. Like they were old friends. Like Peter didn’t know that Wilson Fisk was plotting to move against him.

“I thought that was you!” he brightly exclaimed. He strolled through the shop, like a cheetah stalking prey. Removing a hat and revealing what little hair he had left underneath. “Long way from Queens. Fancy finding ya all the way out here, eh?”

Peter knew better. The only surprise in this situation was intended for Peter. He’d been followed here. Watched.

His spine went rigid, shoulders into stone.

Don’t look at the thing you don’t want to be taken away.

He could hear her heart flutter faster behind him. As if she could sense the way he bristled when they arrived. Trouble in her kingdom. A disturbance to the delicate sanctuary she had built, like all of her totems and protection spells were wearing out.

Peter kept his back to her. He kept his eyes trained on the three men, who spread out in a familiar pattern. They were scoping the place. Checking for cameras, other patrons, and all possible exits.

Don’t look at the thing you want—

“Hey, Sugar, it’s cold outside,” Filch called out, with all the grace of flagging down a hooker. “Whaddya got to warm us up?”

Peter stared straight ahead. Glaring. Fuming.

“Might I suggest the coffee?” his Honey answered. “Just made a fresh pot of the dark roast. It’s good.”

He might have cracked a smile if he wasn’t busy envisioning a scenario where he’d have to kill the three men in the room with just the tools available in a coffee shop.

“Pour me a cuppa that,” Filch replied, his eyes never leaving Peter’s.

Peter only slightly relaxed when he felt her presence back away behind the bar. She grabbed a paper cup and filled it with steaming-hot tar. She set the cup down on the counter and backed away, minding her workstation. “That’ll be $2.50.”

Good girl, Peter thought. He saw Filch go for his breast pocket.

“I gotcha,” Peter cut in before Filch could move closer. He grabbed the cup and handed it over to his rival’s lapdog. “‘S’on me.”

Filch eyed Peter cautiously, reaching out where both hands could be visible. He took the cup with exaggerated gratitude. “No, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I said I gotcha,” Peter firmly cut him off, the cords in his neck going tight. Peter retrieved a few bills from his coat pocket, never breaking eye contact with his opponents. “We good here?”

Too many seconds passed with no response. He could feel the twitch of his pulse in his throat. Filch’s eyes drifted back behind the counter. He was too close to her. He studied her in a way that was far too intimate. It made Peter’s skin crawl.

“We’re good,” Filch replied. A smile curved his lips. He held the cup up, toasting him. “Have a great day.”

Peter swallowed hard as the three men sauntered out. He watched them go, his stomach sinking, bile rising.

They’d been watching him alright. Who knows how long. He’d been a patron of this shop and he would order from this girl and stare at her with doe-eyes and hearts swirling around his head, out in the open where anyone could see. And they did see. He showed his hand and now the game was over.

“Who’s Peter?” he heard her voice softly ask.

The illusion was shattered. He turned his head, but couldn’t bear to look at her. He felt sick. Empty. Furious. Petrified.

The monsters were gone now. But they’d be back.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say, as he walked out of the door.

They’d be back. He’d be there first.

She watched her favorite customer disappear into the night, her eyes wide with longing as she followed him. He disappeared in a few blinks of her eyes.

Something unsettling crawled beneath her skin. Maybe it was longing, but she was familiar with longing. This was new.

Her hands were shaking and she wasn’t sure how that happened either. One minute she was staring into his dreamy, honey-hued eyes, then the next he was running in the other direction. Not unlike their first meeting, a scene which she replayed over and over again in her head, trying to figure out what made him go so rigid.

Who’s Peter?

Peter Parker.

She repeated his name in her mind, reciting it like a mantra. She wasn’t great with names, but he told her his name was Ben on that first morning so many months ago, and she made a point to remember his name, and to say his name, because people liked it when you said their name, it made them feel closer to you and she wanted more than anything to be close to him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her wheels were spinning again. She used her thumb to push down hard on the center of her opposite palm. The dull pain grounded her back to reality.

When she opened her eyes, she half expected him to be there. He always seemed to show up when she least expected it. He was a bright spot in her day, despite his gloomy demeanor. He could be dark as a raincloud, but she loved dancing in the rain.

Or as her co-worker Nasrin teased her one day, he was her “tall, dark, hot cup of coffee.” She hid her face in her hands as Nasrin got to the “sucking him down with a straw” part of the analogy. She was incredibly grateful that he had been standing by the door, and there’s no way he could’ve heard that.

