“Are we here for business? Because you sure don’t look hungry.”
Cazzo. I shouldn’t have brought her. What in the hell was I thinking? She’s already an accessory. Now I’m just further burying her.
“Baby, don’t ask questions.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She keeps her voice low, but the tone is every level of pissed off. “Junior, I don’t want to be a part of this shit.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I know. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have brought you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Actually, I do know what I was thinking. That having her along would ease the strain. Maybe even help me smooth things over with the Milano family, because she’s the type who can lead anyone she wants around by the nose.
Myself included.
The Milano girl is behind the counter, and goes pale when she sees me, but otherwise plays it cool.
Desiree and I go to the counter and order coffee and pastries, then sit down at one of the tables. Now that I’m inside, I check out the new glass. It’s decent. Thick, double-pane. Better than what they had in here before.
That’s good.
I pick up a newspaper from one of the tables and pretend to read the headlines. I’m thinking I’ll slip the money into the newspaper and hand it to the granddaughter before we leave.
“Junior, I’m scared.”
I look up, surprised. Desiree doesn’t strike me as the type to admit her feelings, especially one like fear.
“What are we doing here? What’s going to happen?”
I reach across the table and pick up her hand. It’s ice cold. “Baby, you don’t have to be scared.” I don’t know what compels me—I’ve never spilled a secret in my life—but I can’t stand the thought of her nervous because of me.
She probably picked up on my PTSD being here and now she thinks something terrible is going down.
“This is the place Gio got shot,” I tell her in a low voice. “I came to make nice with the owners, that’s all.”
Now Desiree’s face is pale. She darts her eyes around without moving her head, like she’s a spy or something. “Okay,” she nods a few times, as if she’s trying to be brave. “What do we have to do?”
Her words hit me square in the chest. Shock me.
What do we have to do.
Even though I subconsciously brought her to be my better half, to be a part of my team, it was the wrong thing to do. And yet here she is, terrified, out of her element, disapproving of the whole thing, but still willing to play my sidekick.
I squeeze her cold fingers. “You don’t have to do anything. I just wanted to show my face and leave some cash to cover damages. I’m gonna put it in this newspaper and hand it to our waitress when she comes.”
Again, the over-share shocks me.
My own father would shoot me in the head for being so fucking stupid.
Maybe this is what love does to you.
Fuck.
Do I love Desiree?
I sure as hell don’t remember feeling this way about Marne. I cared for her—still do—but it’s in more of an abstract way. The way I feel for Desiree is visceral. Real. Like I’d rather stab myself in the eye than see her hurting. Or scared. And she demanded my trust, so I’m giving it to her.
I’m also placing her in all kinds of danger.
Which is why this isn’t going to work. I need to stay the fuck away from Desiree or I’ll drag her right down to the depths of hell with me.
“You should quit this business, Junior. You don’t like it,” she says, like she read my mind.
The truth of her words hit me hard.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling sick over who I am. What I do. I’m a monster. I gunned down six Russians in this cafe, for Christ’s sake. Yes, they meant to kill us first, but is this any way to live?
And maybe when I said my dad wouldn’t have an identity without it, I was really talking about myself.
Sure, I’d love to just shut down shop. Move my mom to Florida and spend the rest of my days watching girls in bikinis. But the emptiness in that idea leaves me cold. What in the hell would I do with myself? What would I live for?
If my daughter Mia was still alive, maybe I’d feel different.
Maybe I’d still have a decent marriage, having something besides a dying business to look after.
“You could go legit like Nico did. Open a string of Italian restaurants in the old neighborhoods so you can look after things.”
“No?” She watches me closely, like she’s trying to tune into my thoughts. I’m not used to people trying to read me. To anyone giving a shit what I think unless it affects them.
I adjust our table to fix the wobble in it. “I don’t know, doll. The pressure I feel from my dad is fucking real. But yeah, I’d like to get out of La Nostra. I really would.”