Chapter 8 #2
This one is no different.
The neon sign above the door buzzes as I enter, and the windows are plastered with posters advertising cheap exchange rates and their “fast, safe, and confidential” services.
Inside smells like dirty women and cigars. A woman sits behind a thick pane of scratched plexiglass, tapping at a keyboard with long, manicured nails. She doesn’t look up when I approach. I don’t mind. The more impersonal, the better.
I slide the envelope through the metal tray beneath the glass, then say, “Cash transfer.”
The thick bundle in the envelope demands eye contact.
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are clouded with an exhaustion no amount of makeup can hide, and she appears suspicious, but she doesn’t ask questions.
She just counts the money with quick, practiced movements, the bills snapping as she stacks them.
“Destination?”
Lips shaking, I recite the offshore account number, which changes every couple of months.
My throat grows scratchy when she asks me to confirm the amount she counted is correct. “Twenty thousand?”
I nod, hopefully that’s all she needs to move this transfer forward.
I breathe more easily when she types the five-digit number into her computer before she mutters, “Processing.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. My damp clothes stick to me as noticeably as anxiety paints my face. This deposit is earlier than planned and more than I was told to pay. I’m hoping it’ll give me a little leeway, though it’s unlikely.
The buzzing in my limbs augments as I watch the monitor on the other side of the glass, waiting for confirmation that my payment has gone through.
Seconds stretch into minutes as my impatience fogs the plexiglass.
Finally, the woman nods. “The transfer was approved by the receiver.”
Relief bombards me, but I can’t relax yet.
“I need a printout with the barcode,” I say quickly. “The one with all the details on it.”
She raises a dark brow. “You know the purpose of an offshore account is to be discreet, right?”
Nodding, I repeat, “I need the printout.”
Shrugging, she stabs a button. The printer splutters to life before spitting out a thin strip of paper.
She slides it through the tray, and I snatch it up before it has even finished floating.
The printout warms my snap-frozen fingers as I scan the barcode, searching for the location code and timestamp hidden in the long string of digits at the bottom of the printout.
My eyes dart over every digit, making sure nothing is off. The numbers match. The location is correct. The transfer was accepted by someone near Carlisle.
I’m still where I’m meant to be.
My shoulders relax as I exhale a sigh of relief.
“Thanks.” After folding the receipt, I tuck it into the inner pocket of my jacket, the one with the zipper. I never use it unless it’s for something important.
The teller is already looking past me, calling the next person forward, so I step back into the cold. The walk back to my new building feels longer since my legs are heavy and my feet are numb.
The city comes alive around me as people rush to work and buses groan to a stop, but I’m watching it through fractured glass. That’s how exhausted I am.
I can’t rest yet, though. I need to put myself out there again for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
It worked well for me with Dante.
I can only hope to achieve similar results this time.
When I reach the building, Harris isn’t at the desk anymore. His clipboard remains where he left it, a pen resting on top, and the cleaning product smell is now stronger since it’s mingled with the aroma of recently brewed coffee drifting down the hallway.
With my thighs still shaky, I take the elevator to the twelfth floor. My reflection in the brushed steel is worse now—paler and hollower—but the receipt in my pocket anchors me.
Once I’m in the safety of my apartment, I pull out the receipt and smooth it flat on the counter, then count down the minutes.
At exactly 10 a.m., I dial a number that changes as often as the offshore account I just garnished with my hard-earned money. My fingers know the pattern by heart.
The phone rings once before a man with a clipped voice says, “It isn’t your allocated day.”
“I know,” I answer, nodding. “But the deposit was bigger this time. Double what I paid last week. That should earn me more time, shouldn’t it?”
There’s a pause. A lengthy one. Then a sigh.
“Please. I promise I’ll make it quick.”
His sigh this time is relief rather than frustration. “Fine.”
When the line clicks, I drag my phone away from my ear and then accept his FaceTime request. The background of his slow walk is as grand as always. Marble floors, antique-lined hallways, and furniture unsuitable for a child.
Then I hear it: soft, hesitant breathing.
“Come, Gabriele.”
I hate the snappy command of his tone, but it’s all forgotten when the cutest freckle-blemished cheeks fill my phone screen.
He’s gotten so big since the last time I saw him.
Too big.
My heart painfully squeezes as I trace the outline of his adorable face.
“Hi,” I whisper, tears welling. “Hey, sweetheart.”
His brows join before he shyly whispers, “H-hi.”
As he searches for answers for the black smears streaking my cheeks from the baboon orchestrating his every move from the other side, I take in all his perfect features. His dimpled cheeks, murky blue eyes, and messy blond hair sticking up in the back.