Now she had a first name and a last name and a... another name? And a place — you’re a long way away from Queens. A quick Google search of the names in question pulled up too many generic results. There was a dated article about a Ben Parker who was killed in an armed robbery, but her tall, dark friend couldn’t have had anything to do with that.

It twisted her stomach when she considered the fact that she really didn’t know him. She didn’t know who those guys were, and by the looks of things, she didn’t want to know. She should just drop it.

She did the best she could to keep busy, but there weren’t any more customers after that. She sent a quick text to her new manager that she wasn’t feeling well, and closed the shop early. She took the subway home.

Once she got on the train, she didn’t make it back to the platform. It was late, but the subway car was still unusually empty, save for a couple of randos sitting at the opposite end of her car. Any other night, the near-solitude would’ve been a blessing. Tonight, something felt off.

Twenty minutes into her ride, just as the train was about to cross the river, it jerkily slowed to a stop. Her cessation of movement stirred her. Her head popped up from the glow of her phone screen curiously. She worried her lower lip as she glanced at the doors and windows, as if she could somehow see whatever it was that was stopping the train.

She jolted as she felt a hand clamp down on her upper arm. Startled, she looked up at the two other occupants of the train car, now standing inches behind her. Two men that had been seated quietly, also seemingly distracted by their phones.

“Come on, sweetie pie,” one of them said, towering over her. “It’s time to go.” She didn’t recognize either of them, but her instincts reminded her of the altercation in the coffee shop. These two had the same ‘goonlike’ look.

She tried wrenching her arm away, but the stranger held tight. “Get off,” she hissed. His partner on the left took her other arm, albeit more gently.

“Hey, take it easy,” the other man admonished. “No need to be rude.”

“Yeah, we’re friends,” the first man added, with a greasy smile. Her eyes darted around frantically. Panic set in as she realized she was alone in the subway car. The doors slid open, but there was no platform. Instead, the doors opened to building rooftops. The train had stopped on an elevated track above the street.

“Let’s go,” the gruffer man beckoned, grabbing her arm more tightly. He dragged her through the doorway, on a dark walkway next to the tracks. As soon as he lifted her, she erupted into a fit of screams. She kicked her legs, shrieking for help, but no reply came. She didn’t know if no one could hear her, or if people knew better not to respond.

“Keep it down,” one of the goons ordered coldly, dragging her along. She desperately resisted, letting her legs drop out beneath her.

She heard a hiss and pop as the subway train sprang back to life behind them. She watched helplessly as it pulled away.

“A wild one, aren’cha?” the red-haired roughneck tutted, yanking her back up to her feet. “Be a good girl or I’ll throw ya over my shoulder.”

She tried jerking away again, but halted as she faced the edge of the walkway. The dizzying height stunned her into submission. Her knees began to lock up, trembling with fear.

“Take it easy, Katz,” the man’s partner chided him, albeit insincerely. The two of them practically carried her down the walkway. “You’re scarin’ her.”

They arrived at an old set of metal stairs leading to the street below. The sharp, steep grade of the steps made her vertigo even worse.

“No, help! Somebody help!” she hollered, wrapping her fingers in a death grip around the banisters and anything else she could reach.

“Keep your mouth shut!” the red-head called Katz snapped at her. He reached around and tried to put his beefy hand on her mouth, but she bit down on his flesh the second his fingers reached her lips.

“Ow!” he roared. “Bitch!”

She saw him rear back his fist. Then she saw nothing.

When she came to, her whole body ached. Every muscle throbbing, like she’d been twisted into a pretzel. Her eyelashes fluttered open. Flickering flourescents stung her eyes. Bleary, she gazed around in a dreamlike state until her senses slowly started to awaken.

She tasted glue. And blood. Took heavy humid breaths through her nose. She was on her side, on a concrete floor in a garage she didn’t recognize. The smell of motor oil and cleaning solution stabbed her nostrils. She gazed up at the shadowy, filthy undercarriage of a Rolls Royce lifted high up above her. Loud bangs jarred her out of slumber further. She faintly wondered who would be jackhammering—

Loud pops. Gunfire.

Her body went rigid, then sprung to life in terror. Attempting to open her mouth to scream, she realized that it was taped shut. Even slight movements of her jaw stung her flesh. She tried to sit up. Her arms tingled, like her limbs had fallen asleep. When she tried to move them she felt a sharp sting on her wrists.

