Chapter 1 #2
When I offer it to her, she hesitates before nodding and accepting the drink.
She brings the glass to her lips, the rim slipping between them.
She sniffs, and a look of pure trepidation crosses her face before she takes the tiniest sip ever.
When it doesn’t burn a hole through her throat, she takes a healthier taste.
She flinches, puckers her lips, then squeezes her eyes shut.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
She pops open one eye to look at me before screwing them shut again. She shakes her head.
“That’s only mildly better than tequila.”
I chuckle, and she looks up at me. She gladly hands the glass back to me, and I finish it in one swallow. She stares at me, almost as though she expects me to cough and splutter.
“Did your parents put that in your sippy cup or something? How on earth do you develop a taste for that?”
“I’d say the same about Sambuca.” We’re only serving the shit for Vittoria’s sake.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Perhaps I’ll stick to something fruitier from now on.”
“What would you prefer?”
“Are you going to have another burning water?”
“Haha. You look disgusted. No. I’ll save you having to smell it. I’ll have something else.”
She must know enough Spanish to understand the drink’s translation.
“Would an amaretto sour be too girly for you?”
“I haven’t had one since college. I don’t mind fruity drinks.”
I’d never order one, but if that’s what she wants, and it’ll keep us talking, then I’ll drink the damn bottle. She turns to the bartender to order. I observe her attempt to slyly reach into her far pocket, but I already have another twenty in my hand. I drop it in the jar, and she huffs.
“Joaquin, seriously.”
“I’m dead serious. You’re a family guest.”
“So’s everyone else here.”
“Hardly. They may be guests, but that doesn’t mean they’re here because my family likes them.”
“Business?”
I cock an eyebrow. She already knows the answer.
Her hint of a Boston accent reminds me just how complicated syndicate life is.
My new cousin Vittoria’s Venetian Mala del Brenta and just married into the Colombian Cartel.
Her best friend, Serafina Mancinelli, is Mala del Brenta on her father’s side and raised in Venice while Sicilian Cosa Nostra on her mother’s side plus American Cosa Nostra by marriage.
Patrizia is American Cosa Nostra via Boston.
“We don’t do things like this in Boston. We don’t—uh—mingle.”
The rival syndicates up there don’t attend each other’s festivities. Why would they? They don’t have enough to show off. Boston’s a quaint little town compared to NYC.
We step to the side of the bar as more people walk up and a line forms. If I suggest we return to our table, we won’t be able to sit together and continue talking. I can’t suggest we sit somewhere off the dais since there are place settings at each seat. Instead, we stand together.
“You and Alejandro must be the same age.”
“Close. He’s between Javier and Jorge. I’m just over a year older than him.”
“How close are you and your brothers?”
“Just over a year apart.”
I’m repeating myself. I sound like an idiot, but this is small talk, and I suck at it.
“Wow! Your poor mother.”
“It wasn’t so bad. Mamá says we canceled each other out since we always had playmates. And if we didn’t like one brother, we always had another to play with.”
“What about the poor brother who got left out? Was it always Jorge since he’s the youngest?”
“Rarely. Javier and I would tease him that because he’s the baby of the family, we had to make sure he was never left out. It was pity back then, but we ended up spoiling him. Now, he thinks he needs to be in the middle of everything.”
Hardly, but it’s still a running joke. I’m the one who’s in the middle of everything since I’m the head intel gatherer for the family. I’m not nosy by nature, but I like to know what the fuck our enemies are up to. I don’t like surprises.
I don’t notice the time slip by as Patrizia and I continue to drink and chat.
She’s not overly talkative, but I’m happy to let her steer the conversation.
We’re already five amaretto sours in with shots of our respective anise-flavored drinks in between when the happy couple slips away for their wedding night.
It’s been ages since I’ve been even remotely tipsy, but I’m feeling the booze tonight.
“Would you like to dance again?”
Who the hell am I?
The last time I asked a woman to dance was prom nearly twenty years ago.
Now I’ve done it twice tonight. I’ve got liquid courage pumping through my veins, and Patrizia looks glad I asked again.
She tucks her hand around my arm before she realizes what she’s doing.
She tries to pull away, but I press my elbow against my ribs.
It keeps her hand in place until we join the thinning crowd.
It’s well after midnight, but I feel like I could go all night.
We dance well together, and she giggles whenever I twirl her. I have to hold her up a couple times as she staggers into me. My dick’s pissed that I’m teasing him. Her body bumping into mine is doing things to me. The fifth time it happens, she doesn’t step away.
Just the opposite.
She presses against me, and instead of putting her hand back on my shoulder, it rests on my chest.
“I think all the alcohol just caught up to me.”
“Do you not feel well? Do you want to sit down?”
Her gaze travels over me before she shakes her head.
“I feel fine, and I definitely don’t want to sit down.”
“Maybe we should get some water.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be sober.”
“Maybe you like being right where you are.” I tighten my hold on her.
“Maybe you like being right where I am.”
“I definitely do.”
She arches her back, putting her tits just below my ribcage. Her hips brush against mine, and there’s no way she can’t tell I want to stay right where we are. I glance over her head toward my family. All the men are staring at me. The women are a little less obvious, but they’re watching me too.
I don’t do random hookups, but I might be taking the drunk bridesmaid home.
By home, I mean up to the hotel room I have.
None of us wanted to make the ride home after such a long day, so all the couples have rooms. Mamá has her own, and so do I.
It’s at family events like this that I miss Papá the most. I know Mamá feels the same.
I know how hard it is for her to be a widow on a regular day, but to be here celebrating another couple’s future must be extra hard.
I know Patrizia also has a room since I was responsible for booking all of them. I wonder if she’ll invite me up.
Should I invite her?
It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date or hooked up that I don’t know the protocol for this shit anymore.
“If only these shoes were more comfortable.”
Is she hinting at something?
What if I completely misread this as a cue and it’s not?
I stare down at her, completely drawing a blank on what to say next.
The repartee was easy a moment ago, but now I’m getting in over my head.
If we were at the club I belong to, I’d ask her if she wants me to tie her up, spank her, then fuck her.
Somehow, I don’t think that would go over well right now.
“I should have brought a pair of flats down with me from my room. I suppose I could run up and get them.”
Her expression’s speculative, like it’s a hint that I’m supposed to want to go up with her.
I do, but I don’t know how to ask or tell her.
The moment passes, and she looks away. I follow her gaze to the ballroom door, and I suspect she’s watching Vittoria’s cousin.
The man’s attractive, and I have a sharp pang of jealousy.
Is she giving up on me to find someone else to hook up with?
“Will you wait for me if I run up to my room?” She turns back to gaze up at me, and I realize she wasn’t considering anyone else.
“There are some intoxicated men in the lobby who purposely didn’t come with their wives. I’ll accompany you.”
“You don’t have to.”
I cock an eyebrow at her like I did when she tried to tip the bartender. This time, I’m the one who slips her arm around mine. As we walk past my family, Mamá gives me a hard stare.
“Quiere ponerse zapatos más cómodos para poder seguir bailando.” She wants to put on more comfortable shoes to keep dancing.
Mamá’s reproachful expression makes me want to say the rosary. She’s not stupid. Maybe Patrizia and I will make it back down, and maybe we won’t.