Chapter 1 #2
I bite back a smile. If only he knew who he was talking to. I may not be involved in the crime side of our family anymore, but the blood still runs through my veins, and the gun in my waistband is loaded. But I’ll spare him this one time.
“Why don’t they want this place?”
“Nothing in it for them.”
He’s right about that.
“What do you mean?”
A smirk crosses his cocky lips. “It’s a backstreet dive you’re sitting in, buddy. The only people who come here are those who don’t want to be seen. And in a city like New York, there aren’t too many of those, you know? The Di Santos wouldn’t get a cent out of this place. Not worth their time.”
I knock back the rest of the whiskey and push the glass toward him for a refill.
While the dickwad pours another two fingers my gaze is pulled to the right.
The Castellano girl is chatting quietly to two of the men.
There’s nothing suggestive in any of their body language, but the sight still stiffens my spine.
The bartender’s words ring in my ears. “The only people who come here are those who don’t want to be seen. ”
“What’s her story?” I ask as he refills my glass.
“Who—Tril?”
The way he says her name makes my shoulders tense.
He picks up a glass and starts to polish it with a dirty cloth. “You won’t see her in here again for another year.”
“What?”
“Only comes in once every twelve months,” he repeats. “Has done for the past five years.” When I don’t respond, he looks up. “It’s the anniversary of her mom’s death.”
Something heavy settles in my chest as I look back at her. She’s swaying gently on the stool while the two men have a conversation across her.
“Don’t expect her to talk to you about it,” the bartender warns.
“I only know because I asked around. She was real young the first time she came in here, but she looked so broken. She needed to forget something, so I served her.” He glances at me, perhaps expecting some kind of reprimand because she must have been a young teenager then. He sighs. “She was fifteen.”
I don’t say anything.
“Like I said, she needed something, and to be frank, we needed her money.”
My brows draw together, and I feel the familiar dark desire to put a bullet between another man’s eyes.
His. There were other ways he could’ve helped her that didn’t involve serving her alcohol or greedily taking the small amount of money she’d have spent to escape her demons.
It sounds suspiciously like he took advantage of a grieving underage girl.
He places the dirty glass on a shelf and lifts another one to polish.
My thoughts begin to roam the different ways I could punish him for being a prize dick, but they’re quickly interrupted by a warm sensation caressing my right side. I turn to see the girl zigzagging past me. She averts her gaze and walks off to the restroom.
Turning my back to the bartender, I lean my elbows on the bar and slowly sip my whiskey while I watch the restroom door.
When it opens again, I don’t look up, but as she passes, something possesses me to push out a foot.
She stumbles over it, and I catch her from falling.
Breath gushes from her lungs, and her eyes fly open in shock.
With my arm wrapped around her torso, she makes no more of an attempt to wriggle free than I do to release her. She’s surprisingly small and warm. Her pert breasts press teasingly into my forearm.
She slurs a breathless apology.
“Don’t apologize,” I say firmly.
When she finds her feet, I reluctantly let my arm slip from her body.
“Are you okay?”
She rubs her eyes, smudging a little of the kohl across her lids. “I guess I drank a little too much.”
And I purposely tripped you up. But then again, if she weren’t so drunk, she’d have noticed my foot.
I call over my shoulder to the bartender. “Can I get a glass of water?”
It takes a while, but a half-full glass eventually appears. He’s probably cursing me for getting her off the hard stuff. I watch as she sips it then cradles the glass in her hands.
“I don’t normally drink,” she says, her gaze on the floor.
“I can tell. You don’t seem to handle it all that well. Why bother drinking at all?”
She looks up with a frown, and there’s an unexpected bite in her tone when she replies. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” As if she’s overstepped a boundary, her skin flushes again. “I’m sorry. That was rude. And very . . . unlike me.”
I watch her, thoughtful. “You’re right though. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
She laughs darkly. “That’s a relief. Most people expect me to.” When she looks up again, there’s a new boldness in the set of her jaw. “What’s your secret?”
I take a long sip of whiskey to steady my pulse. “Who says I have a secret?”
“Everyone who comes here has a secret. Something to hide.”
I think about it and how right she is.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”
She looks away, but I don’t miss the deeper shade of pink inching up her chest. “I guess not.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “Because you have a secret.”
“Maybe.” She glances up timidly. “Or maybe I come to Joe’s because it’s preferable to every other bar in this part of the city.”
I’m intrigued. Not only because every other bar around here is either owned or ruled by my family. “How so?”
She looks around. “It’s not perfect here, but at least there’s no violence.”
Something hardens behind my chest. “What do you have against violence?”
She touches the crystals in her hair, and when she answers, there’s a bitter burn in her voice. “It’s a weapon of the weak.”
There’s more to this girl than a tragic story and an annual drunken escapade. There’s anger and a thirst for revenge. I lived on the dark side of our world for long enough that I can smell it.
I neck more whiskey. “Yeah, well, there’s violence and there’s violence.”
Now I feel her gaze.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I place my glass on the bar and drift my focus to her. “It means there’s more to violence than death and destruction.”
Her expression darkens. “I doubt it.”
“One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll find someone who can show you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I feel her gasp in my gut. I change the topic before I can say anything else without thinking it through. “Do you live in the city?”
She shakes her head. “Long Island.”
My ears prick up. “Which part?”
“Near Port Washington.”
Interesting. That’s not far from the Di Santo residence.
Her eyes narrow. “And before you ask, I’m not telling you which house. I may be a little drunk, but I’m not stupid.”
I arch a brow. “A little drunk?”