Alarm started to take hold. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She glanced down and passed her dirty, blood-stained shirt to the duct tape wrapping her ankles. It might as well have been iron. Her wrists were also firmly bound behind her. Trying to pull them on them felt like ripping off her own skin. She whimpered excruciatingly.

The sounds were getting closer. She glanced around, eyes begging for help. Searching frantically for any reprieve amidst the scattered car parts and junk.

The gunfire was getting closer.

She scooted, inching her way across the floor until she reached a work table. She was lining her spine up against the table leg when the garage door rattled open. She was out of time. A spill of light from outside lamps flooded in, blinding her. She could only vaguely recognized her own shrieks behind the wall of duct tape.

A group of people stood at the garage doors with their backs to the light. She watched their imposing silhouettes with horror.

A tall, male form approached her, his long black coat trailing behind him. Tears that she couldn’t contain sprang from her eyes. She was trapped, terrified, like a rabbit staring down a wolf. All she could focus on was the gun in the man’s hands as he stalked toward her. She squeezed her eyes closed, waiting to hear a final shot that would end her life.

“Easy, easy,” a familiar, deep, and soothing voice rolled over her. “Shh, don’t be scared, Honey.”

Her breath hitched. Eyes popped open.

Crouched down to her eye level was her tall, dark, and bitter friend. Ben—Peter—whatever his name was— the moment she recognized his soft chocolate eyes and the scattering of a peppery beard on his otherwise boyish face, she felt a wave of relief.

His leather glove still held firmly onto a pistol. The sight of it dropped her back to reality. Like a bucket of ice water being poured over her body. She shuddered as he scooted closer.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he placated with a calm voice. “You’re okay.”

She wanted to believe him. He set his gun down on the concrete floor and reached for her with both hands. Another sound of a distant gunshot made her jolt. She recoiled away from his touch, shrinking herself up against the table leg.

He flinched at her reaction with a pained expression, as if she’d stabbed him. His hands faltered for a moment.

A man’s voice rang out from the group lingering behind, a youthful tone from someone barely older than a teenager. “Boss, we gotta go!”

A deeper voice called out in response, “C’mon, Pete. The calvary’s on the way. Get her on her feet! ”

Her eyes widened, tears streaming down her face. He stared back at her, his expression turning grim. She gazed up at her savior to realize that this was no true rescue.

A sickly feeling crept over her as she put the pieces together. Whatever this was, whatever was happening, whatever had happened to her—it was because of Peter.

Her tall, dark, and dangerous stranger. He grabbed her by the hips, scooting her closer. She wailed as he scooped her body up in her arms, dizzy with how fast and effortless it seemed. He carried her like a toddler having a tantrum, except she was restrained already.

Peter said nothing as he carried her out of the garage, barely looking at her, as he marched towards an idling, blacked-out SUV. She barely had time to spot the driver, a gorgeous woman with long silver hair.

She smirked at her, eyes sinister.

When the SUV finally came to a halt, all she knew is that they were in an underground parking garage. Her limbs felt heavy, the assault of adrenaline starting to take its toll. Few words were spoken during the car ride, and none to her. Thick tension filled the air.

She was on the floorboard, her cheek pressed up against the carpet. She gazed at the feet of two men seated in the back. One of them was the fresh-faced teenager she heard calling Peter ‘Boss.’ His name was Miles, she had heard. The other was a rugged, haunted-looking man, with large dark eyes fixed on the windows, ever watchful. Miles called him Miguel, before the older man shot him a look to stay quiet.

“That’s the unifying issue with the men in this car,” the woman driving the SUV snarked. “You all talk too much.”

Her heart hammered at the glint of a knife. Miguel opened a switchblade, grabbing her ankles.

“Whoa, hang on,” Miles talked to her—the first one to do so. “He’s gonna cut the tape, just so you can move your legs, okay?”

She gazed up at his soft dark eyes, her own still welling with tears. She felt the release on her legs give way as she kicked the rest of the tape off.

“Lights out,” a cold, distant voice ordered. The sound came from the front passenger seat, where Peter sat in tense silence.

Both Miles and Miguel seemed to hesitate, glancing at each other.

“You sure?” Miles questioned.

“He didn’t stutter,” the silver-haired woman replied, definitively. There was a bite in her voice, but it carried with it a tiredness filled with frustration. She sounded more like an older sister jabbing a younger sibling.

The woman popped open her door to get out. “Let’s go, boys. We got groceries inside.”

The world went black again. A dark hood was thrown over her head, obscuring her view.