I flip him off.
“Watch it, songbird. Don’t forget I own you.” His smile is fond, like this is a game we play and he enjoys his role.
Well, hell, I’m starting to as well. More than that, I’m starting to enjoy myself. It’s like I’m thawing out from the ice cube I was frozen in. Coming back to life, minute by minute.
“How was acupuncture?” Tony asks.
Not as scary as I feared, I write and his lips curve. I actually do feel better now. She gave me some herbs to make a tea with.
The waitress comes and Tony places the order while I write on my notepad, How’d you get involved with the Tacone family? I slide the pad across to him after she leaves.
His eyebrows shoot up. “You really asking this of me?”
I nod.
He mutters something that sounds like a curse word in Italian. I want to ask if he speaks it, but I wait for the answer to the more important question. He rubs his jaw. “Known them since I was a kid. Grew up with Nico—same grade in school.”
I wait, knowing from Sondra there’s more. When he doesn’t elaborate, I pull the notepad back. So what? They recruit in grade school?
He reads my words and then stares back at me. “Sweetheart, you remember what the first rule of fight club is?”
I roll my eyes. I print, I’m not asking for anything that can be used in court against you. I just want to know how you got in with them.
He rubs his face again and taps the table with his fingers. “You want something from me. Something personal.” It’s an accusation. Or maybe it just sounds that way from his tough guy inflection.
But he’s right. I’m digging for signs of humanity here. Scraping off the veneer to see what’s underneath. Is there a soul beneath the expensive suit and the aggressive personality? I nod, holding his dark gaze.
“I was in a jam. Something bad. The don pulled me out of it. Got me through. Took care of me and my ma. He was a scary, demanding bastard, but to me?” Tony shrugs. “My salvation.”
What jam? I’m sure I wouldn’t have the guts to ask with my real voice, but it’s like the pen gives me power. Makes me bold.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t talk about it.”
Is he here in Vegas? I write on the notepad.
“Who?”
The don.
Tony shakes his head. “Federal prison in Illinois. His oldest son runs the Chicago operation. That’s who you borrowed money from.” He narrows his eyes. “Or Hugh did. Tell me, how did it go down?”
Ugh. Heaviness descends on my body at the mention of the whole thing. At the end of the day, I could point my fingers all over the place, but I’m the one to blame. If I’d ever chosen to grow up sometime on this seven year rollercoaster ride, I would’ve taken responsibility for my own financial picture.
But I was sixteen when my first album went platinum. Hugh was my dad’s manager and a good family friend. He and my parents called the shots. They’d been in the business forever. They knew how things worked. I kept making music, enjoying stardom, loving life.
Until it all came crashing down around my ears.
My mom got breast cancer and my parents had to stop touring with me while she went through her surgery and treatment. She kicked it, but she and my dad never recovered. It’s like they needed to hunker down, stay in the house, stare at each other. My mom says she’s enjoying life.
Maybe she is.
Anyway, by then I was twenty-one. I didn’t need my parents tagging along. I thought I was all grown up. I was a late bloomer sexually, but I got involved with Jake, the drummer in the band. But Jake and I didn’t work out, and Hugh got rid of him the first chance he could. And my muse went quiet.
Somewhere, at some point, I got lost in the world of people who want to use me, make money off me, or suck me dry.
“Spill, songbird.” Tony raps the table with his knuckles.
I pick up the pen. We had a disagreement with the record label on Solid Rain, the album before the last one. Hugh thought we’d do better on our own, and he found a loophole in the contract. He produced my last record, which sucked.
It still pains me to think about the piece of shit album we put out. I put out. Again, I’m failing to take responsibility for my career and life.
He was so sure we’d make millions. He and my parents bought their Beverly Hills mansions. Then, when the money was slow coming in, he said he found investors.
Tony’s reading my words upside down. “Junior Tacone.”
Yeah, I guess.
So you know the rest. The album tanked. We’re nine hundred grand in the hole. I’m your bird in a cage until you set me free. I smack him with an accusing gaze.