Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
E MERALD
I smooth down my sparkly dress as I walk. People always ask me why I like the color gold so much. The answer’s simple. It’s because it reminds me of sunshine. Of happiness. And of staying positive. Because with all the issues in my life, if I can remain optimistic, then I definitely feel a little better about myself and everything else.
I’m lost in my thoughts when a black SUV appears to my right.
The first thing I notice is the silence. No screech of tires, no honk—just the nearly soundless glide of a vehicle sliding up beside me. Expensive. Predator-smooth. The kind of thing that doesn’t need to make noise to be dangerous.
I try to glance at it out of the corner of my eye to see if I can make out who’s in the car. But the tint on the windows is too dark.
The expensive engine stays practically silent in the still summer air as it creeps beside me. Goosebumps erupt on my arms. I walk quicker as the vehicle prowls along and matches my walking pace.
I keep my eyes straight ahead, but my heart hammers in my chest. Is someone stalking me? Or is it a cop looking to bust me? Or even worse, a Fed…?
These thoughts utterly terrify me.
My sweaty palm gently presses against my body to make sure that my dress is still all in place, cringing as my fingers meet hard plastic. The security tag.
I spin on my heel and take a sharp left down a narrow side street.
But my stalker silently swings his SUV around the tight corner to follow me.
A window rolls down.
My heart leaps into my throat. And my head follows the smooth electric sound. And my eyes cut across to the dark-haired driver with piercing eyes.
Crap, this must be one of those cops Ronnie’s always warning me about. Has Ronnie gotten arrested? Is this why this cop is here for me now? Crap, crap, crap!
“Emerald Fiorelli,” his voice rumbles. The passenger door pushes open as he leans across, and a dark head ducks down on the driver’s side to glower at me. “Get in.”
I blink again before looking to my left and right.
“Me?” I squeak.
“You’re Fiorelli, right?”
To lie or not. I flash him my best attempt at a smile. “Um, who’s asking?”
“I don’t have time for this. Get in the car, princess.”
I can’t stop my pert nose from wrinkling. “Princess? Do I look like a Pomeranian ?” Jesus, does he expect me to sit pretty and bark on command as well?
His dark gaze continues to burn into me. “Get in.”
“I don’t think so…” I’m trying really hard not to show my full-blown panic. They can’t just arrest you for refusing, can they? Or does it constitute obstruction of justice or something? Damn, if I’m going to date a made man, I really should pay more attention to those Law it hasn’t been for a long time now. She calls herself an escort—she’s basically a high-end hooker. And her career choice doesn’t pay particularly well, especially when she’s too wasted to work a lot of the time. And sitting here in the back of this cop’s car means that I’m not going to get paid for this extra shift.
Everything about my life has been a disaster since my dad was killed. He was a made man—until he decided to steal from his bosses and ended up being executed and fed to the fishes in the Hudson River. He paid the price with his life, while my family was practically cast out of the Imperiosi and left to fend for ourselves.
I was really lucky that I was able to stay on at my private high school after winning a scholarship. But apart from school, everything else changed overnight. We moved from our comfortable and spacious house and eventually ended up in a cramped apartment in a crumbling building. And money became a constant worry.
I try to make myself feel better about the money by deciding that as soon as I get out of here, I’ll ask Ronnie if they need any extra staff for the rest of the week. That is, if I make it out of here. Because despite trying to keep my mind from thinking the worst, panic stabs at my body.
I find myself pressing back against the seat. I hate being in this confined space with this man. His body seems too big for the space, and his scent surrounds me—a mixture of spicy and smoky.
Growing up, it’s always been made abundantly clear to me that you stay the hell away from the cops. They’re all friends with each other and look down on the rest of us who aren’t members of their special little club, especially people like me who’ve practically grown up among the mafia. All my life, I’ve been told that cops are slimy and creepy and they’re like insects you want to swat away from your skin.
Although, somehow, this guy seems different—smooth, immaculate, cold .
He parks his car on a random street with no cop station in sight. Getting out, he snatches open the back door, grasps my arm, and hauls me onto the sidewalk.
“If you wanted me to get out, you could have just asked ,” I mutter, trying in vain to shake his hand off me while at the same time attempting to pull down the skirt of my short dress.
He leads me down the street.
“Where are we going?” I’m proud of myself for making my voice sound bored despite the anxiety galloping through me.
