My father’s thick neck shrinks. “I mean, isn’t that what you do?”
My lips purse as my spine straightens. “I can squeeze you in.” It’s more grace than he deserves. Being near my father is a pain I don’t like to quantify, but putting space between us is his crime, not mine.
“Thanks.”
I motion to my chair on the end, confused that he wants a haircut when for my entire adult life, he told me cutting hair was a waste of time for me.
I bite back any vitriol that threatens to spew out at him as I sit him down. I crack out the lavender bib and flourish the apron around him, fastening it at his nape.
I glance around, flustered. I suddenly wonder if I remember how to use scissors.
A couple employees skitter to the backroom, making any excuse to get away from the surly sheriff, and head of the Deadblood family.
My father holds his hands up as he stares in the mirror. “Now, don’t get carried away. My hair doesn’t need anything crazy.”
I do my best to ease into banter. If I focus on how strange this whole ordeal is, then I won’t be able to do a quality job. “Now, now. You sent me away to get a good education. Don’t you want to see my handiwork?”
It’s a well-aimed dig that I shouldn’t have done.
He didn’t send me away to get a good education. He sent me away because I was sick and he didn’t want to deal with me. I got a good education despite him, not because of him. He discouraged this line of work every step of the way.
The sheriff freezes but doesn’t defend himself, which is an unexpected blessing.
Declan is in the seat beside my father, chatting happily with Victor. The comparison between my brother and his stylist and my father with his is night and day. My father and I are no doubt sharing a prayer that I finish this cut as soon as possible.
My father’s hair has thinned more than I realized, and his short brown curls are dry around his temples. I do my best to teach him how to put product in his hair, but it’s no surprise to me when my tutorial is met with lackluster grunts.
Declan can sense my stress because there are very few things I don’t share with my brother. “Coco, do you hear that?” He points to the ceiling. “I love this song. But I feel like we can do one better than these lyrics.”
It’s a challenge I accept with a grateful smile.
We play this game often over the phone, picking a popular song and singing it with altered lyrics so the song makes no sense at all.
Declan bears no shame in his off-key singing when he changes the chorus of “I can’t get by without you-hoo,” to “I can’t fly high without zoo-fruits.”
I laugh as I cut my father’s hair, chiming in with my own version. “I can’t park sly without doo-doo.”
Declan claps his hands while Victor snorts at the fact that his boss just said “doo-doo.”
My father doesn’t smile, but at least he is silent while Declan and I regress to the age of twelve without hesitation. We sing to the sixties diva song playing through the salon. I love, love, love it here.
I smooth the hydrating crème into my father’s hair, not bothering to teach him about the stuff a second time or tell him that I made it myself in the back kitchen of the store. I always wanted him to try speaking my language, but in the end, I was the one who learned how to shoot his guns, and he still couldn’t care less about my passions.
Victor finishes up with Declan as the two of them sing crass versions of the next song that plays overhead.
By the time I am finished, my father isn’t looking with dread in the mirror anymore; his eyes are fixed on me.
“You’re happy,” he comments, as if he’s never seen anything so strange.
I keep on singing, twirling his chair halfway around so I can make sure everything is even.
I don’t answer his incredulity, but keep my good mood close so he doesn’t ruin it. “Next time, I’m coloring your hair purple.” I tap his bulbous nose with the edge of my comb. “Practically perfect. All you’re missing is a smile. We don’t sell those here. You’ll have to make your own from scratch.”
He takes off the lavender bib and sets it on the chair as he stands. “If I keep seeing you like that, you just might get your wish.”
Huh. I can’t believe we didn’t fight. That never happens. I avoid my father like the plague because I don’t have the energy to fight with him anymore.
The entire salon comes to a halt around me. Without having to turn around, I know Rome and his men have entered my place of business.
15
A Cannoli is Just a Cannoli
Colette
By now I am confident enough to make it clear that I control the mood of this place, not them. The impending war that’s always in the air whenever the heads of the two families get together is no match for my cheery mood.
Rome read me poetry last night over the phone before I drifted off to sleep. Nothing bad in the world could possibly exist after an evening that perfect.
Declan stands at my side, reaching out to hold my hand.
I lean up to peck his cheek. “You go on home. You need some sleep.”
Declan’s voice carries through the entire salon as he motions between the sheriff and Rome. “For the record, this is a bad idea.” Then he squeezes my fingers once to let me know he doesn’t like this.
Declan doesn’t like the sheriff, either, but Declan is the smarter one between the two of us. He hides himself and keeps quiet. Father doesn’t care what Declan does, so long as it doesn’t blow back on the family.
“Good to see you, Orlando,” I say to Rome’s beefy cousin after Declan exits.
Orlando is the enforcer of the family, which is a role that suits him well. Of course, I remember back when I pestered him to push me higher on the swings, and he dutifully obeyed. He looks like Rome and Nino-bear, only thicker and with a few more visible scars.
Orlando doesn’t smile, but he nods once. “Miss Colette.”
