Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“Thank you, Valentina.”
She sets a plate of cannoli in front of Al, who is there alone.
“What’s going on?” I ask when she’s out of earshot.
Al’s been my boss since about the day I was born. He’s my half-brother, fifteen years older, which makes him more of a parent than a sibling, and he’s always been the one who rode me the hardest—harder than our father, even.
Al made sure I beat the shit out of any neighborhood kid who stood up to me before I even started kindergarten. Al taught me the rules of the street. The rules of vengeance. The rules of crime. The rules of death and honor. Al was my capo when our father was still alive, had ordered my first hit, and sponsored me to be “made” when I was only seventeen.
“Stan Matranga bought a house here in Forest Hill.” Al inhales a cannoli in one bite.
The Matrangas are the other organization in Jersey, and the two families have been in a constant state of chess with each other for the past fifteen years. Strategizing about the game is, actually, one part of my job I enjoy. Al listens to me first, over Vito, his underboss, or Carlo, his protege from Sicily.
“Oh yeah? You paid a visit yet?”
“No, I’m sending you.”
Well, fuck.
This is not a part of the job I relish. I’m the money guy. I handle accounting. Wash the cash receipts, and try to make everything look legit. I don’t want to handle the actual threats on the street.
I’m not the enforcer.
I’m sure Al knows I hate this shit, yet he orders me into the fray anyway.
I keep my face blank and nod. I don’t know why he doesn’t send Carlo, who loves conflict. But, of course, Al’s grooming me to take over as don if something happens to him. I have to be his second-in-command. Not to mention the fact that Al’s life goal is to make sure I’m not a pussy, a suspicion he seems to have held ever since he noticed I preferred sharing my toys to fighting over them.
“All right. I’ll stop by and ask what the fuck he’s doing in our neighborhood.”
“Good. You want to bring back-up?”
I consider. I’ll be visiting as an emissary, which means it’s doubtful I’ll get whacked. I might get beat up, but knocking off the boss’s brother would start a war. Of course, moving into Forest Hill was a shot across the bow, so maybe they wanted war. “I’ll go alone.”
Al considers me. I hold steady under the gaze. Now that I accepted the job without flinching, I suspect Al’s worried about me. This is always the way with him—he throws me to the lions, and then he paces beside the pit until I come out safe and sound.
It’s one constant test after the next.
“Is that all?”
Al sits back and shrugs. “You in a rush?”
“Course not.”
He unwraps a cigar and lights it.
“I went to see Sophie Palazzo today.” I don’t know why I shared it with him. Small talk, I guess. Or because the taste of her is still on my tongue.
“Yeah? How is she?” I realize Al sent me to Sophie as a check-in. A message to her, perhaps that one never leaves La Famiglia.
Now that I see it in that light, her reaction–her stiffness and almost resentment at seeing me again make sense. So does her torture on the table.
“She’s good. Happy to see me. Warm,” I lie. I don’t want Al up in Sophie’s business again. She doesn’t deserve that. I will do my part and make sure she’s not a threat, but I want her off Al’s watch list right now.
“Did it help? The massage, I mean?”
The muscles in my low back twinge as I shift in my seat, but I say, “Definitely.”
Because I would take ten herniated disks for another round with Sophie Palazzo. I’m that satisfied.
And that hungry for more…
Sophie
After Joey leaves, I toss the sheet from the massage table into my laundry bag and put on a fresh one. I sweep the floor, which only takes thirty seconds, considering the treatment room is the size of a small bedroom. I share this place with two other massage therapists, which helps with the rent expense but also means the occasional nasty note on the mini-fridge complaining that someone didn’t turn off all the lights or empty the trash. I try to leave the place spic and span, so there’s no conflict.
Stepping into the lobby, I reach for my cell phone to turn on the ringer.
There’s a message from Bruce, the guy I’m sort of seeing, asking to take me on a date next weekend. I should’ve used Bruce as an excuse for why I couldn’t go out with Joey. Why didn’t I? It’s probably a sign of how little space Bruce occupies in my brain.