Chapter 6
A s much as there are times in life when we wish we could hit the pause button, we can’t. So while I would have loved to bury my head in the sand for a few days and ignore everything, that wasn’t an option. However, what was an option was dodging Jonathan’s calls with excuses of being busy at work while I had my internal spiral.
So when Abbie suggests a girls’ night so that I can rant and process things, I seize the opportunity. If you can’t vent to your best friend about having a mobster dad, then who can you vent to? I’m greeted by her typical whirlwind of enthusiasm—a tangle of limbs and floral perfume—as soon as she opens the door. Soon, we’re settled on her sofa, wine and ice cream in hand.
“Girl, you look like you need this more than I do.” She laughs, handing me the bottle.
“Babe, in the space of twenty-four hours, I got mugged, found out my dad is a part of the mafia—oh, and so is my bestie who never told me. Plus, some other mafia has it out for me.” I spill, clinking glasses with her for a sip.
I wonder if being a mafia princess is the secret to her wine picking skills.
“If I could have told you, I would have. But as far as I knew, you were just a normal kid existing on the outskirts of our world, and I was glad to have a real friend. I didn’t want to fuck shit up. Things have always been tense with the Scottish mafia, the Clan, but the closer we got to being finished with school, the closer the war seemed, and I couldn’t risk dragging you into something that wasn’t your problem.” The more I hear about this Clan, the more I want to demand answers.
Instead of pestering Abbie with more questions about the Clan, I shift the subject to lighter topics. Like how that extended summer vacation she took after our third year of high school was really a lockdown due to issues with the Scottish and that her Dad’s position in the Four Points heavily factors into her lack of love life; apparently finding a boyfriend is a hundred times harder when you’re a mafia princess. Between boys being too scared and arranged marriage possibilities hanging over her head, she never thought it was worth the hassle. This leads us right to my least favourite topic: Owen.
“Speaking of, I heard Owen was called that night of your attack. How’d you like his glow up?” She wiggles her eyebrows as I throw a pillow at her that she narrowly dodges while laughing.
“Stop it! I never stood a chance with him before or now. Plus, he and Jonathan seem to be pretty close so that’s probably friend-zoned me even more than I already was.”
“Girl, you need your eyes tested. Has it not occurred to you that the same reasons that had me keeping secrets from you had him keeping you at arm’s length?” With a pointed look and raised eyebrows, she thankfully lets the subject drop.
The more I think about it, the more I analyse our past interactions, and how we went from being friendly to him being frosty towards me. Maybe she has a point.
* * *
After we part ways the next day, I text Cole for a lift to O’Neill’s where I’m barely through the staff door when Carla appears. “Cora! There’s a VIP guest tonight, and I know you usually work the bar but he’s requested you to be his waitress tonight.” The stack of money she waves at me is all the motivation I need to get my ass in gear, so with a grin, I snap up the money and tie my apron around my waist.
Waitressing isn’t my strong suit and dealing with people isn’t my favourite, but when there’s a VIP and a stack of cash to sweeten the deal, I’d be an idiot to refuse.
Jonathan sits at the only occupied table, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him as he scrolls on his phone with the other hand. As I approach his table, he looks up with a smile, and I tease, “You stalking me now?”
“Can’t a man visit his daughter at his restaurant when she’s too busy to see him?”
“Of course you own this place.” I laugh, grabbing a menu for him and taking his drink order. It hadn’t taken much to work out some of those awards on his bookcase were for this place. By the time I return from the in-room bar with his whiskey on the rocks, he’s ready to place his order of two steak dinners, one medium rare and one to my liking, insisting I eat with him. Shrugging, I smile and go along with it.
He’s doing what he said he would—putting in the effort to know me. Time flies by as we have dinner and he shares stories about him and Mum in between asking questions about my hopes and dreams for the future. As sweet as it is, I still can’t fathom why now.
If he’s known about me for my whole life then why didn’t he step in when Mum died? Why leave me to struggle through that on my own? I make a silent promise to myself that someday, I’ll get my answers but for now, as I close out his bill and clear the table, I let it lie untouched. Something tells me it’s a story best told when I have time to process it and not in the middle of work .
As we pile out after closing up and splitting our tips, I see him leaning up against his black Bentley.
“Fancy a lift?”
“I’m just around the corner, but if you insist.” I grin before hopping into the passenger seat and giving him my address.
And with that, a new routine takes shape. I go to work, make time to see Abbie as often as possible, and meet with Jonathan on every closing shift. He insists I work the VIP section, using the time to deepen our bond and allowing me to learn more about him. Afterwards, he makes sure I get home safely. But there’s another thing that sends my heart racing with anticipation: daily texts from the man who also stars in my dreams.