“You’ll see,” is his infuriatingly short answer.
He catches my eye, and I shoot a scowl at him. But he ignores my glacial glare, instead trailing his eyes down my body. “Nice dress.” He lets his gaze linger over my legs. “ Stolen, I presume ?”
I hesitate for a millisecond. “Of course, um, it isn’t.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he drawls in an irritatingly casual voice. “You should always just plead the fifth.”
“Huh?”
“You know, your constitutional right to refuse to answer so as not to incriminate yourself. Don’t they teach you anything at school these days?”
“Funnily enough,” I reply airily, “the sorts of schools frequented by mafia families aren’t big on learning the niceties of American life.” I obviously know what the fifth amendment is, but I’m determined to make him think about something else than the fact that my dress is stolen. He knows my full name, which means he’ll have already looked up all my details, and having a Fiorelli as a father and an Imperiosi made man as a boyfriend makes it pointless for me to even try to deny my connections to the mafia.
He shakes his head at me. His hand almost touching my back is hot, and I tell myself that the shiver down my spine is just because of the whip of cold air that suddenly whirls around us—it has nothing to do with the man escorting me like I’m some perp being carted down the cellblock.
Slowing down, he stops outside a coffee shop which is sandwiched between a bakery and a small grocery store.
“I thought we were going to the station. Why have you brought me here?”
“I need a coffee.”
I gawk at him. “Seriously? You kidnap me, and now we’re on a Starbucks run?” Christ, can’t he get caffeinated on his own time ?
“Not Starbucks,” he corrects smoothly, pulling open the door. “I have standards.”
I hesitate at the door, looking longingly at the park across the street. I can see the old guys sitting at the wooden tables and chairs, their heads bent over their chessboards. I never get the time to play at the park anymore. Either I’m working, looking after my mom, or looking after my siblings and trying to give them a decent upbringing. When I’d been younger though, my dad had brought me to the park often, and we’d play against the old guys.
That was when he’d still been here. I can’t help my mind wandering back to when he died. My mom hadn’t worked a day in her life. I’d begged her to get a normal job, like in a store or something. But no one wanted to give a job to a woman with the last name Fiorelli…
“You play?” His voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I reply in a wistful voice.
“Who taught you?”
“My dad.” I clamp my lips shut. Why on earth did I just tell him that? I shouldn’t reveal a single thing about myself. This is how they get you to talk. By asking casual questions, by pretending they’re your friend. And before you know it, you’ve mentioned something you shouldn’t have. An innocent detail you think is harmless but which they fit into their bigger jigsaw puzzle of information gathering. “What about you—can you play chess?” I quickly try to shift the focus away from me.
“I don’t play,” he clips.
I follow him into the coffee shop and gaze around myself. The place looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1950s and oozes a retro charm. A sprinkling of customers are ensconced in the cozy booths with red leather seats, and a big glass counter shows off an assortment of tempting cakes and ice creams, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in a while. The coffee machine is gleaming in the background as it hisses away, filling the air with a heavenly aroma, and there’s even an old-fashioned soda fountain.
“Hey, Melissa.” He greets the woman behind the counter.
“Happy birthday, handsome,” she practically purrs at him, pulling out from under the cash register what looks to be an envelope containing a birthday card.
“You shouldn’t have. You spoil me, Melissa.”
“As if I’d forget,” she simpers.
As we stand in front of the counter, another woman, wearing the same café uniform, saunters past. She bats her eyelashes at him. “Hey, birthday boy!” she calls in a husky voice.
I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. With his god-like looks, he’s obviously the precinct’s pin-up boy. All the women in here are drooling over him and not even bothering to hide it. Jeez, is every woman in the café a part of this cop’s birthday appreciation society?
“Coffee and cannoli for both of us,” he says to Melissa before sweeping his dark gaze across to me. “This place has the best cannoli in the city. You ever been here before?”
I shake my head, fiddling with my bracelet.
“And their ice cream is the best I’ve ever tasted. They make everything from scratch, using their family recipes.”
“I’ll bring them over,” Melissa says with a coquettish smile at him.
He leads me over to a table, and he indicates with a jerk of his head for me to sit. I’m obviously not important enough to waste his words on.
Everything about my interaction with this man is making a strange sensation prickle over me. I start to wonder if he is actually a cop. But I shake my head. He chased after me, threw me in the back of his car, and locked the doors. He’s definitely a cop. Why else would he have come after me?
