Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Taking a deep breath, I tried to shake off the encounter.
I dipped into the next store, going directly to the bathroom to splash some cool water on my face, blow my nose, and put myself back together.
Then I did the rest of the shopping before making my way back toward the Brownstone, paying for a cab on credit, and trying to remind myself that I could pay it off with my paycheck, if I lasted that long.
I was just climbing out of the back of the cab when I saw a big group of suit-clad men going in the Brownstone a few doors down.
See, because I was there for a reason, I knew that the house a few doors down belonged to Lorenzo Costa. The boss of all bosses. Aside from the Lombardis, I guess, since their never-ending attempts at peace talks kept falling through.
It was odd to see so much activity going on there.
But I couldn’t linger any longer than it took to get my bags, get out, and unlock the front door.
Back in the house, I left the bags and the receipts and the rest of the cash on the counter in the kitchen, wanting him to see that I wasn’t being shady. I hadn’t even used his cash to get my coffee. I’d charged that as well, inwardly wincing, knowing how close I was to maxing out that card.
Done with that, I put on some coffee, reminding myself not to feel guilty since room and board and food was included with these sorts of jobs.
While that brewed, I went through the cabinets, finding… nothing. Literally. No cups, no plates, no cookware. The only thing shelved were three white mismatched coffee mugs.
I grabbed my phone, jotting down notes of things I was going to need to ask if he wanted me to buy. Dinnerware, flatware, glasses, mugs that matched, pots and pans, a can opener, spatulas, and cleaning supplies. I put asterisks around that last part, since that was top of the priority list.
I was just about to put my phone down when I decided just to bring up the weather forecast, wondering if I had a little time to work outside in the garden.
But it took me to the news, not the weather, channel.
And right there, I saw why there was so much activity going on at Lorenzo’s house.
Cosimo Costa had been arrested for murder.
That was a big deal, I was pretty sure. I wouldn’t pretend to know how the Family reacted to that sort of thing, but judging by the presence of so many men, there was at least some discussion going on about it.
I mean, I hadn’t heard of a mob-related murder arrest in a long time. Racketeering charges here and there, sure. But nothing this serious. The Families were usually so careful about disposing of bodies, what with forensic science getting better every single day and all.
This was… sloppy.
And none of the Families liked sloppy.
Least of all the Costa Family, the biggest name in organized crime.
I was kind of surprised that Renzo hadn’t mentioned it when he’d confronted me. But, I guess, as big of news as this was, it had nothing to do with what he wanted from me, so there was no reason for him to mention it.
When a few hours passed and there was still no sign of Emilio, despite knowing he was probably just a few doors away, I snagged a little bit more of the money, and made my way back out, deciding that it would probably look good to him if I not only accomplished the task he gave me my first day, but for him to have a hot meal to come home to.
I was nobody’s chef.
In fact, I planned to spend some time after my “shift” ended today scrolling my phone to look for easy recipes online.
But I knew how to boil water.
I was a master, in fact, at boxed mac & cheese.
So a simple spaghetti dinner should be easy enough.
I even went ahead and grabbed a jar of sauce—the good stuff, because this was an Italian man, after all—since I didn’t know what to put in homemade sauce. Which would probably be the first thing I searched online.
If he asked, I would just claim that he didn’t have any spices, and I wasn’t sure about what kind of food items he did or didn’t want me to buy. Feigning ignorance to his needs instead of my own incompetence was probably always going to be the best bet.
I winced at the ingredients as they spread out on the kitchen counter. Spaghetti pasta boxes, jarred sauce, frozen garlic bread, a slotted spoon, a pot that was probably too small but it was all the store around the corner had, paper plates, and plastic cutlery.
It looked like something a kid in a dorm would bring home to cook. But, well, it was food. And he was surely going to be hungry when he got home.