Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Luna
Rolling over on my stomach on a lounge chair, I flip through the science outline in my workbook. No clue what happened to my tutor, but Vince never mentioned me getting a new one, and I recall something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Glancing at my phone, I resist the urge to check my email for the hundredth time. Still haven’t heard back from the Chess Hall, and I’m trying not to stress.
“Put some fucking clothes on; the neighbors can see you,” Vince chides, now standing over me.
I push my sunglasses on top of my head, craning my neck. “I am wearing clothes; it’s this newfangled thing called a bathing suit. And if you’re so concerned with the neighbors, maybe you should fence your backyard,” I tell him in a bored tone, pretending he didn’t crush my ego last night. But after I got over being butt-hurt, I reassessed the chess board. The man came so hard and shot such a huge load down my throat, I nearly choked to death.
Vince still doesn’t want to want me. That means I haven’t lost this game just yet.
He grabs his phone, making a call in Italian before pocketing it. “Go get ready. I’m filling in this evening at the social club, and you’re coming with me.”
I stand and stretch. “Why do I need to come with you?”
“Because I don’t trust you alone for that long,” he admits.
“Fine.” I make a show of bending over to grab my workbook. While I would like to be home alone so I can break into Vince’s office, I’m equally curious about what goes on at the club, so I don’t argue.
Feeling his gaze on me, I shake my thong-covered ass inside the house. In my room, I try on one of Olivia’s designer dresses that got mixed up with my things. Not that Olivia would notice it missing; her wardrobe allowance is more than a small country’s GDP.
These rich kid friends of yours have nothing to lose, so that makes them trouble.
My friends blew up my phone last night when I disappeared from the club, and I texted a vague reply that something came up.
My thoughts must have conjured her, because my phone buzzes, and I see it’s Olivia calling. “Hey.”
“Now that I’m semi-sober, I’m not letting you off the hook for last night.”
“You’re just now semi-sober?” It’s seven in the evening.
“There was an afterparty involved,” she says dismissively. “Don’t change the subject. What the hell happened to you?”
“Sorry, I had a family situation that came up.”
Olivia huffs dramatically. “What does that even mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” I say firmly.
“Why are you always so sketchy when it comes to your family? ”
“What’s with the interrogation? You sound like fucking Aspen,” I snap.
“Don’t be a bitch. I’m worried about you, that’s all.”
“Look, I’m sorry I bailed,” I say. “But I’m fine.”
“Are you being, like, held hostage or something by your guardian?”
All the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. How the fuck does she know that I have a guardian? “What the hell are you talking about?” I deflect.
“I know people who can find out things,” she says unapologetically.
“You ran a background on me?” I seethe.
“Don’t be so dramatic; I was curious. So the man who dragged you out of the club, he’s your guardian? I mean, damn. I wouldn’t mind being held hostage by him.”
“I’ve got to go,” I say curtly, hanging up.
Yanking the dress over my head, I toss it in the back of my closet, putting on my usual hoodie and skirt. It’s time I stop pretending I’m part of the rich girls club, because unlike them, I have everything to lose.
“I’m working security tonight, and I don’t have time to worry about you,” Vince tells me. “That is why you will remain in my office and practice chess for the entire evening. Understood?”
“Fine,” I say, in a weird mood after my blowup with Olivia.
“What’s wrong?” Vince side-eyes me.
“Nothing.”
“It’s something. You’re being too cooperative. ”
“Uncooperative. Too cooperative. Make up your mind,” I snap.
Vince chuckles. “And there’s my little ray of sunshine.”
“I’m not your little anything,” I correct him. “Why are you wearing an eye patch?” Not that the patch takes away from his attractiveness; if anything, he might be more sexy, which is fucking annoying.
“Some people find my glass eye unsettling,” Vince admits.
“That’s their problem; not yours,” I point out.
“What’s it like being the fearless Luna?” he asks in a bemused tone.
“Like Luna math, you wouldn’t understand,” I inform him, and he throws his head back with laughter. The man does have a great laugh, even if he is my archnemesis. “How is it you lost your eye? And I’m not confusing you for a friend, Vince.” I cross my arms.
He doesn’t answer.
“So you’re going for mysterious pirate. A little played out, but whatever floats your boat,” I taunt.
“Wouldn’t it be a ship?” he corrects me.
“Either way, I’d have already commandeered your vessel,” I inform him.
His entire body shakes with laughter. “You would’ve tried , that I have no doubt.”
His phone rings, and he grabs it from the console, but not before I see the caller.
“ Ciao ,” Vince answers, and I can only hear his side of the Italian conversation with Aldo before he ends the call.
“Are you and your brother close?” I try.
Vince shrugs.
“Come on, tell me something!”
“Yeah, we’re close. I raised Aldo,” he admits.
“What happened to your folks?” I wonder.
“We’re not so different, you and I,” he murmurs.
Vince, sixteen-years old
Plop. Plop. Plop.
A five-gallon bucket I found in the dumpster catches raindrops leaking through the roof. I count the drops as I lay with my hands folded behind my head, waiting until my six-year old brother nods off.
Aldo’s breathing evens out, and I scoot off the mattress on the floor and tiptoe to the window.
“Please don’t leave me,” my brother begs.
Damn, I could have sworn he was asleep. I quietly return to bed, squatting down. “I gotta work tonight to make us some cash,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his small body. Too small; he doesn’t eat enough. I don’t either, but now that I’m running betting slips, I’m earning some extra money. My piece of shit old man trades our food stamps for booze and pills, but he doesn’t know about my new job. And I’m going to keep it that way.
“Let me go with you.” He whines, and I smooth down his hair.
“I’m sorry, but you have to stay here. I’ve blocked our door; he shouldn’t be able to get in,” I assure him.
