Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Nah. I think he’s just lonely. And he’s kind of imprinted on you,” I said.
“Like a goose?” she asked, dangerously close to laughing.
“You got the personality of one,” I teased. “One chased my sister around Central Park and bit her in the ass when we were kids.”
That got a laugh out of her.
“I’d be offended if that wasn’t so accurate,” she declared, exhaling hard. “I actually do need to go let the dog out,” she said. “I know we need to talk about—“
“I’ll come with,” I offered, expecting her to turn me down.
But she surprised me by watching me for a long moment then nodding, “Okay. Let’s go. We can talk about the Morellis over food after. My stomach isn’t happy that the only thing in it is a couple of gross pizza rolls and a bitter coffee.”
It sounded a fuckuva lot like a date to me.
And I was way too fucking excited about that prospect for what was meant to be a business arrangement.
But, hey, if no one knew about Saylor’s involvement to begin with, then no one could judge me for overstepping that line.
Or, at least, that was what I was telling myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saylor
He was good company, damnit.
My mother was going to get a kick out of that when she wrangled that tidbit out of me sometime in the near future.
I could practically hear her now.
Gorgeous and fun to be around? Why are you fighting this again?
I was, too. Fighting it.
Because this was about work.
Because, as much as I hated to admit it, I really needed his help to get my stash of weapons back. And I couldn’t be letting my damn hormones get in the way of that.
At least not yet.
If I wanted to take that man for a ride or two after this was all done, then so be it.
“So, the Morellis are, what?” I asked as we sat in the Italian restaurant he’d insisted on because he turned up his nose at street food. Which I’d suggested purely because sitting across a table from him felt a lot like a date, further blurring that line I was trying to walk.
“An organized crime Family,” he said, brows pinched as he glanced at me over his menu.
“No, I know that. I meant… what are they into? What do they do?”
“Oh, well, if you ask them, they will tell you that they’re brick layers,” he said, lips tipped up in that too freaking sexy way.
“Heroin or cocaine?” I asked, making that little tip of his lips turn into an actual smirk.
“Cocaine,” he said.
“On Staten Island?” I asked. “Shouldn’t that be more of a Manhattan thing? Financial District has the biggest population of cocaine users. I mean, they’re the only ones who can afford it,” I said as my gaze scanned over about ten different meals I wanted. I was never good at just picking one thing. I always wanted a little bit of everything.
“Get whatever you want,” Anthony said as if reading my mind. “And they do sometimes deal in the Financial District. We’re allies, so we don’t really care. But they’ve got their hands in just about everything on the Island.”
“And they’ll just offer it up, no questions asked?”
“Guess that depends on who I reach out to,” he admitted.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning there are a bunch of Morelli brothers. Some might be more likely to give us information than others without feeling the need to drag Lorenzo into this. Ciro is kind of the rule-follower, so I won’t reach out to him. That leaves Gio and Elio. Both will just assume Lorenzo knows everything that’s going on.”
“So, do you just call and ask for a meeting?” I asked.
“Figure we shouldn’t just show up at the deli.”
“Deli?” I asked, lips twitching.
“Yeah, they own a deli.”
“That is almost as funny as them owning a pizza place.” To that, a smile tugged at his lips. “Does your Family own a pizza joint?”
“Not mine. But a Family we know in Jersey. In Navesink Bank.”
“Wait. No way. I might have eaten there,” I admitted. “I totally thought that the guy behind the register in a suit looked a little bit like a mobster, but I figured my imagination had run away with me.”
“You probably met Lucky Grassi,” Anthony told me, shrugging.
“A mob pizza joint, a mafia deli… I feel like this has potential to be a bus trip for tourists,” I said.
“If the tourists only knew what was going on right under their noses…” Anthony said, placing his menu down as I still hemmed and hawed three dishes.
Anthony bought me some time to think, though, by ordering three appetizers.
Within half an hour, I had shoved fried mozzarella, bruschetta, and caprese salad in my mouth and was steadily plowing through chicken parm, gnocchi, and carbonara while Anthony ate baked ziti and bet me that I wouldn’t even finish half my food.