4. Noah
Noah
I t’s been a few days since I’ve seen Del, and I’m both relieved and pissed.
Him showing up at mine and Sage’s favorite restaurant was all too suspicious, and I’d planned to question him about it.
But, of course, he’s been MIA.
Now, I’m heading to meet my father for lunch, and I’m having the worst day.
After I nearly sat in pee on the subway, then missed my stop and had to take a train back, but that train went express and skipped my stop—I'm ready to murder the next person who looks at me the wrong way.
“You’re late,” a disappointed voice grumbles as I sit my ass on the cushioned chair of Lenetti’s.
Dad’s pride and joy.
It’s the first restaurant he opened in New York City two years after moving here from Italy when he was twenty-one years old. Now he owns a dozen restaurants and other various businesses around Manhattan and the Bronx.
“Why do you smell like piss?”
Ugh. Maybe I did sit in that pee.
“Good to see you too, Babbo.” Dad.
He stands, walks to where I sit, and kisses the top of my head.
This is only the second time I’ve seen him since returning two months ago. I told him I was busy settling in, and he was busy doing his criminal thing, and we never found the right time to meet more than that.
I wasn’t busy. I’m just not at that level of relationship with him.
Even though I refused to move back when I turned eighteen, I’d still visit him once a year for the holidays and attend his annual Christmas party.
That all changed five years ago when I started looking into my mother’s death.
He refused to talk to me about it, saying the police and his team of private investigators were handling it.
I was so mad at him. It seemed like he didn’t care, like he had moved on.
So, I stopped visiting. I claimed my life was too busy, which was technically true. Freelance work kept me occupied. Babbo kept my bank account fed, allowing me to live my life the way I wanted, but I never used his blood money and donated it to charity instead.
Now he’s trying to make up for all the years he missed out on. Except, he’s being overbearing and protective, and it makes me regret moving back.
I scowl at the old man, his wrinkles growing deeper the longer I’m in his presence.
“Why are you late? You know I worry about you.”
“Train delays.”
“Why do you insist on taking that filthy transportation?” he growls, his anger making his Italian accent thicker. “How many times have I told you to allow my driver to escort you around the city?”
I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms because I've managed to stay alive for thirty-one years without his help. Doesn’t he know that the last time I lived with him, I nearly died?
“I’m an adult, Babbo. I don’t need a babysitter. Besides, it’s New York City. You know driving takes longer.”
“I’d rather you late because of traffic than to not show up because you’re dead.”
“Well, I’m here now. Late and alive.”
“Enough, Noah.” He slams a fist on the table, knocking over my empty glass. A worker rushes over, tips it upright, and fills it with wine. I give the man a thankful nod and take a long draw of the bitter liquid.
Gio Lenetti is the scariest man I know. He always has been. He’s a big guy, 400 pounds. Fatness and tallness run in our family. He’s six foot six. I’m five ten and 280 pounds. His temper, however, is shorter than my patience with Del.
“You know I have enemies. You know every day I worry they’ll find you now that you’re back. They could take you away from me just as they did your mother.”
His voice breaks, and I sigh, softening my defiant demeanor.
“I’m sorry.” I cover my father’s fisted hand with my palm. “I know you worry, but I swear I’m careful.”
He takes a puff of his cigar and says nothing until he composes himself.
“I want two of my men to escort you.”
My eyes widen. “No, absolutely not.”
“I want you to stop working at that vile bar.”
“What? No. I like working there.”
“I will give you all the money you need.”
I stifle a groan.
“You will learn how to shoot—”
“Babbo, stop!”
The restaurant goes silent. It’s just us and the workers, but it’s obvious they’ve never heard anyone raise their voice to their boss.
Probably because that person would end up with a bullet in their head.
“Look... I didn’t move back so you could reign over my life.
I won’t stop working because I need my independence.
It’s a fun job, and that’s what I need right now.
As for having two of your soldiers following me around.
.. Fine. If it makes you feel better, they can escort me when I go out.
Only when I go out. They will NOT show up at my job. ”
He thinks about my demands, petting his clean-shaven chin. “They go to your bar and sit nearby but out of the way. Observing. Ready to step in when needed.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. He won’t give up no matter how hard I fight. “Okay, sure, but they better not boss me around. I won’t hesitate to stab them.”
My father laughs as if I’m joking.
I’m not.
“Don’t underestimate me, Babbo. I’ll kick their asses. I told you I learned self-defense while I visited Brazil.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling. Then his smile fades. He takes hold of my hand from across the table. “A punch or a kick is no match for a bullet.”
I wouldn’t put it past my father to make me start wearing a bulletproof vest.
“I’m serious about you learning how to shoot.”
I hate guns. It’s not because when I was ten and tried shooting one of the long ones at my father’s gun range and the kickback left a killer bruise. No. I hate guns because it’s the weapon used to kill my mom.
I’d much rather hold a knife in my hand.
“Mio angelo,” my angel, “listen to me. I received word that another hit has been put on me.”
I rip my hand out of his.
“What? By whom?”
He takes a sip of his whiskey. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
See? This is why I want nothing to do with his mob life. Someone always wants to kill the boss or his family.
New York City has three crime syndicates: the Empire Mafia, the Queensboro Mob, and the Lords of Staten Island. I always wondered if it was a rival mob responsible for my mother’s death but neither the QBM nor the Lords ever took claim.
I later learned that twenty years ago, the night after my mother was murdered, all the mafia wives, and some of their children, were targeted and killed.
That’s another reason I’m back. I need to figure out how to get in touch with a QBM member, or someone with the Lords, so we can compare notes. But the moment I tell them I’m Lenetti’s daughter, I’m dead.
I hate this world.
I hate being heir to the Empire Mafia—a job I’ve told my father several times that I don’t want—but he will do whatever it takes to make sure his legacy lives on.
But if his enemies know I’m back, I have no doubt they’ll kill me to end his bloodline.
“I want you to head out to the gun range this week," my father says, his deep voice making me jump. “Ryan and Bryan will go with you.”
Ryan and Bryan? Really?
He stands and buttons his suit jacket. “No more subways either.”
And with that, he walks away.