Gabriele is playing in a boyish room full of planes, trucks, and trains, and if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost smell the faint aroma of the crayons and laundry detergent I imagine he smells like.
“Is that a new plane?” I ask after noticing what he’s clutching.
Blond locks spill across his forehead when he bobs his chin.
“I bet it’s a fast plane. It looks fast.”
Again, he nods.
A giggle erupts from my lips when he zooms the plane past the camera.
“Wow. That is so fast.”
He smiles, but it isn’t genuine. He’s confused, and that bothers me the most.
“I know this is hard, Gabriele, but I’m doing everything I can to get to see you. It shouldn’t be too much longer.” My response confuses him more, and it instigates a severe bout of recklessness. “It’s Mommy, Gabriele. I’m your mom—”
The phone is ripped away so fast that it whooshes in my ears.
“You know the rules,” Edoardo snaps, glaring down at me.
He isn’t the man I thought I’d have children with. He’s heartless and cold, ugly by greed.
“I’m sorry.” My limbs turn to Jell-O as the footage moves away from my son. “I haven’t slept, and my mind slipped. I won’t do it again. I promise. Just another minute. Please, Edoardo.”
“No.” His voice is flat and final.
“Please—”
“No!” His bark is so loud that it startles Gabriele.
My heart breaks when his wail sounds through my phone speaker, but instead of his father consoling him, he walks away, leaving the task to a nanny too old to understand the needs of a child his age.
“I’m sorry.” My words are only audible to me, but I project them at Gabriele.
I feel lost watching my son cry in a room he doesn’t know I help pay for. I should be there, wiping his tears and teaching him how to blow his nose. Being made to sit on the sidelines after one mistake, despite twenty-five years of perfection, is cruel.
I’m his mother, goddamn it!
I have rights.
Well, I would have if he weren’t born in the Cosa Nostra.
There, my feelings mean nothing. Rights? Ha! They’re reserved solely for the men.
Sparks of hope filter through the blackness when Edoardo’s abhorrent face fills my phone screen. He isn’t ugly. His chiseled cheekbones, panty-destroying smile, and dark, turbulent locks drew me to him long before his suave and prestigious nature.
I just can no longer see past his rotten insides to admire his finer points. He’s so heinous that bile burns my throat when interest flares in his eyes as he takes in the blush no amount of anger could remove from my cheeks.
I’m disgusted when he says, “Looking good, Cici. How have you—”
“I’ll call at the right time next deposit,” I interrupt, uninterested in a conversation.
Words won’t fix the mistakes he’s made, and I’ll never be desperate enough to see if there are other ways to make amends.
My thumbs suspend halfway to the end call button when Edoardo says, “If you make early payments like the one you deposited this morning, I may be willing to consider biweekly video chats.”
“Really?” The word bursts out of me, too bright and too desperate.
He jerks up his chin, his smirk predatory. “Though I might need to request a change in scenery.”
I peer behind me, assuming he’s referencing the dumps I usually call him from.
I have it all wrong.
“Hoodies are below you, Cici.” I swallow the vomit racing up my throat when he sneers, “Find something strapless, and then we’ll talk.”
He doesn’t want me strapless.
He wants me topless.
It’s a fight, but I manage a reply. Just. “I’ll see what I can find.”
His smile makes me ill. Then the call ends.
The silence afterward is deafening. I slowly lower the phone before flopping back on the mattress. My dramatic flop slips more than the tips I made tonight from the pocket of my backpack. A credit card falls along with them.
Frowning, I pick it up and flip it over, seeking the name of its owner. I’ve never had a bank account in my name, so there’s no way I’d own a black AMEX.
Dante Caruso, I read off the card.
Caruso? Fuck.
Their name is well known in the Cosa Nostra. It’s expected considering they’re at the top rung of the ladder in Cosa Nostra rankings.
I must have taken Dante’s card by accident with the money he paid me for extras. For a brief second, I consider being as corrupt as Edoardo, but then I remember Dante is an innocent in this. He doesn’t deserve to be used any more than I do.
So instead, I slide his card under my pillow, hopeful keeping it close will weaken the hurt surging through me, and then I slip beneath the sheets.
Sunlight spills through the only window of my apartment, but I snuggle in anyway.
My eyes are burning, and I won’t land a job with dark circles around them, so I might as well get a few hours of sleep.
As I close my eyes, the buzz of the past hectic twenty-four hours finally fades, and my dreams feature more than one dimple-blemished grin.