“Observant too.”
“What can I say, I’m a catch.”
Yeah, he is.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at him for a beat. Just as I’m about to respond and tell him he’s got two minutes, not five, my cell phone rings. I peel my eyes from Marco and twist around to pull my phone from my leather jacket that’s draped over the back of the chair. Pulling it out, I turn it over and cringe when I see my father’s number.
“Shit,” I hiss.
I forgot all about our dinner plans.
Silencing the call, I regretfully turn back to Marco.
“I’m so sorry, but I have to go.” Pushing back my chair, I quickly rise and pull my jacket on. “I have this thing…and I completely forgot. I…” I stop rambling when he stands. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring my question, he looks toward the kitchen.
“Luigi! Make the order to go,” he shouts to the sweet old man. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a few bills and tucks them between the salt and pepper shakers. He lifts his head and continues, “I’ll take you back to your bike.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Of course I don’t,” he says evenly. “But I’m going to anyway and you’re going to give me your number so we can do this the right way. Without any interruptions.”
“You’re not going to ask where I have to be?”
“No. It doesn’t matter to me because I know no matter where you go and what you do, you’ll be wishing you were locked in a bathroom with me for five minutes.”
He leaves me standing beside the table and disappears into the kitchen. A minute later he returns with two brown paper bags. Offering me one, he gently touches his free hand to the small of my back before nodding toward the door.
Yeah, Marco Pirelli is definitely not the norm for me.
He’s the guy you hope sticks.
Too bad a girl like me can never keep a guy like him.
Chapter Ten
Antonia
“Okay, Antonia, pull it together and stop smiling,” I murmur to myself. I can’t walk into the clubhouse with a grin on my face when I’m late to have dinner with my dad, that would just be a slap in the face to him. Besides, I’m not the smiley type. If I walk in there with a shit-eating grin, everyone will ask questions.
If they knew a man was the cause of my smile all hell would break loose.
Some of the guys, the younger ones who are close to my age, would crack endless jokes. The old-timers, the guys who took the oath with my dad, wouldn’t find it so funny and they would be out for blood. Hound would be a wildcard, though. He’d likely be swayed to my dad’s side and not because he’s got some undying attachment to me. The man is so far up my old man’s ass, it’s hard to tell where he begins and my dad ends. He’d also put two and two together, figure it was Marco and my smile would be permanently destroyed.
Fixing a scowl to my face, I reach for the brown bag I tucked into my saddlebags. No matter how hard I try not to give in, the smile reappears instantly as I tuck the meatball hero under my arm.
When he dropped me off, there was this awkward moment where neither of us knew what to do. Then he got out of the car, leaving me still in the passenger seat. He walked around the front of the car and get this…he opened my door for me. To him it was no big deal. To me it was everything. It’s true what they say, that it’s the little things. The things that make you feel respected and not just wanted. Once you get a taste of that, even if it is just a small taste, you’ll find yourself reevaluating your selection in men. You’ll ask yourself why you ever settled for less than what you deserve, and ladies, we all deserve a man who will open our car door.
After extending a hand and helping me out of the car, Marco reached into the backseat and handed me one of the to-go bags Luigi packed for us.
If he sends you on your way with a meatball sandwich sure to make you moan, that’s a bonus. If you’re like me, you’ll smile and without giving it much thought, you will raise the bar for yourself.
As he walked me toward my bike, I wondered if he would try to kiss me. Would I let him? Did I even want him to? Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I totally wanted him to kiss me and I needed the kiss to be awful too.
Sloppy and rushed.
A flaw in an otherwise perfect package.
Sadly, Marco did not kiss me, so the jury is still out. Instead, he stood close and watched me straddle my bike, holding my sandwich hostage until I gave him my phone. I must’ve lost my mind in the last twenty-four hours because like a smitten fool, I handed him my phone. He stored his number under “Make You Moan Marco”, tucked the brown bag into my saddlebag, and checked to see if my chinstrap was fastened. Tapping a finger to my nose, he told me to call him after I ate the sandwich. I was too flabbergasted to do anything but nod. He flashed me that panty-dropping grin of his and I watched as he leisurely strolled to his car. Once he was tucked into the driver’s seat and out of my view, I revved my engine and the smile hasn’t left my face since.
“Where the fuck were you? Your father has been waiting for over an hour.”
Well that will do the trick.
Turning around, my lips settle into a thin line as Hound comes into view. Marching toward me, he flicks his cigarette into the street. The sight of him paired with the way he greeted me, really puts things into perspective. I bet Marco doesn’t talk to women like that.
Dismissing the comparison, I stare at Hound unimpressed.
“You should really learn how to mind your business,” I advise. I go to step around him, but he grabs a hold of my arm, keeping me in front of him.
“You are my business.”
Tugging my arm free, I lift my eyes to his. Hound doesn’t get to ruin my day. He doesn’t get to wipe away the smile another man planted on my face and he certainly doesn’t have the right to put his fucking hands on me.
Smacking my lips together, I point a finger at him.