“That will make Pops mad,” Aldo worries.
“Let me worry about Pops.” I gladly take the brunt of my father’s fists to protect my baby brother. “Go to sleep, okay?”
“I can’t.” He starts to cry, and I hold him close, laying down with him and smoothing his hair until he cries himself to sleep.
I sneak to the window and climb out, closing it as quietly as I can before stepping out on the roof. Taking a deep breath, I jump and grab ahold of a tree branch as rain pummels me. Nearly losing my grip, I hang on by sheer willpower as I shimmy my way to the trunk and work my way down.
That was the easy part. Now to make it to the sports bar without getting picked up by the cops, or worse, getting shaken down by a dealer or pimp. I’ve had close calls with all three, having gotten out of trouble each time by claiming to be a family man. It’s a lie, but one day it’s gonna be the truth. And when that day comes, I’ll get me and Aldo away from my old man’s fists for good.
I reach the bar, and walking around to the back, the security guard nods at me, letting me inside.
“You’re soaked to the bone, kid.” The cook tosses a kitchen towel to me, and I catch it.
“Thanks.”
I dry off as best I can before entering the bar, eager to get to work. I’m so damn lucky to have landed this gig, and I’m not going to do anything to screw it up.
Games are flashing on screens mounted to the walls, with bartenders slinging cold beer. Checking in at the bar, I begin collecting betting slips from patrons and running them across the street to a huge warehouse. Bookies are on phones taking down bets, while a clerk mans the board, changing numbers based on the various game’s progression. I sort the slips, delivering them to the correct bookies.
Slowing my pace, I examine the odds of the Boston game that’s moments from tipoff.
“Vince, my boy. Whatcha got for me?”
I hand the Parisi family’s oddsmaker the betting slips with his name on them. “Uncle Joseph, the line on the Boston game, I think it’s off. Boston’s listed as the favorite; that’s gotta be a mistake.”
He flashes a bemused smile. “No mistake. Run along now, and fetch the slips.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, hurrying across the street.
After running betting slips all evening, it’s final call, and I collect the last of the bets and hustle them to the warehouse. Distributing the slips to the appropriate bookie, I hang out in the corner and watch on the big screen as the seconds tick by on the Boston game. The buzzer sounds, and the final score flashes on the screen; I have to pick my jaw up off the floor.
A line’s already formed, and I join it, waiting for my payout for tonight’s work. Reaching the front, I accept the cash and stick it in my pocket.
I turn to walk away, but curiosity gets the better of me. Sneaking to Uncle Joseph’s office, I knock on the door.
“Come in.”
I step inside his office to find him opening a letter with what looks like a solid-gold letter opener. Who the hell besides a king has a solid-gold letter opener?
“Uncle Joseph, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Whether I answer it remains to be seen.” He opens a brown box, pulling out a cigar.
“How did you know Boston was going to lose, sir?” I ask.
He cuts the cigar, flicking a lighter and rolling the cigar in the flame before taking a puff. “You wanna know how to win at this game every single time?” He gestures to the ledger on his desk.
“How?” I ask.
“Be the oddsmaker,” he says with a little laugh.
“Teach me,” I beg.
Uncle Joseph puffs on his cigar, considering. “What’s your old man do?”
“He’s a professional drunk,” I admit.
“Booze and bookie business don’t mix. Let your bettors be the drunkards; you keep a clear head.”
I nod, hanging on his every word.
“What about your mamma?”
I shrug. “Don’t know where she is.” After her third stint in jail—this time for meth possession—I stopped keeping track of her sorry ass.
“Another golden rule: never ghost your clients. A bookie that can’t make good on his payouts is an out of business bookie. Goes hand in hand with the next rule: always balance your books. I didn’t know Boston was going to win, but I had enough money on both sides to where I was sitting pretty either way.”
Deciding I’m going to be this man when I grow up, I blurt out, “Let me handle some bets. All your bookies are covered up; there’s more than enough action to go around.”
He takes another puff of his cigar, blowing a smoke ring. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I lie.
He snorts a laugh. “Kid, we’re running an illegal operation. I don’t give a shit how old you really are.”
“Sixteen,” I admit.
“Better. You want to stay in my good graces, don’t ever lie to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
His phone rings, and he answers, listening intently. “Be there shortly.”
Hanging up, he addresses me. “It’s your lucky night.”
“You believe in luck?” I wonder.
He shakes his head. “Nah, I believe in the vig.” The vig meaning vigorish, the built-in profit bookies make on each bet. “Superstitions are for suckers; don’t ever forget it. Let’s go.”
I don’t ask where we’re going as I slide in the passenger seat of his luxury car, trying to play it cool. Uncle Joseph is my ticket into the family, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
We reach a Parisi Family construction site, with Uncle Joseph pulling into the back near a huge pit surrounded by heavy equipment. Our headlights flash on a hooded man on his knees, held there by two men.
“Follow me.”
My heart’s beating a mile a minute. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I exit the car, and we approach the hooded man.
“You want a piece of the action?”
“Yes,” I say confidently, refusing to let my voice shake .
“Every bookie has to deal with the problem of bad debt at some point in his career.”
The soldier rips off the hood of the man, and my eyes go wide—it’s my father.
Uncle Joseph extends his gun handle side out, and I don’t hesitate, taking it from his hand. It’s heavier than I expected as I get a feel for the weapon, aiming it at my father’s skull—his eyes wide with terror as he tries to mumble something, but his mouth is taped shut.
“You ever fired a ? —”
I pull the trigger, my ears ringing as my old man’s body tumbles into the pit. The recoil knocks me on my ass.
Uncle Joseph laughs boisterously as he hoists me to my feet. “Alright, my boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”