“This is Mr. Tacone, owner of the Bellissimo. He has something to say to you.”
The kid is shitting himself. I walk over and look down my nose at him. “You think you can sell drugs in my club? In my casino?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tacone,” the guy on the left babbles. “W-we didn’t know who you were. That you owned this place. We’ll never come back.”
I consider. I could make these boys my bitches and have them tithe to me from their profits, but they’re too young and stupid. They wouldn’t last long, anyway. I opt for the get out of town threat. “You have one day to leave my city. If we find you here again, you’re dead. Capiche?”
“Yes, sir, yes, Mr. Tacone.” All three babble their promises.
I nod to Sal and leave. I’m just grateful Junior didn’t get a whiff of this or he’d be all over it, just for the drama. No, he’s actually been out doing what he said he was doing—real estate shopping with our ma. She called me tonight to say they’d put an offer in on a place and were heading back to Chicago in the morning.
Normally I might stay and give this shit a bit more attention, but Sondra’s upstairs, waiting for me. At least I hope she waited.
I sent Tony to find her cousin out on the floor and send her up to keep her company. I check my watch. Fuck.
It’s been thirty minutes since I left her. She’s probably finished dinner and dessert by now. It’s crazy how much I care about whether she stuck around. How much I want to show her my surprise.
I walk as swiftly through the Bellissimo as I can, cursing the block-long floor plan that makes it nearly a mile to get back to the rooftop restaurant.
Sondra and Corey are still there, but I was right—they’re already finished with dessert and are drinking coffee. And, of course, my mom and fucking brother are sitting just a few feet away.
I grind my teeth. Cristo, would it be too much for one thing to go right tonight?
I detour to my ma and brother’s table and shower them with my most effusive host protocol. They eat it up, until Junior sees me shooting a glance at Sondra’s table. Then his eyes narrow. He sees far too fucking much, my brother.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to greet some other guests, but my staff will give you everything you could possibly desire.”
My ma offers her cheek for a kiss, but Junior just nods. I feel his eyes on me as I head to Sondra’s table.
I have to get her out of here, because if I know my prick of a brother, he’ll be sure to mention my fiancée if he suspects there’s anything between Sondra and I.
Corey stands up when I get there, and walks toward me with a cool glance. I reach in my pocket and pull out a fifty-dollar chip to hand to her as we pass. She takes it without comment.
Sondra appears upset, though. She gets up and fusses with the strap of her purse.
I escort her out without touching her, because I don’t want Junior or my ma drawing any conclusions. We walk in silence, a thin line of tension straining between us.
I’m not really one to say I’m sorry. I’ve done it more with this girl since I met her than I have in the entire last year. “I apologize—”
“It’s all right,” she says quickly.
That’s when I realize something else is up.
We’re outside the restaurant and I stop, pulling her around to face me. “What’s bothering you?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
I bristle and put a knuckle under her chin. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
She pales and I close my eyes.
Cazzo.
I brought the violence of the basement back up with me. Sondra doesn’t deserve my temper. My meanness. She doesn’t deserve the darkness that is my life.
I tug her around to the bay of elevators and take one down to my suite, below. I wanted to show her my surprise, but it will have to wait. I need to know what’s going on in her head.
The moment we get inside, I fold my arms across my chest.
“Talk.”
She nibbles her lip and looks away.
“Sondra.” I infuse my voice with authority. I know I shouldn’t bully her, but it’s in my blood.
“I might need your help. And I really hate to ask for it.”
Relief sweeps through me. She has a problem that I can fix. This is what I do best. “You need money? It’s yours.” That’s usually the kind of problem people ask me to solve. That or they need protection. Or require some kind of violent justice be served.
The misery on her face staggers my confidence. “What is it, piccolina? Just tell me.”
“It’s not for me. That’s kind of the problem. It’s not even for someone I care about, other than I don’t want him to get killed.”