Chapter 1 – POSY #4
That’s where the capo of the Renelli organization lives. Frankie’s family, too. I never understood why Dario chose a place on the outskirts of the city so far from Saint Celestine’s. He doesn’t like people. That could be it.
It doesn’t matter. Not my concern anymore.
Ray pops the trunk. I check for oncoming traffic and get out.
I feel like a zombie. My body’s moving, but my brain’s unattached, wandering off in all directions. My stomach’s starting to really ache with hunger pangs.
Did I have breakfast? Or was I too excited to go shopping? The game store had called to tell me that the bespoke backgammon set I ordered for Dario had arrived. He was going to be so stoked. He’d give me one of his tight smiles, the slightest curve of his firm lips, but I’d know he was pleased.
There’s a sharp stab to my heart. I breathe through it.
That should have been my first red flag. What kind of man never shows his teeth when he smiles?
I walk around to meet Ray behind the car. He sets my rolling suitcase on the sidewalk and props the duffle bag on top. His hand rests on the extended handle.
He stares at me, brow furrowed, looking every inch a grizzled detective from a 70s TV show.
Ray and I aren’t friends by any means, but we’ve developed a rapport over the past few months.
I’m cheerful. He feigns annoyance. I refill his coffee the way he likes it with sugar and cream.
When I forget to return an umbrella to the stand or hang my keys from the labeled hook, he helps me out, keeping the peace.
Dario likes things in their proper place.
Guess I don’t have to give a crap about that anymore.
I reach for my suitcase, and Ray reluctantly releases the handle, his troubled gaze still resting on my face. He seems to be struggling with himself.
“Well, bye, Ray. Catch you on the flip side.” I lift my hand.
He clears his throat, and his eyes dart around as if he’s checking to make sure we’re alone. There’s plenty of tourists and business people on the sidewalks, some rushing, some strolling. No one familiar.
“Listen,” he says, ducking his head down, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “You need to leave town.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
“Dominic Renelli. He doesn’t like loose ends. You’re not with Dario anymore. You’re a loose end.”
Icy fingers stroke down my spine.
Dominic Renelli had my Uncle Marco killed.
Everyone knows it. He beat my father within an inch of his life before he let himself be convinced that Dad had nothing to do with the scam.
Renelli let Dad live, but Dad was out. When Dad passed, he was working for peanuts at one of the laundromats the Renelli’s run as fronts.
There was no cash in an envelope for his widow.
The cancer took Mom because we couldn’t afford the treatments.
Dominic Renelli ruins lives without a second thought. The guilty and the innocent.
All of a sudden, the fear from Dario’s office comes rushing back.
“Renelli will not let you walk away. Not when you’ve had a front row seat to his business and your last name is Santoro.”
I sway on my feet, barely holding myself up with the handle of my suitcase.
Ray nods. “I see you grasp the severity of the situation,” he says.
“I understand,” I manage.
A shadow passes over his face. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he must think better of it. He returns to the car without a backwards glance. Instead of pulling away, though, he sits in the driver’s seat and scrolls on his phone. I guess he has orders to wait until I walk away.
I drag down a steadying breath. There’s a nip in the air as the sun lowers. I loved the feel of sunshine on my bare feet earlier, but now my toes are frozen. God, I hope whoever packed my bags didn’t forget shoes. I’m not getting far in flip-flops.
Or with two hundred bucks.
I am well and truly fucked.
I had half an idea to get a hotel room for the night, but if Dominic Renelli is after me? Every second counts. I don’t have time to waste. I need to move.
I shake myself and take note of where I am.
Ray has dropped me in front of La Armada, the fanciest hotel in the city.
Dario and I stayed here after he took me to the opera a few months ago.
The singing I could take or leave, but the hotel was my jam.
Heated jacuzzi tub. Soft mattresses. A spa, a chocolatier, and a jeweler on site.
If that wasn’t enough, there’s a pedestrian walkway connecting the place to the glitzy shopping mall next door.
And under the hotel—a subway station.
Bingo.
