Speak Low (Speak Easy 2)

“No. You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It would never work.” He leaned over, picked up the whiskey bottle and his glass, and walked to the stairs before I could argue.

And why would you argue? You don’t want to run away with him. What the hell kind of offer was that, anyway? It wasn’t like he’d confessed his love and begged me to return it. He was just being a sore loser. Frowning, I followed him through the apartment, down the stairs and straight into the car.

Neither of us spoke on the ride home, and the tension between us grew thicker and more awkward with every wordless second. It made me realize how comfortable our silences had been before.

Those days were over.

I was dangerously close to tears by the time he pulled into my driveway, but the sight of the Ford Model T Daddy and I shared parked next to the house was a relief—he was home from his meeting with the DiFiores.

“Thanks again for supper,” I said quietly, one hand on the door.

“Tell nobody about the opium. Got it?” Joey’s tone was as cold as his stare.

“I got it.”

“Forget I said a word about it. In fact, forget every single word I said tonight.” He switched his focus straight ahead, out the windshield.

I stared at his stubbornly set jaw in disbelief. Was he really going to be such a child about this? He’d had plenty of opportunities to admit he felt something for me—not that he was admitting anything now, either. Why couldn’t he just say something, anything, about his feelings? Give me some reason besides his jealousy to consider his offer?

But he remained silent.

Chapter Three

“Daddy?” I called

the second I got inside the house.

“In here.”

I followed his voice into the kitchen, where I found him sitting at the table with a notebook, pencil in hand, and a glass of whiskey. “What are you doing?”

“Just running some numbers.”

“Feds are looking for you,” I said breathlessly, sliding into the chair across from him and studying his face. We didn’t look much alike. I had my mother’s Irish farm girl coloring—red hair, fair skin, blue eyes. Daddy was dark-haired and brown-eyed, and even before Raymond DiFiore beat him bloody last week, his face had worn the faint scars and crooked nose of a youth spent boxing in underground fights.

“So I hear. I saw Martin earlier.” He didn’t sound particularly worried about it.

“Are they going to arrest you?”

“They got nothing on me. Most they can do is bring me in for questioning.”

His lack of concern reminded me of Joey. God, men were so exasperatingly overconfident. None of them ever thought anything bad would happen to them. Maybe that’s how they live like this, day after day. “So how did the meeting go?”

“Uh, good.”

“And what’s that mean?”

He swallowed some whiskey before answering. “They want me to move my auto repair operation to one of their buildings downtown.”

“Why? So they can keep a closer eye on you?”

“It’s bigger.”

The way he refused to look up from his notebook made me twitchy. “And?”

“And it’s got a second floor where I can run a poker game. And maybe a sports book. Might be organizing some fights too.”

Aha. I sat back. Nothing was more irresistible to Daddy than an opportunity to place a bet. Didn’t matter on what—cards, dice, horses, dogs, fights, ball games…he couldn’t resist. When our mother was alive, her presence had kept the habit in check, but since her death he’d been increasingly susceptible to it. Fear oozed into my bloodstream and my heart thumped a bit quicker. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”