Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“I have a lead on another job,” I say, which is about as close to talking about it as I can get right now. “It’s at a bagel place, so I’ll be able to open there then go work at Cucina afterwards. Should be pretty good.”
He grunts and sips his tea. “I don’t want you working two jobs. Why not try to find an office gig?”
“I wouldn’t need two jobs if you’d let me move back home. And I’ve tried to get an office gig, but nothing’s hiring right now.” And they’re sure as hell not hiring a girl like me with too many low-wage jobs to list on a resume.
“I am not going to have my adult daughter come live with me like a babysitter. I love you, Em, but I’m fine.”
I plaster on a smile and nod along, another concession to hide pride. I hear those words all the time, and the more he says them, the more they come out hollow: I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.
“How about grilled cheese for dinner?” I get up and head into the kitchen. “I got some tomato soup too.”
“Perfect. I’m spoiled. Don’t you have other plans though? You know, friends, a social life?”
I try not to laugh. I haven’t had a social life in a long time—and now I have a negative social life, since all I do is work. “I like hanging with you.”
“I’m an old man. And your dad. What about boyfriends?”
“Boyfriends are a waste of time and energy. Didn’t I tell you I’m swearing off all romance indefinitely?”
“That’s not the Emily I remember. You were boy crazy. You had all those pop stars hung up on your walls with hearts over their faces—”
“Dad, I was not boy crazy, please, god, never say that again.” I laugh as I start making dinner, and he launches into one of his patented stories about my childhood, and for a little while he’s the man I remember, larger than life and so damn alive.
It’s a good visit. We don’t talk about it but we don’t fight too much either. When I leave a few hours later, Dad’s parked in front of the TV watching Gunsmoke, and I’m reasonably certain he’ll have something to eat tomorrow morning.
As I get into my car, I pause and stare across the street.
There’s a man sitting in a black town car. He’s wearing sunglasses, and this time, he’s staring straight at me.
I swear it’s the same guy from before.
But I shake my head and pull out because, no, that’s paranoid. Now I’m thinking about Mr. Bianco again and that handsome mouth of his, those big hands, the way he stroked my hair like he wanted to pull it tight and bury his tongue down my throat, and I feel a thrill run between my legs. I’m an emotional wreck and a little thief, and yet I want my boss’s boss to tie my hands to the headboard of his aggressively expensive bed and rail me until I forget all about my problems.
When I pull out, I check the rearview mirror, and I swear that black car pulls out too.
But then I lose it in traffic, and my little efficiency apartment across town remains empty and pathetic, and all I have are fantasies about some overly handsome stranger to keep me company as I kill time before I have to work again.
Chapter 4
Simon
My father watches me from across his big executive desk, and I can tell he’s not happy.
An antique clock ticks on the bookshelf to my right. The room smells like old library glue and whiskey. I used to love this place when I was a kid—I’d sneak in here and watch my father work all afternoon, and he’d let it happen, because I was the oldest boy. Which meant one day, I’d take over the entire Famiglia.
Now I’m thirty-three, and I’m not sure when that day’s going to come.
“If we become the aggressors, we risk turning sentiment against us.” Dad leans forward and I can tell he’s in pain. He’s always in pain—ever since getting shot, he hasn’t been right.
Alessandro Bianco used to be a Titan of a man, a ruthless and clever mafioso who stood astride Chicago and made the whole city do his bidding, but now he’s a ghost of that giant.
Now there’s only pain and discomfort and arguments.
“Forget about what the cops and the politicians think. Santoro’s been pushing onto our territory, and if we sit back and let it happen, every other would-be gangster from here to California will think they can have what’s ours.” I gesture at him, almost pleading for him to understand.
“You kidnapped one of his Capos. You cut off his ear.”
I make a slicing motion with one hand. “Both ears, actually.”
He rubs his temple. “We can’t go around kidnapping and mutilating people. That is not how business is done.”