I head for the rotating doors, head high as I pass the valets. In a T-shirt and yoga pants, I don’t look like I belong. Not with my discount store luggage. But I keep it moving and act like I know where I’m going.
I remember the layout of the place well enough.
There’s a hallway past the bar that leads to the elevator.
There’s a bathroom and an ATM. I head that way, praying.
It hasn’t been that long. Is Dario really going to get on the phone with the credit card company to cancel my access right after he throws me out of his house?
I pull the black credit card from my cell phone case, sliding it into the machine with trembling fingers. Come on. Big money.
Declined.
Dario is fast. And a vengeful prick. I drop the card in the trash.
I need to get out of here.
What else?
Come on, Posy. Use that brain.
I need money. I need to figure out where to go and how to survive when I get there. I need to cover my tracks.
I duck into the ladies room. It’s empty, thank goodness. I lock myself in a stall and sit to think. My mind isn’t working right. I can’t focus.
Dominic Renelli cut off Freddy Izzo’s hand for brushing it against his wife’s ass by accident. At least that’s the story. And when I was with Frankie, Joe Palumbo disappeared, and Frankie and his friends joked for months about how fat the fishes in the Luckhannock were getting.
Freddy Izzo and Joe Palumbo were made men. I’m a woman. A Santoro. I’m not gonna make it into the river. They’ll throw my body in a dumpster like trash.
Finally, it all hits me in a wave, my stomach revolts, and I whirl, hunching, barely making it in time before my guts seize, and I puke acid and coffee into the toilet. It burns my throats. My eyes water.
I’m not crying, though. I suck down breaths between violent heaves, and when there’s nothing left in my stomach, I spit a few times. I grab blindly behind me for a wad of toilet paper, wipe my mouth, and flush.
Then I press my clammy forehead against the cool metal partition and force my brain to work.
I need help.
I can buy a bus ticket. Maybe get a few states away, but after that, I’ll be broke and screwed. I’ll need a way to make money, and if I have to stay off the grid, my options are tricks or panhandling. Maybe eventually I’ll be able to find work under the table, but I need ID to get a real job.
I can’t use my own. I can’t leave any breadcrumbs for Renelli.
Who can help me?
My immediate family is gone. My mom’s side cut us off when Dad’s brother ran afoul of Renelli. They’d turn me over to him in a heartbeat. Dad’s side is down to a great uncle in a nursing home.
I’ve got friends, girls who deign to overlook my last name since I’ve been with Dario. We go clubbing, get manicures. They’re not the type you can go to in an emergency.
Except. Maybe. Nevaeh?
Nevaeh and I used to work together at L’Alba. She’s with Carlo, the Renelli’s accountant. We get thrown together a lot at dinner parties where we’re the only women our age. She’s nuts. I used to think she did a lot of cocaine, but it’s just her personality.
She might help me for shits and giggles. She’s the kind of reckless that doesn’t gauge risk well, a kindred spirit.
I’ve been by her place. It’s in a rough neighborhood. Carlo hasn’t moved her in with him yet. I kind of get it. She’s a lot to take.
It’s worth a shot, though. Even if she turns me away, it’s a place to go right now where Renelli won’t think to look.
I steel myself, leave the stall, and rinse my mouth out with lukewarm water.
I don’t look good. I’m pale, and my eyes are huge.
I look strung out. My messy bun is half undone and listing to the side.
I take a second and tug it back into a tight ponytail, debating whether I should root through my suitcase for a hoodie.
I’ve wasted enough time here, though. I need to move. I can dig through my stuff on the subway.
I head out toward the elevator, hustling as fast as I can without drawing notice to myself. I take a second and surreptitiously drop my phone in the trashcan next to the ATM, wincing.
I’ve never not had a phone, but there’s a Find My Phone app, and Dario’s never hesitated to use it when he’s too lazy to go looking for me in the house.
I’m not going to make this easy on them.
I’m not taking a bullet to the back of the head today.
Not for Dario Volpe.
I’m not doing a damn thing for Dario Volpe ever again.