There’s a faint sound, and Spada pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s ringing; a snippet of some old Sinatra song playing on repeat as the ringtone. I shake my head a little. Sinatra. Stereotypical much? But Spada’s never really been known for having an innovative mind.
“Right now?” he says into the phone. Then he grunts. “Fine.” He puts the phone back in his pocket and finishes his tumbler of scotch.
“You have a good evening, Nick,” he tells me. He pats my shoulder and moves away, across the room.
I want more than anything to turn around and see what’s going on with Sarah. But if I do, and Sal’s still hitting her, or even still in her face and screaming at her, I’ll probably do something I’ll regret. Well, not precisely regret, but something Spada won’t approve of. And things Spada doesn’t approve of aren’t going to get me where I want to be in this organization.
What will, though? I don’t see much in the way of viable tactics to get Sal out of his most favored son status. Why Spada likes him so much, I have no idea, but I suspect it’s to do with Sal’s ruthlessness. Carmine Romano was the same way. Not a lick of softness in him.
I’m that way, too. Or I was. Lately I’m not sure anymore. Too much has happened, and I’m starting to see my life like I’ve wasted big chunks of it already. What could I do to change that? What could get me on track toward something closer to a normal life?
I shake my head, trying to jostle those thoughts away. The scotch is starting to burn hot in my stomach, and that heat is moving toward my groin. I should just take one of these girls home and fuck the melancholy out of myself.
No, I should take Sarah home. She’s the only one I really want right now. The truth of that hits home hard.
I turn away from the bar and back toward where Sal and Sarah were standing just a few minutes ago. But she’s not there. Neither of them is. Where the hell did they go? I think about going after them, but how can I do that if I don’t know which way they headed?
Dammit. I don’t want her with Sal right now, not when the last thing I saw was him hitting her. I want her with me. My dick perks up at the thought, but the truth of the matter is I want her for more than just a good fuck. I want her for…well, for her.
And I don’t know what the hell has come over me tonight. Sure, I could make Sal look like an idiot by sneaking in under his radar and stealing his girl. But I don’t just want to piss him off. I just want her.
Forget it, Nick. Forget her. Just find somebody else for the night. It would be the easiest way out of this mess. I could go back to the blackjack table and see when the dealer’s heading home. She’s my type—pretty, trained to behave herself, used to the way things go down in the family. But I can’t stop thinking about Sarah. The way she felt against me when we were dancing. The way her hair smelled against my face.
She’s going to be mine. No matter what I have to do, Sarah is going to be mine.
Chapter Two
Sarah
I’d enjoy the smell of the spaghetti sauce I’ve got cooking if I didn’t know it was going to go onto Sal’s plate. That is, if he ever gets his ass home to eat dinner. I haven’t seen him since the party last night, when he dragged me out, shoved me into a car, and sent me home. He didn’t get into the car with me, and he didn’t come home last night. I know damn well where he is, too. Out with one of his comares, one of his stable of mistresses who don’t live at his house. I guess I should feel privileged that I get to share his living space. Somehow I really don’t.
I don’t even want to think about last night’s party. I swear I can still feel the marks on my face where he backhanded me. All because he didn’t like it that I was dancing with Nick. It’s bad enough he treats me like that at home; having him smack me around in front of everybody who was at that party—all the men in Spada’s little crime family, all their wives and girlfriends, all the people employed to run the casino while we had our little shindig. I want to cry just thinking about it.
Your own fault, Sarah. My brain likes to remind me of the way things really are. And it’s right—it is my own fault. I should never have let myself get into this position. But I hadn’t seen another choice at the time.
I pick up my spoon to stir the sauce. Gravy, my mom always called it. It was an Italian thing, and I never picked up the term, mostly because the kids I went to school with looked at me funny if I did. Still, her recipe is still the best one I’ve ever made.