I loathe the formalities. I was out of the salon when Orlando dropped off the tables and chairs out front, so I didn’t get to see him then. I’ve spent years adoring Orlando in my memory, only to be sorely disappointed when reality seems to produce distance and stiff nods.
I try not to let my gaze fix on Rome, but it’s hard not to stare. He’s always had a commanding presence. Where the sheriff is the thunder constantly making a big noise to show the world he must be reckoned with, Rome is the crackle of a storm in the distance. You know it’s coming, but there’s a quiet comfort to the rumble that quells my worries.
I shouldn’t notice the broad scope of his shoulders, or the way his torso tapers to his trim waist. I’ll bet he’s ripped under that white dress shirt he’s married to. All the Valentino men wear the same black slacks and fitted white dress shirts with the cuffs rolled. The silver belt buckle is part of the uniform, too, though I can’t say I’ve ever paid as much attention to their attire as I am today.
Rome is beautiful. There’s no other word for it. The ice blue of his eyes and the short, styled black hair make him command the room without a single word.
Dang, I’m a good stylist if I do say so myself. His hair looks incredible, angled up and to the side like that, instead of up and forward as it’s always been.
When Rome finally does speak, he addresses my father. “Elias. You’re looking sharp. I can see your daughter’s had a hand in your haircut.”
My father’s neck shrinks. It’s positively adorable, watching them test the waters of amiability. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s sit down and get started. Did you bring your books? You had questions last time.”
“I did.” I can tell Rome doesn’t like me knowing that he asks the sheriff for fatherly advice about his business.
Rome’s jaw tightens as Orlando hands him a ledger, and they make their way out the door. Before they exit, Orlando turns around and heads toward me, a box under his arm.
The sheriff stiffens, but Rome waves off his concern. “Peace offering to your dau
ghter for letting us meet here.”
My father nods, his shoulders relaxing. “Fine, fine.” He pushes the door open, and Rome follows behind. But just before he exits, Rome catches my eye and winks, letting me know that even though he’s in business mode, the flirtation isn’t over.
Pink colors my cheeks, so I look away from Orlando as he approaches. He sets a small white delivery box with the Valentino family restaurant’s logo on the top.
“What’s this?”
Orlando studies my moves for meaning, so I am careful not to reach for the box too quickly. I’m also careful not to meet his gaze. Orlando is Rome’s right-hand man, and he is faultless at spotting secrets. I’m sure mine are obvious right now.
“It’s raspberry cannoli,” Orlando answers, suspicion heavy in his tone. “We don’t make those outside of Valentine’s weekend, you know.”
“Oh, really? That’s a shame. I’ve always loved them.”
Orlando taps the box shut when I try to open it. Finally, his gaze connects with mine. “Do you know what Rome got Denise for her birthday two years ago, back when they were dating?”
“No.”
“Neither does he. Rome doesn’t care about gestures like this. Only all of a sudden, now he does.”
“Huh. I guess our little boy is growing up.” My chin lifts, daring Orlando to call me out. I know he won’t, what with my father and Rome right outside. “Is it a problem that Rome is thoughtful?”
Orlando leans forward, his wide elbow on my check-in station. “You tell me.” His finger jabs the box. “Tell me how worried I should be about this.”
Orlando is the most solidly muscular of the Valentino family. Though he’s got the black hair, blue eyes and stature to command a room, Orlando has a rounder face and a hardness to his lips that suggests he has never smiled.
Only I know he has. I used to tell him knock-knock jokes before I understood that not all jokes should end with “butt” as the punch line.
Aside from that, Orlando saved my life when I was fifteen. I owe him the absolute truth, but no part of me is willing to cop to it today.
I swallow hard, certain he can see my confession all over my face. I can’t bring myself to answer. Anything I say will sound like a fib.
Because if I tell Orlando this means nothing to me, it will be a filthy lie.
“The restaurant didn’t make these,” Orlando informs me. “Rome made them by hand in our home. You want to explain yourself?”
My throat is dry now—too parched to let a sound sneak out.
Orlando doesn’t let me off the hook, but digs the knife in deeper, applying pressure because he knows how to get a person to crack. “Funny what concern Rome has all of a sudden for real estate in the area. My cousin has never cared all that much about this block, but he told me that if I couldn’t talk the owner of this stretch of businesses to come down on the rent for you, that we needed to buy the property out from under her to make sure you didn’t have to pay too much.”
My mouth falls open in horror. A storm of emotions swirls up inside of me, each one fighting for first place on my features.
He sizes up my reaction. “See to me, a cannoli is just a cannoli until you pair it with something like that.”
My brown hair is in a bun atop my head, but I suddenly wish I’d worn it down so I could hide behind the waves.
When I finally speak, my voice comes out cracked and mousy. “Rome is the reason my landlady cut my rent in half this morning?” I back up as the sounds of the salon all fade into the background. “I thought she believed in what I’m doing here. I thought I got through to her and she cared.”
Orlando’s lips press together in lieu of a response.
