Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
It smelled like grease and cheese. The booths were red and the tables were lacquered, fake wood. The guys behind the counter were busy making takeout and delivery orders as Nervosa led me to a table in the back corner, empty except for a few leftover napkins.
“Pizza?” I asked, incredulous. “I’m from Chicago. We have real pizza there.”
“You have deep dish. That’s more like cheese pie than pizza.” He leaned closer. “What’ll you have?”
“How dare you insult deep dish.”
“Keep it up and I’ll surprise you.”
I leaned back, glaring. “Plain.”
“As you wish.” He went to the counter and spoke quietly to the man making the dough. The cook laughed and nodded enthusiastically, and when Nervosa returned and sat down across from me, I noticed the cook looked happy, like he’d been blessed.
“I’m going to admit something,” I said. “I expected you to bring me somewhere a little more…” I trailed off, choosing my words carefully. “Upscale.”
“I don’t do upscale.”
“Why not? You’re an Oligarch. That’s all you people do.”
“First of all, you’re from an Oligarch family too, and you’ve been one longer than I have. Second, I’m not typical.”
I let out a breath. “You’re older than me. What do you mean, I’ve been one longer?”
“I was adopted.”
I let that hang in the air. I had no clue that he’d been adopted—nobody talked about that. It hit me just how little I understood about this man, and how much power he had over me by comparison. It was like he took a class in my life, and I was thrown into the test without being given the book.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry you were adopted, but sorry I didn’t know.” I stared at my hands. I blushed like crazy and hated myself for it. I shouldn’t care what Nervosa thought of me, but somehow, I did.
“It’s okay, I understand. My parents found me when I was ten.”
“Found you?” I tilted my head, chewing my lip.
“I was in the park playing chess.”
“You were playing chess at ten?”
His eyes twinkled with humor. “And winning.”
“You’re lying.”
“How else could a street rat ten-year-old catch the attention of an Oligarch? My dad taught me how to play when I was four, and I was winning games by the time I was six. My mom used to set me up at a table and chain smoke all afternoon as I played. I’d win some, lose some, and my mom would scream at me if I lost too many. I didn’t realize until later that she was placing wagers on those games, and whether she could buy drugs that night or not depended on how well I performed.”
I let that sink in like a stone in water. All I knew about Nervosa was that he was dangerous, but this was entirely unexpected. I assumed he was a rich Oligarch kid like all the rest of them—but his life clearly hadn’t been easy.
“You must’ve been good,” I said stupidly. “I mean, if you were winning.”
“I quickly learned that I had to win, or else my mother wouldn’t be happy. When my mother wasn’t happy, I didn’t eat.” He turned as the cook he’d spoken with appeared. “Ah, Galeno. What do you have for us?”
“Plain, as requested, Nervosa. And your favorite. Sausage and anchovy.” He grinned, placed the pies down, and retreated behind the counter with a little bow.
I watched the show with raised eyebrows. Nervosa’s words swam through my skull. When my mother wasn’t happy, I didn’t eat. The food took on a strange cast in my mind, like it was filtered through Nervosa’s complicated childhood.
“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Galeno’s a friend.”
“Friend? Why would that matter?” Then it hit me as he took a slice. “You’re worried about being poisoned.”
“Can’t be too careful.” He began to eat with measured bites. “Go ahead. It’s good.”
I took a slice, more to have something to do with my hands than because I was hungry. He was right though, the sauce was zesty and fresh, and the cheese was melted to perfection. I had two slices before Nervosa sat back with a critical smile.
“I have a feeling you’re ready to talk business,” I said, not letting him get the first word.
“I brought you to that meeting so you’d understand.” He spoke carefully, measured and safe. I kept thinking about a ten-year-old boy playing chess to win money for his addict parents, fighting against his rumbling belly, scared and desperate. “When I say that my fellow Oligarchs want to make war on your people, I mean it.”
“Why tell me this? Why not go to my brother? He’d believe you.”
“You know my reputation. Do you think your brother would hear my words, or assume my intent, based on what you know about me?”
I leaned back, considering. Redmond could be impulsive, that was true. He’d done some things I didn’t necessarily agree with—like murdering our father, for a start—but I believed he acted in good faith. Redmond wanted what was best for our family and for the Oligarchs in general.