Once we’re both seated, I press my lips together so that I don’t say anything. I know that silence is a cop tactic to get someone talking. People’s natural inclination is to talk to fill the uncomfortable void, but that’s not going to be me today. Nuh-uh.
He leans back in his chair. “How old are you, Emerald?” he demands. Jesus, everything about him is so bossy.
I sniff. “It’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” But his stare on me makes me uncomfortable, so I can’t help but answer. “I’m, um, eighteen.”
“Ah.”
I frown at his response. “Ah? What’s that supposed to mean?” I have no idea why his tone sounds offensive, almost as if my age explains something in his head.
“Just an observation,” he murmurs.
“Of?”
“Nothing of importance.”
There’s more silence as he stares at me. “How old are you?” I shoot back.
“Twenty-nine. And I’m old enough to know that you’re being used, Emerald.”
My spine stiffens at his tone. “What’s your name?” I’m determined to deflect the conversation. And me not knowing his name when he knows mine makes me feel at a distinct disadvantage.
“You can call me Saint.”
I can’t help the unladylike snort which escapes me. “I don’t think your mama christened you Saint. What’s your real name?”
He taps a finger on the tabletop. “You’re supposed to be a smart girl. Work it out.”
I huff to myself. Everything about this man is infuriating. And scary. I just want out of here. But I’ve got no idea when he’s going to let me go.
Melissa interrupts our conversation, bringing over two small plates with cannoli and two coffees.
She also sets a dessert glass down in front of Saint. And in it is a triple scoop of chocolate ice cream with five lit candles set into the scoops. “Happy birthday!” she trills.
Christ, is the entire female population of New York in love with this man ?
“Thanks, Melissa. Really sweet of you to remember. And my favorite flavor too.”
I feel like pointing out that the candles are making the ice cream melt rapidly, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I don’t want to engage in any more conversation with this man than is strictly necessary.
He spoons one of the scoops—with one of the candles—onto my cannoli plate. “You have to try this chocolate ice cream.” Yeah, like that’s my current priority.
He goes to blow out his remaining four candles.
“Wait!” I blurt out.
He pauses, gazing up at me with a raised brow.
“You haven’t made a wish,” I say softly.
He looks at me carefully. “You believe in that, do you? Wishes coming true?”
I shrug, feigning a casualness I don’t feel. “It’s a tradition. Everyone does it.” And with the life I’ve had so far, I never give up the chance of making a wish or being blessed with good luck, always crossing my fingers, not walking under ladders, and even praying to God when I’m really desperate.
He looks thoughtfully at the candles for a few moments before blowing them all out in one go. I wonder what he’s wished for. But I don’t ask. Because everyone knows that then it won’t come true.
He nods at my scoop. “You should blow out your candle too.”
I feel like refusing, but I can’t resist the temptation of getting a wish. And closing my eyes for a moment, I make my wish and blow out the candle.
He smirks at me. “Bet I can guess what you wished for, Emerald.”
“ That you shut up ?” Fear makes my manners totally fail me.
His lips flatten.
“Do you have no one to celebrate your birthday with? Is that why you’ve brought me here against my will to have ice cream with you?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Got a boyfriend?”
“Jesus is my boyfriend.” I give him my most angelic expression. I’d rather he thinks I’m a bible-bashing nun than actually admit out aloud to him that I’ve got a mobster for a boyfriend.
“Any hobbies, princess?”
“Not really. I’ve always been busy working and with school before that.”
“A goody-two-shoes, then?”
God, this man is as annoying as he’s attractive. “Do I look like a goody-two-shoes to you?”
The way his eyes roam over my body makes my entire body tingle. He oozes power, confidence, authority. But it’s not something that I should find attractive, especially not from a cop.
The sound of his phone ringing splits the air. He takes it out of his pocket to glance at the screen.
“No please, don’t mind me,” I say with a casual flick of my wrist, although I’m praying he answers his phone just so that I can get a break from all the questions.
But his dark eyes flicker back to me as he rejects the call. Just great.
“What I really want to know is why does Ronnie make his girl work in the Imperiosi casino?”
Oh God . He already knows who my boyfriend is. “He doesn’t make me do anything,” I grit out. “I make my own decisions and make my own money.”
