What will, though? I don’t see much in the way of viable tactics to get Sal out of his most favored 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 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…