My hand rests over my heart. “Does Rome think I can’t handle it? Does he know that I’m in over my head? Does he want to take credit for the business turning a profit?” I shake my head, my brows pinched. “Why would he do that?” Raw vulnerability shines out at Orlando for him to pick apart at will.
It’s a mistake, letting Orlando see what stuns me, but I cannot cap my reaction.
“You tell me.”
But I can’t conjure up a single word to say in my defense. My gratitude for the cheaper rent is still there, but I need to understand why Rome would involve himself like that. Had I mentioned being in over my head with bills? I think I said something about it being a new business and money was tight, but I didn’t mean for him to put the screws to my landlady.
I thought it was me who had put up a solid argument for why my salon needs to be here, and finally Angelica got around to seeing my side of things. I thought I’d negotiated my way to firmer financial footing.
I thought she believed in my mission of peace.
All pride and elation deserts me completely, leaving me bereft and empty.
Even worse, Rome doesn’t think I can do this on my own.
Orlando taps his fat finger on the top of the box. “Careful, Little Kennedy. I don’t pull punches when people play with fire around Rome.”
I’m not sure if it’s a threat or a fact. Probably both. Either way, my stomach is in knots.
Then Orlando leans in, lowering his voice to allow a sliver of softness to infiltrate his harsh demeanor. “You are not this naïve, Coco. Do not fall for this. Rome is playing you, sending you treats like these. He just hooked up with your landlady yesterday. That’s why she dropped your rent. Rome wants you here to help establish the peace, sure, but he shouldn’t be stringing you along.”
My whole body is cold. Orlando’s words douse me in ice.
Is that what this is?
My reply comes in a hoarse whisper. “What possible reason would he have for doing that? Why do you think he would try to make me all giggly and gooey for him? That’s not exactly going to make peace for the families.”
Orlando glances around to make sure no one is listening in. “A while ago, your father shorted Rome on a deal. The sheriff was supposed to send us some men to help clean out the drug dealers from the West End. All he managed to do was arrest more addicts, which is hardly helpful. We want the problem stopped at the source, not for vampires to be paraded around in cuffs for the press to pick us apart more than they already do. Rome promised the sheriff the money for a few new squad cars in exchange for his help getting to the bottom of things—a negotiation we shouldn’t have had to do, since law enforcement is your father’s entire job. We made good on our end of things, but your father never came through. We lost two of our men on raids where we thought we had backup, but it didn’t come.”
A knife slices clean through my optimism. Pressure begins to build behind my eyes.
I am naïve.
I turn my chin away because I will be damned if I let Orlando see me cry. “I didn’t know that. I wasn’t living in Mayfield when that happened. I’ve only been back a couple months.”
Orlando has few expressions, but I can make out pity easily enough. “I figured. Rome was angry for a long time about that. What better way to get back at the sheriff than to play with his daughter’s heart?” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t care if it was anybody else, but you’ve been jerked around enough in your life. That should never come from our family. I’m not about to stand up to Rome and tell him he’s wrong to be screwing with you like this. I figure that’s something you might want to do yourself.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, unable to speak through my shock. I mouth a simple, “thank you,” before stepping back from the desk. I snatch up the box and whirl around, ignoring the bustle of the salon as I dart into my office and lock the door behind me.
I press my back to the door and sink down, cuddling the square box. I can’t bring myself to open it.
Rome went on a date with my landlady and then read me poetry after he polished her off. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it all being a ploy to get back at my father.
Then again, imagining that Rome wants to be with me has been a hard sell to my logical self this entire time.
Orla
ndo doesn’t lie. Not to me. I can still picture his round face when he rescued me from the basement where I’d been stashed when I was only fifteen. I couldn’t lift my head; they’d taken so much blood. Orlando carried me out of the basement, past the bodies he and the guys had shot in their quest to get to me. He drove me straight to the hospital, making sure my family met us there. Never once did he tell me everything was going to be alright.
It wasn’t.
It still isn’t.
He pushed me on the swings when I was still in pigtails. Orlando didn’t save my life just to watch his cousin obliterate my heart.
Damn these raspberry cannoli.
I didn’t know Rome baked. I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about him. My heart jumps when I open the lid of the bakery box and find three raspberry cannoli in a neat little row. They’re perfectly imperfect. I can tell they are handmade by someone who is no stranger to the finer things. My knees curl to my chest as I take a single pastry out of the box and set the other two aside. My short navy skirt slips up my thighs while I sniff the confection.
The very first bite takes me back to my childhood, to a simpler time when I didn’t know the difference between what should be, what could be, and what can never be.
No man has ever made cannoli for me before.
A swarm of emotions battles in my chest. Rome wants to get laid. These cannoli are bait for sex, so he can shove it in my father’s face and break what’s left of the sheriff’s shriveled heart.
He’s hooking up with Angelica, my landlady.
Suddenly, my appetite is gone. She’s a real woman who’s owned property and done business things for at least a decade longer than I have, if not more.
If I wasn’t so head over heels for the man, I might be grateful he went to such lengths to ensure my second month in business wasn’t the stress fest I was anticipating it would be.
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