“He’s rich enough to buy you anything you want.”
I keep quiet. It isn’t about what I want . It’s about what I need. Money for rent, food, and bills.
“And you’re pretty enough to get whatever you want out of him.”
My pulse starts racing. Does he know that I’m called the Fiorelli whore —that because my mom’s a hooker, everyone likes to speculate that I’m one too?
“Are you hoping that he'll marry you?”
“No.” Yes .
“Because he won't, you know.”
“I don't care.” Yes, I do. A lot .
“You know you can do better than Ronnie Mainetto.”
I don’t answer. Being the Fiorelli whore wildly limits my options. Anyway, I’m in love with Ronnie .
“You probably think you’re in love with him.”
Holy crap, how does he know what I’m thinking ?
“But he doesn’t love you,” he clips.
And that’s like an arrow to my heart .
This arrogant man can’t possibly know if Ronnie loves me or not. But the irrational part of me wonders if he’s heard something. I mean, why would Ronnie love someone like me ?
“Does he make you deliver guns?”
“He doesn’t make me do anything.”
“So, you’re delivering guns for the Imperiosi.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question.
I curse inwardly. “I, er, didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. I already know the answer.”
“So, why are you asking me?” My voice rises as irritation races through me.
“Because I can. Does he make you sell your body too?”
“What?” I blurt out.
He leans forward and places his elbows on the table. His proximity makes me suddenly feel too hot. “You know, to make even more money out of you?”
“He doesn’t force me to do anything to make money for himself.” My words hurl through the air. Some of the girls at the casino sleep with the clientele for money, but I’m not one of them. If he’s trying to unsettle me, then he’s succeeded. Is this where in the conversation he tries to trip me up and attempts to make me reveal some information about the Imperiosi?
To my surprise, however, he sits back in his chair and focuses on eating his cannoli. “You should eat. It’s good.”
I want to refuse, but I’m hungry. I quickly scoop up the cannoli, savoring the sweet, creamy flavor of every mouthful. The fried pastry dough is topped with chopped pistachios, candied fruit, and chocolate chips, all sprinkled liberally with sugar, and the heavenly combination melts on my tongue.
I’m still hungry, and I start on my ice cream, as does he. And when I swallow the last mouthful, I look up into his gaze.
“Finished?” he asks.
I give a small nod.
He stands up, and grasping my arm again, he leads me out of the coffee shop and across the street.
I can feel the heat of each one of his fingers burning through my thin sleeve. “Where are we going?” Unease sears the edges of my voice. This isn’t the way back to his car.
“To the park.”
“For what?”
“For you to play a game of chess.”
“ Wait, what ?”
“I want to see you play. See if you’re good for something other than working for drug pushers and gun sellers.”
I suck in a breath. This man really knows how to get a girl’s back up. “Maybe I don’t want to play.”
“Of course you do. One game.”
“No, thanks.”
His voice hardens. “Either let me watch you play one game and then I’ll let you go, or we can continue our discussion but this time without the ice cream and pleasantries.”
I swallow down the agitation crawling up my throat. “If I play, you’ll let me go?” I really want to avoid the cop station if I can.
He nods his assent. I’m not sure if he’s even telling the truth or what he’s up to, but I’ll take a game of chess any day over more questioning from him.
“Are you free for a game?” I ask a man with a gray beard and a woolen hat pulled down over his ears. It can get cold sitting out here when the sun goes behind the clouds.
“Sure, missy,” he says with a twinkly smile revealing his crooked teeth.
I make a plan to lose the game in super quick time. That way I can get out of here and far away from this cop.
Once I start moving the pieces though, the lure of the game is too great, and I find myself playing for real.
My mom always said I was too pretty to play a dull game like chess. But the truth is I find the game utterly intoxicating. It’s like a drug I can't get enough of. It’s an elusive high that I’m always chasing and I never want to stop feeling. It’s a battle where I can compete on a level playing field, where my reputation or past deeds don't affect my chance of success.
I open with the Queen’s Gambit, one of my favorite openings because of the fight to control the center and the way it puts immediate pressure on Black.
White pawn to c4.
Black pawn to e6.
White knight to f3.
Black pawn to d5.
White pawn to d4.
Black knight to f6...
The entire time, Saint watches me like a predator stalking its prey. Surely, he must find this boring. It’s probably another twisted ploy, just like the ice cream, to make him seem like a nice guy who’s trying to be my friend.
