Chapter Thirty-Five Enzo #2
“Better than ever. You know, most mafiosos charge protection and never do anything, but your men actually managed to beat the shit out of two punks who tried to rob us a week ago.”
“Be sure to leave a positive review on Yelp,” I mumbled distractedly.
Laughing, he slapped his checkbook on his desk, clicking his pen open. “What do I owe you?”
“Uh, twenty grand. For this month, and the last one.” He’d started scribbling when I raised a hand. “Cash only.”
The man looked up, surprised. “I don’t have that kinda cash handy.”
“Well, we can’t launder a fucking check from an Italian restaurant bang in the center of the city.” I wasn’t usually this tactless, but I was in a sour mood. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning to collect it.”
Marini put his pen down, faltering. “Sorry about that.”
“Shit happens. Tomorrow. Ten in the morning. If I don’t get it in full, I’m slapping on thirty percent interest for every day you’re late.”
I stalked through the door, now adding Luca’s piss-ass mood to my growing list of problems. He wasn’t going to like having to wait until tomorrow, but for Christ’s sake, I wasn’t gonna snap this dude’s legs with an entire battalion of FBI agents a few feet away.
I made a restroom stop, not because I needed to piss, but because I hoped Tom was waiting for me there, with an explanation and maybe a comforting kiss.
No dice. The place was empty. I stared at the mirror, squeezing the edge of the sink before wiping my eyes to make sure they were dry. I felt sick and lightheaded.
“Pull yourself together.” I ran a hand over my face. “For God’s sake, motherfucker.”
I stopped at the bar on my way out, as far from his booth as possible, and asked for two fingers of whiskey. I needed to alleviate some of the tension before delivering more bad news to Luca.
The bartender slid the drink to me. “On the house.”
I tipped the tumbler in his direction, downing the contents like medicine.
“Hope you don’t intend on getting behind the wheel any time soon,” a voice rumbled to my left. My vision followed the barb. It led me to that Sully prick.
I decided to pretend not to know who he was, even though I’d seen him follow me and my brothers countless times. “Aw, are you worried for my safety, old man?”
“I’m worried for the safety of the entire city every minute you’re awake.”
So much for skating around formalities.
“Hey, I’m a prolific man.” I parked my elbows on the bar and leaned forward. I signaled the bartender for another round. “I can achieve a lot even in my sleep.”
“Doing what?” He thumbed the belt loop of his slacks.
“Waste management.” I guzzled my second drink.
He snorted. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Not at all. It’s a family business. We have a registered company and everything. Look it up.”
Mainly for money-laundering purposes, but I left that part out.
Sully snarled, gesturing for the barkeep to get his table more brandy. Tom, I noticed, stuck to water.
I decided to return the favor and rile him up, too. It was an idiotic idea, but I needed to inflict some of the pain I was feeling on others. Plus, he’d cut the fucking line. Hell reserved a special place for line cutters.
Clucking my tongue, I said, “I hope you don’t intend on getting behind the wheel now.”
“I’ll walk it back.” He smiled big at me. “Twenty-six Federal Plaza is just around the corner.”
“Ah, you’re FBI.” I returned a crooked grin of mild amusement. “So that’s why it smells like a pigsty in here.”
He was on me in a flash, fisting the collar of my shirt, yanking me to him.
I raised my hands to the sides in surrender, showing the entire restaurant I wasn’t fighting back.
Sully swung his fist toward my face. I braced myself for a blow that never came.
When I opened my eyes, Tom was pulling him back, pushing at his chest aggressively. He was fuming.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He gave Sully another shove, his back to me. He pushed him the rest of the way in their booth’s direction. “You could’ve ruined your entire career over some punk kid.”
“Shit, I know, I know.” Sully rubbed his puffy, red face. He looked like deadbeat Santa. And what the hell did Tom mean by punk kid?
He meant exactly what he said. Just because he likes to put his dick in you, doesn’t mean you’re more than dirt to him.
Breath choppy, head swimming, I staggered toward the door. I’d had e-fucking-nough of this shit. I was heading home without the money, with my tail between my legs, knowing exactly what’d happen the day Tom and I met in a setting that wasn’t the cocoon of secrecy he loved so much.
And the worst part was, I was still pathetic enough to hope, to wish, that he’d follow me outside.
He didn’t, of course. I swung my leg over my MV Agusta Superveloce and squeezed my helmet to my chest, staring at the door with red-rimmed eyes.
Get out of there.
Come back to me.
Tell me it was all a lie.
Tell me I’m not the only one who is struggling to keep this thing between us in the shadows of darkness and craving to drag it into the light.
The glass door stared back.
Then it opened.
My spirits lifted, my heart soared, my toes curled inside my boots.
Alas, it was a young couple who left the restaurant, holding hands and ducking their heads to steal a quick kiss.
I faltered.
He wasn’t going to come.
He’d made his choice clear countless times today.
And what he chose wasn’t me.
The rest of the day was a whirl of chaos and violence.
I normally postponed punishing people late on payments as much as I could, hoping Luca and Achilles could broker some kind of arrangement with them and spare them my wrath, but not today.
Today, I chose violence.