On the floor next to me, Sal’s little floppy dog makes a barking noise. He either wants out or he’s hoping I’ll give him some kind of treat, since I’m cooking. By the look on his face—what I can see of it through all that goofy fur—it’s the latter. I smile down at him. He’s an okay dog, even though he’s Sal’s. Sal likes him better than me, I’m sure. At least he never hits the dog like he does me, if that’s an indication of his level of affection.
Thinking about Sal, I smile to myself and take the spoon out of the sauce. I make sure it’s not too hot, but I also make sure it’s got some sauce on it. When I’m sure the sauce isn’t scalding, I hold the spoon down. The dog licks it enthusiastically, his floofy tail wagging in ecstasy.
When he’s done, I put the spoon back in the pot and give the sauce a few thorough stirs. There you go, Sal. Enjoy your fucking spaghetti.
I glance at the clock. This sauce is going to have to simmer for a while before it meets Grandma’s standards. I turn it down and mull what else I can do for the day. I could stay home, finish some of the chores Sal expects me to do…
No. I’m sick of saying “how high” when he tells me to jump. When he told me yesterday he wanted me to make sure the house got clean today, he said, “If you’re going to be my wife someday…” and I thought I was going to vomit. I can’t even think about that. Yeah, I got myself into this mess, but marrying him would make it not so much a mess as a living, breathing hell.
Strange how it’s okay that I’m using him to keep my business afloat, and it’s okay that he’s using me to make himself look good, but it’s not okay that he wants to make that a permanent situation.
Of course, maybe if he hadn’t started hitting me on a regular basis, not to mention the verbal and emotional abuse, I’d look at things a little differently. As it is, it’s untenable. I can’t keep it up. I certainly can’t imagine being married to him.
I shudder as I check the sauce again. I drop a lid on it and turn the heat down just a bit more. I need to get the hell out of this house for a while. The sauce will be okay on its own for a few hours. And if Sal doesn’t bother to come home, and his sauce is ruined because it’s on the heat too long, then that’s his own damn fault, isn’t it?
#
The bakery—my bakery—smells like home and comfort when I open the door and head inside. It’s warm, the air full of yeasty smells. It’s enough to draw a smile onto my face in spite of everything.
Sadly, though, the smile doesn’t last long. I love this place—was willing to sacrifice everything for it, including my happiness—but things haven’t turned out the way I hoped they would. Sales started out fairly brisk, but then they fell off. I know I could get things going again, but it would take some money to invest in things I desperately need, like updated equipment, the capacity to produce a wider menu, and, yes, advertising. But I can’t get the money, because somebody is holding the purse strings far too tightly.
That somebody, of course, is Sal himself. If it weren’t for Sal, I wouldn’t have had the money to start the business in the first place. If it weren’t for Sal, I’d have the freedom to do what I need to do with the bakery, but not the money. The deal I made with him was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life, and there’s no way I can get free of it.
There are a few customers at the counter, being helped by Mandy, the only employee I can afford to have in today. I rotate a few people, but it’s hard to keep staff paid when there’s so little money coming in. I know Sal refuses to let me improve the place because he wants to keep me under his thumb. As long as I’m there, he has control of the bakery, which gives him control over me as well as a convenient place to launder his dirty mob money. I should have figured that out from the get-go, but no. I went into the deal believing in the innate goodness of humanity. More fool me.
“Sarah, can you take a look at this?” Mandy asks me. I move to stand behind her. The cash register is being wonky again. Because of course it is. One more thing to be broken. One more step closer to the destruction of my life’s dream.
I poke a few buttons and finally get the machine to open, letting me pass the customer her change. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” I tell her, and hand her a coupon from the counter. Maybe she’ll come back. Selling a stack of pastries at 25 percent off is better than selling no pastries at all.
I hear the bell above the entrance ring, and there’s a man in the doorway, holding the door open for my departing customer. My breath catches. He’s broad-shouldered and handsome, wearing suit pants and a dress shirt. He’s also the guy I danced with at the party last night. Nick. I have to say, he’s a hard man to forget, with that dark, almost blue-black hair and green eyes. There’s a scar on his right cheek, but it just makes him that much better looking, as far as I’m concerned.