But I become so engrossed in the game that I don’t notice forty minutes have flown by. I’ve even stopped noticing Saint’s stare upon me. Because all I care about is the black and white carved pieces in front of me. Each piece has its own history and its own destiny, but all of it is guided by the rules that define its moves.
Eventually, the old guy tips over his king, conceding the game with a chuckle. “You’re good, missy. Best game I’ve played all week.”
I stand up, beam him a smile, and thank him for the game. “Thanks for the game. I really appreciate it.”
Walking away, I turn to Saint. “I’m free to go now?” I ask in an icy tone.
“Yeah. But I’ll drive you to where you were headed. Casino Venice, right?”
“I’m fine,” I say curtly.
But without another word, he grasps my arm tightly and pulls me to his car, pushing me into the front passenger seat this time. He gets into the driver’s seat and takes me to the casino without another word.
Arriving at our destination and pulling into the casino parking lot, he leans over my body, crowding my space with his smoky cologne as he pushes the door open.
“A gentleman would come around and open my door for me,” I point out.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a gentleman. And don’t ever forget that .” This man is utterly confusing. I open my mouth to say something, but he carries on speaking before I can get anything out. “Get out, princess.”
“ What ?”
“Get out.”
“Aren’t you supposed to have manners or something?”
“Get out before I shove you out. Better?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
My eyes narrow, and I unbuckle my belt. And stepping out of his car, I stride away as fast as I can, without a single backward glance.
* * *
As soon as I rush through the staff entrance, I run straight into Ronnie. “Oh God, I got stopped by a cop. But I didn’t tell him anything, I swear?—”
“Hey, calm down, Em.” Ronnie pulls me into his arms, kissing me long and hard on the lips, and he doesn’t look the slightest bit ruffled by what I’ve just said. Pulling back after a few seconds, he smiles at me. “We already know what happened.”
My brows puckers into a deep frown. “You do?”
“Yeah. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Um, well, I’m not sure if I was arrested or not, but he didn’t charge me with anything, and I didn’t tell him anything about?—”
“It’s okay, Em,” Ronnie soothes. “Relax. It’s all been handled.”
I stare at him. “It has?” I was convinced that I’d be in trouble for just getting stopped and that I’d have to plead with Ronnie and the Imperiosi to believe me when I said that I’d kept my mouth shut. “But who told you?”
“Our guy.”
For a moment, I’m utterly confused. “Do you mean…the cop is your guy ? ”
“A fucking cop got to you?” Christian Veneti walks up behind me. He’s the Capo of the Imperiosi since taking over the position from his father. Christian’s eyes narrow as they laser into me.
Even though I’ve always got on well with him, I’m still terrified that he might think that I revealed sensitive information. Although I might seem outwardly confident, the real me is a deep well of self-doubt and anxiety. “I didn’t tell him anything. It was just a cop that I ran into?—”
“It was just Saint. He got to her first,” Ronnie says casually.
“Saint?” I interrupt. “You’re on first name terms with the cop?”
“Ah, I see.” Christian relaxes a fraction. “No, he’s not a cop. He’s one of our cousins. Third or fourth cousin, or something like that.” He waves his hand in a vague manner. “I’ve lost count. We asked him to pick you up to keep you away from any Feds. We thought the Feds might get a warrant and be about to raid the casino. But our contact messaged half an hour ago to say the judge refused to issue the warrant due to insufficient evidence, so I texted Saint to tell him it was okay for him to drop you off here.”
Wait, what ? Saint is their freaking cousin ?
“But he didn’t tell me that he was one of you. I thought that he was a cop. I thought he was going to arrest me. He was interrogating me, asking me all sorts of questions…”
“Yeah, that sounds like Saint.” Christian chuckles. “Evil motherfucker. He was just playing with you. He’s our hitman. He usually works out of Philadelphia, although he’s been working for us in Italy lately.”
I open my mouth but then close it. I can’t believe he put me through that. Scaring me to death and asking all those questions. Invasive questions ...
I wonder what Ronnie would think if he knew Saint said that I could do better than him for a boyfriend? Although the rational part of me knows not to stir the pot. Made men are volatile, emotional, and violent. And I don’t want to cause any problems between Ronnie and his fellow made men.
And it’s not like I’ll see Saint ever again.