She rolls her eyes to the ground and folds her arms across her chest.
“Why are you here alone?” I ask.
She looks up and coasts one arm in front of her. “Does this look like I’m alone?”
“That’s not what I meant. You don’t appear to be with anyone.” I flick a gaze sideways. “And those two assholes don’t count.”
Her face contorts into a grimace as if I just trod on her cat. “They are not assholes. They’re regulars here.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
She falls quiet and starts to chew on her lip. I feel an unbridled need to pull it out from between her teeth.
“We don’t all have idyllic pasts, you know.”
I don’t know who she’s insinuating has had an idyllic past, but I let her continue.
“I have . . . memories. And sometimes I just need a little help blurring them out.”
The bartender slides another blue drink in her direction, and she smiles guiltily before wrapping her lips around the straw.
After a long sip, she flashes her eyes up to me. “What’s your excuse?”
“Excuse for what? I’m not drunk.”
She’s about to roll her eyes again, but she stops herself and instead bats her long, dark lashes. “What’s a nice gentleman like you doing alone in a miserable dark bar like this?” Those eyelashes are loaded with sarcasm.
I place the glass down carefully. “It doesn’t seem all that miserable to me.”
When she parts her lips to probe, I cut her off. “And besides, I’m not that nice, and I’m definitely no gentleman.”
She laughs bitterly. “Well, if you weren’t the most attractive guy in here already, you certainly are now.”
I bite back a grin and shake my head.
“Seriously. You show me a girl who doesn’t like bad news, and I’ll show you a liar.”
“You think I’m bad news?”
She rests the straw against her lips, drawing every ounce of my focus to them, and nods.
I swallow and try to remember her original question. “I’m surrounded by people constantly when I’m working. All day every day. This . . .” I look around the bar and try not to smirk. “Is my me time.”
She folds her arms. “What about when you’re not working?”
“I run casinos. I’m always working.” I turn to lift my glass and gulp back a larger than planned mouthful of the scotch. My throat isn’t too happy about it, but it’ll live.
“But you’re here on a break?”
I almost choke. “Not quite.”
“Well then, why are you here?”
I swirl the whiskey around one more time. I shouldn’t have let the conversation go this far. If I tell her I’m here because my father just died, it won’t take much for her to figure out who I am. And then she’ll run a mile.
I settle on: “Family matters.” Then I throw the rest of the whiskey down my throat and place the glass on the bar.
“You want another of those?” Her tone is playful.
Our eyes lock, and in those few seconds I consider indulging myself with another whiskey. But the door to the bar bangs against a wall, knocking the thought from my head.
What the fuck am I thinking? I have duties to carry out, people to console, papers to sign.
I’d only be prolonging the inevitable, and I need a clear head for the coming days.
I consider inviting her back to my place—a quick, hard fuck could be just what I need—but there’s a timidness about her that makes me think she’d run for the hills at the mere suggestion.
“No. It’s time I headed home.”
She pushes herself upright and hardens her jaw. “You’re leaving?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
She smooths a hand over her hip. “Right. Okay, well, it was nice meeting you. I’m Trilby, by the way.”
Something pulls at me. Her name really is familiar. I’m sure we’ve met before, even though she clearly doesn’t remember it.
“I’m Cristiano.” I watch her face carefully for any flicker of recognition, but it doesn’t come. “Can I ask . . . how long have you lived near Port Washington?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious.”
She shrugs, her eyelids falling heavy. “All my life.”
If she was fifteen when she first came in here five years ago, that makes her twenty now—eight years younger than me. Our paths may well have crossed.
She sways side to side.
“Isn’t it time you went home too?” I suggest.
Her skin pales. “I don’t want to go home yet.” As she says the words, she sways too far to the right and stumbles into a table.
I grab her before she can fall, trying not to process how soft her skin feels beneath my fingertips. The bartender appears, looking concerned.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think it’s home time. Come on—I can give you a ride.”
Her eyes flash suddenly, and she yanks her arms from my grip. “I’m not getting in a car with you,” she snaps. “I don’t even know you.”
“Fine.” Reaching into my jacket pocket instead, I pull out a thick roll of hundreds. I flick a few out and slap them on the bar. “Make sure she gets home safe.” I direct the words to the bartender, but my eyes bore into her.
Her face blanches. “You’re paying him to have me leave?”
“I’m paying him to get you home in one piece,” I reply.
She narrows her eyes like a seething cat, and there’s a flash of fire behind them.
The bartender puts an arm around her shoulders, and every muscle in my body tenses. “Come on, T. Have another glass of water, then we’ll get you in a cab.”
T.
Blood thumps through my temples.
Her brows knit as she looks at him. “I’m fine, Brett,” she slurs.
The bartender flushes pink. “It’s actually Rhett, but, you know, phonetically, it’s about the same.”
She staggers to a stool, and he finally releases her.
I exhale slowly and uncurl my fists. I didn’t know I’d clenched them, but I can feel crescent-shaped indentations in my palms.
I unbutton the collar of my shirt and look around at the clientele.
It surprises me how few people I recognize.
All day I’ve been looking for something—anything—that might suggest the opposite of what I know to be true.
That my father hasn’t just died. That I’m returning to a place untouched by his absence.
But all that’s become clear while sitting in Joe’s is that whether our loved ones are dead or alive, the world keeps on turning.
And distractions in white dresses don’t help much.
I take one last look at her sitting on the barstool, the dim light casting her pretty features in a tragic shadow, making her all the more beautiful for it.
Then I head out into the darkness.