Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I sigh and look at the ceiling. I’m not engaged to the guy and already I’m dealing with his shit.
“I’ll shoot him a message. What were you doing at a club, anyway?”
“Working.”
“Right. You’re always working.”
“That’s how it goes in the Famiglia.” He stands up and heads to the counter. “Want some coffee?”
“I’m okay for now, thanks. I’ll see you later.”
He waves as he refills his mug.
I drift out back and stand in the shade. The last vestiges of the cool desert evening cling to the concrete and the pool laps quietly against the stone as I text Rinaldo.
Karah: I hear you partied hard last night. Celebrating something?
I don’t expect him to be awake yet—it’s just past seven in the morning—but he texts back immediately.
Rinaldo: Wife! I am celebrating something indeed. Why don’t you come see me?
I smile to myself. This man must be crazy if he thinks I’m about to head over to his place this early in the morning.
Karah: Where are you, at home?
Rinaldo: I’m still out, actually. I’m having breakfast with the boys at your father’s diner.
Karah: Mikey Luke’s?
Rinaldo: That’s the one.
I chew my lip. Nico’s words ring in my ears. I don’t love the idea of my future husband staying out to drink all night, but we’re not married yet, so I can’t control what Rinaldo does and doesn’t do.
But this might be my last chance to spend time with him before I set everything in motion and truly commit.
And the way Nico looked at me still nags the back of my brain.
Bastard. I hate him so much for making me second-guess myself.
Karah: Okay, yeah, I could eat. Stay there. I’ll be over soon.
Rinaldo: Lovely. Better hurry before we finish all the bacon.
I grin to myself and run inside. I poke my head into the kitchen. “Fynn, I need to borrow your car.”
He looks over. “Why’s that, sister of mine?”
“I want to meet Rinaldo for breakfast.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “Keys are on the hook out front. Don’t you dare tell Casso or Papa I let you go.”
“Love you.”
“You’d better.”
I hurry upstairs to get dressed, an excited knot in my stomach.
Mikey Luke’s is a rundown building in the middle of a gentrifying neighborhood on the west side of Phoenix. The exterior’s all teal with red shutters and cacti blooming in the dirt out front. The parking lot’s full and I recognize a few of the cars tucked between the sensible minivans and trucks and SUVs. Rinaldo’s still here, and he’s not alone.
I head inside. I’m nervous to show up alone, but this is important. If I’m going to marry Rinaldo soon, I need to be able to do things with him. I have to learn how to trust him.
Having breakfast is the first step of many to come.
The interior smells like grease and eggs. The hostess smiles and points to a booth in the back—she must know who I am.
The boys are all there, Rinaldo and the same crew from the restaurant and the bowling alley. Those guys must be his crew. They’re dressed in suits, though they’re all rumpled and tired-looking, and the smell of alcohol wafts off them like a furnace blast to the face.
“There she is,” Rinaldo says, beaming as he stands. “Gentlemen, you all know Karah Bruno, the Don’s famed daughter.”
He’s with three other men. I don’t know them and he doesn’t move to introduce me. They murmur their hellos and I sit down to join them.
Rinaldo launches into the story of their night, which is basically just them going to a club and drinking too much before heading to the diner about an hour earlier.
He’s funny and though he’s clearly still drunk, he’s able to capture the table’s attention.
I feel somewhat at ease. The other three barely look at me, like I’m a black hole in their vision. Probably used to pretending like I don’t exist, but there’s also an undercurrent of anxiety I can’t understand.
One of the three’s a young kid with baby fat in his cheeks, barely nineteen, and he laughs nervously at everything Rinaldo says. Almost like he’s afraid.
After the story finishes and Rinaldo throws back his coffee, he turns to me and puts a hand on my arm.
“Why don’t you and me go somewhere private to talk? I bet you’ve got more hard questions.”
His eyes are feverish and bright, and his smile is bigger and seems more painted-on than before.
“Uh, sure,” I say, not sure how to tell him that I’d rather stay at the table where people can see us. I don’t like the way he grips my arm as we stand and I hate the way he leads me toward the back.
None of the others pay attention or act like we left at all.
I feel a chill as Rinaldo leads me past the bathrooms and into a darkened hallway. There’s a sharp turn and another shall hall toward a door marked “Employees Only,” and the bustle of the kitchen filters through the cracks. There’s a defunct payphone bolted to the wall on the left covered in graffiti with the handset cut off and missing.