“Keep your hands to yourself or you just might lose one. Not an ideal disability to have when you ride with the Corrupt Hellraisers, but I’m sure they’ll find something for you to do. Maybe you can clean the clubhouse. Those rooms can get pretty dirty, especially yours. Are you still collecting condom wrappers on the floor?”
I flip my hair over my shoulder and turn my back to him. I’ve wasted enough time on him. Reaching the door to the clubhouse, I pull it open and step inside the smoke-filled room. It’s the bewitching hour and everyone is either drunk, high, or both—a typical Tuesday for the Hellraisers. In another hour or two, this place will be full of random girls, all of them ready to drop to their knees on command.
I spot my father sitting at the end of the bar, smoking a cigar and make my way over to him. He doesn’t look too pissed that I missed our dinner, but then again, my father prides himself on having a killer poker face. It’s how he stays out of jail. Well, that’s what he would tell you. My mother, the fancy criminal defense attorney, will say she is the reason he remains free. I guess they make a hell of a team. Too bad their coalition only works in the courtroom and the bedroom.
Sliding into the stool beside him, I lay the bag with my sandwich on the bar and reach for the bottle of whiskey sitting in front of him.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I start as I fill his shot glass. “I got tied up at work.”
The lie weighs between us and guilt swarms me as I take a swig from the bottle. Too much of a coward to look at him, I keep my eyes pinned to Mouse who sits beside him rolling a blunt as thick as an Italian sausage link.
“That so?” my dad questions as he leans his beefy forearms on the wooden bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him flick the ashes of his cigar into a red solo cup.
“Yes, but I’m here now.”
Bringing the cigar back to his lips, he turns his head and studies me.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Um…” my voice trails as I glance down at the bag.
“We had a dinner reservation
at Il Perlino for six,” he continues. “I figured it’s been a while since we visited Carlo and Rosa.”
Regret fills me instantly. After my mom realized parenting really wasn’t her thing, she enrolled in college and left my dad alone, navigating the waters of single parenthood. Once a week, he’d leave the club behind and take me to Il Perlino for dinner. Dad would have the owners, Carlo and Rosa, sing to me if I ate my vegetables. They did a great cover of “Ti Amo” and by the time I turned ten, I could sing every word right along with them.
Once I became a teen and my dad became fully immersed in the club, our dinners at Il Perlino became less frequent. Now, we only visit our favorite restaurant on my birthday and Carlo and Rosa don’t sing to me anymore. Two years ago, Rosa was diagnosed with throat cancer and had to have her larynx removed. Dad, being dad, helped Carlo keep the restaurant afloat and for one year, he paid all their bills. They were like family to us, and seeing them would’ve been really nice.
“It’s not too late. We can still go,” I suggest. Marco’s meatball hero could wait until tomorrow. “Call Carlo and tell him we’re on our way.”
“No,” Dad says. “Antonia, I’m not going to be played by my own daughter. I understand you want to live your life and to hell with me—”
“Dad—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” he shouts, slamming his hand against the bar. “You’re so much like your mother,” he adds, shaking his head. “Ironic, seeing as you can’t stand her.”
“I can’t stand her because she left me.”
“No, Antonia, she left me,” he hisses as he shoves the cigar between his lips. It dangles from the corner of his mouth as he continues, “She wanted more from life than this.” He spreads his arms wide. “She wanted to give you more.”
Here we go again. Every time things get rough around here, my father gets in his feelings and goes on about my mother. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before and nothing I won’t hear a million times again.
“That’s why she left. It’s why I funded her education. After she graduated law school and got on her feet, she came for you.” He pulls the cigar from his mouth. “I can still hear the sound of her designer heels clicking across this floor,” he says as he flicks his ashes. “I turned her away, Tonia. She came for you and I turned her away, told her she could be in your life, but this was your home and you belonged here with me, where I could always keep you safe.”
“So she came for me,” I say. “That doesn’t change the script.”
A mother doesn’t take no for an answer when it comes to her child. Yeah, she came back and yeah, my dad refused her, but she didn’t fight. She’s a lawyer, it’s her job to argue, and she didn’t fucking fight. If she really wanted me, she would’ve taken him to court. She would’ve done everything in her power to take me away from here and give me the life she envisioned for me, but that was just an excuse. I was her out, and she fucking took it. All the hate and resentment, the phone calls I continue to ignore and visits I refuse, they are justified and no guilt trip my father dishes is going to change my mind.
“No, it doesn’t,” he says, curling his lip in disgust. “And the sad part is, if I had to do it all over again, I would. I’d send her fucking packing because while she may be your mother, I’m your father and a fancy law degree is going to keep you safer than me and my bare hands.”
Oh, Dad, why couldn’t you be a garbage man or an electrician? A postal employee or even a mechanic. A butcher! That would’ve been the perfect job for him.
“Dad, I’m fine. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“You don’t know that,” he says hoarsely. “I’m a bad man, Antonia. I’ve made a lot of fucking mistakes and a shit ton of enemies. I want you to live your life. I want you to have a job you love and a family…I want you to have it all, but if I let you live your life…” his voice trails and he swallows. “I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to you.” Turning to him, I immediately spot the tears in his eyes. “Things aren’t good with the club right now. That’s why I’ve been making you stay here and not the house. We’re like a bunch of sitting ducks, just waiting for Bendetti to strike,” he hisses, roughly swiping a hand over his face.
I straighten in my chair. My dad has never once dropped the name of an associate, much less a rival. Narrowing my eyes, I question him.
“Who is Bendetti?”
Realizing his mistake, he pulls his hand away from his face and quickly shakes his head, dismissing the question as he reaches for the bottle.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, refilling his shot glass. I watch as he knocks back the shot with ease. Setting the glass upside down on the bar, he brings his eyes back to me.
“You like this job, yeah?”
Honestly, it’s too soon to tell. I like having my independence. I like being part of the workforce. A legit one where I pay taxes, and my paycheck gets deposited directly into my bank account. Until now, any job I’ve had the boss is usually a guy who owes my father a favor or a dollar and pays me under the table with a little white envelope.
“I do,” I admit. “The woman I work for is great and the submissions, well, I probably have enough material to write a book. You wouldn’t believe half the stuff these people ask. I mean, really stupid shit and you just want to tell them to fuck off but you can’t because that’s not professional. Actually, I can’t tell them anything because I’m an intern.”
My dad’s lips quirk slightly so I continue.
“It’s a good steppingstone, though, and I think I can learn a lot.”
“If you really want this I don’t want to stand in your way, but Tonia, you can’t fight me on what I’m about to say.”
I suppress a groan. There’s always a catch.
“Okay,” I caution.
“I want you to continue to stay here until I can get a handle on this thing with the club. In the meantime, you go to work, but someone from the club follows you. They stay with you—”
“Dad, my boss doesn’t know I come from a family of criminals. I can’t have one of the guys sitting at a cubicle next to me.”
“Fine, he can stay outside the office. You won’t even know he’s there.”
Right, because anyone from here is going to blend in at an office.
“In the parking lot,” I counter. “If I need him, I can call.”
“Only if you check in throughout the day.”
That seems reasonable.
“Deal! Oh, and it can’t be Hound.”
He narrows his eyes.
“What’s the deal with you two?”
“Nothing,” I lie. The last thing I need is to rehash that mess. “What about Ritmo or Mouse?” At this point I’d even take Cash or Butch, anyone but Hound.
“I’ll figure it out,” he replies.
“One more thing,” I start, sliding off my stool. If I didn’t spend time with Marco today, I probably wouldn’t be adding a request. “I agreed to having a tail to and from work, but dates are off-limits.”
“Tonia,” he growls.
“Dad,” I mock, flashing him a smile he never refuses.
Curling his lip, he shakes his head.
“No chaperones for now,” he grunts. Pointing a finger at me, he narrows his eyes and continues. “But I reserve the right to change my mind. Now, go on into the kitchen. Carlo was nice enough to deliver some of your favorites and do me a favor, call your mother. She won’t stop calling me because you keep ignoring her.”
I start to protest, but he stands and presses a finger to my lips, silencing me.
“It’s always good to have a lawyer in your back pocket.”
I bet.
But it would’ve been good to have a mom too.
Chapter Eleven
Marco
“I thought Jersey Shore went off the air,” I mutter out loud as I scope out my On Demand options. Curiosity gets the best of me, so I click more info. A brief synopsis appears on the screen, revealing Snooki and company have return
ed for a new series and get this, Angelina is back. How’s that for a little pot-stirring?
I hit play and toss the remote on the cushion beside me. Settling in, I fold my hands behind my head and prop my feet up on the coffee table.
All the girls look like they spent their earnings on plastic surgery, but my man Paulie doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. It’s the Italian genes, they never fail.
Feeling nostalgic, I’m about to throw my fist in the air and give it a good pump when my phone sounds with text message. Unable to tear my gaze away from the hot mess express on my television, I blindly pat the cushion beside me. Finding the phone, I flip it over and see Antonia’s name on the screen.
Before we parted ways, I stored my number in her phone and sent myself a text, so I would have hers. I had given her instructions to call me after she sank her teeth into the meatball sandwich, but I didn’t expect her to actually come through. She doesn’t strike me as one who follows orders no matter how nicely they are delivered.
I was going to give her until eleven o’clock before I called—hence the reality tv. I needed something to get my mind off her. Something to stop me from calling and the cheap beers weren’t doing the trick.
Swiping my thumb across the screen, I open her text and nearly drop the phone when I see she sent a picture of her mouth wrapped around the sandwich. Literally, it’s all lips and bread.
Wait, I think that’s her tongue.
Christ.
Instead of typing out a response, I tap on her contact info and hit the FaceTime icon. Fuck this texting nonsense. If she’s eating, she’s moaning and I don’t want to just hear it, I want to experience it. I want to watch her face distort with pleasure and not that fake nonsense she pulled at the station either. I want to see her eyes roll behind her head and hear her beg for more. You know…to torture myself.
“Hold on,” she says as she answers the call. There’s a whole lot of camera shaking before her face finally appears on my screen and when it does, she quickly covers her mouth with her hand. “You weren’t supposed to call,” she says, mid-chew.
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