Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I start typing.
Dear Ida,
The guy I’m seeing isn’t anything like anyone I’ve dated before. He’s respectful, considerate and a God in bed. He’s also a cop. I don’t have anything against cops, personally. But my dad…he’s another story. Let’s just say my father isn’t a fan. Anyway, I haven’t told this new guy my father is a shady asshole. However, my dad recently found out the guy is a cop and in not so many words, he told me to dump him. He thinks the cop is only dating me to put him behind bars or some crazy shit like that. I really don’t think that’s the case, but I’ve never been a good judge of character. Are all guys assholes? Is every cop crooked? Or is my father just a paranoid criminal?
-Anonymous
Pulling my lip between my teeth, I let my eyes scan over the submission. I think it’s evasive enough where Soraya won’t put two and two together and realize it’s me. Before I chicken out, I draw in a deep breath and click send. A quick glance in the lower righthand corner tells me I’m done for the day and I power off my computer.
I grab my stuff and pop my head into Soraya’s office. I let her know I sent the submissions through and I say goodbye. Just as I’m about to turn around, a goofy grin spreads across her lips. Suddenly a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist and the familiar scent of Marco’s cologne wafts past my nose.
Turning my head, he plants a kiss on my cheek before he spins me around to face him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, swallowing my shock.
He twirls a strand of my hair around his finger.
“I figured you’d need a ride home since I drove you to work.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I notice he’s dressed in his uniform. The navy-blue material clings to all the right places, giving away the fact there’s a very hard body beneath those pressed blues of his. A body I wouldn’t mind having on top of me again.
For fuck’s sake, focus Antonia!
“You’re still in your uniform.”
“Yeah, and I got the cruiser parked downstairs. If you like I can put the siren on while I drive you home,” he offers, wiggling his eyebrows for extra emphasis.
I laugh for two reasons. One, because it sounds completely ridiculous and I can totally see him doing it and two, I can also imagine the horror on my father’s face if he saw me pull up in a cop car.
I know it’s not funny, but if I don’t laugh, I think I might cry, and I don’t fucking cry.
“Me and my partner are pulling some overtime and working the 18th Avenue feast tonight. If you don’t want to go straight home, you can tag along.”
“And what am I supposed to do while you and your partner work?”
“Eat zeppole with me.”
Smiling faintly, I shake my head.
Forget Marco, if I don’t end things with him, my waistline is going to be in danger, and I can’t even blame that on my dad.
“I’m going to gain twenty pounds dating you,” I mutter, forgetting all about our audience. I’m sure Penelope is lurking around here too, probably putting the malocchio on me.
“I’m not seeing the issue.”
I slap his bicep playfully.
“What do you say, dollface?”
“Actually, I have plans. Can I get a raincheck, though?” I ask hopefully.
I wish I could delete the email I sent through because I don’t need advice on what to do.
I’m not ready or willing to give Marco up.
“I’m working for the next couple of nights. What do you say we go Friday night? We can have another sleepover…come to think of it. We can spend the entire weekend together.” He pauses and looks over my shoulder at Soraya. “I spoke to Tig and Delia and they’re in, so we’re all set for the party Saturday night.”
“Great,” she says. “I’m going to swing by the restaurant on my way home and confirm everything.”
He gives her a nod before turning his eyes back to me.
“You sure I can’t take you home?”
“Yes, but I’m looking forward to Friday.”
He grins.
“Me too, dollface. Me too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Marco
After working the feast for four nights straight, I had no desire to visit what I once considered my old stomping grounds. The festival of Santa Rosalia or more commonly known as the 18th Ave feast wasn’t like I remembered. For starters, it didn’t span as many blocks as it used to. The mom and pop shops that sold vintage Italian records and novelties were few and far between and the café’s that decorated the corners of every block were on their third and fourth owners. In the years that passed since I was a kid, the feast took on a Hispanic flair, and aside from the traditional Italian foods, there were vendors who sold empanadas and my personal favorite, Mexican street corn.
There were a few things that remained the same. You could still score a slice at DaVinci’s Pizzeria and on every block, there was a sausage and pepper stand. You could also find several people selling zeppoles and fried Oreos. If you got there the day the feast opened, you could score some grilled octopus too. There were carnival rides, games, and music blaring from giant speakers. People danced in the street under the festive red, white, and green lights that hung from one streetlight to the next. And the statue of Saint Rosalia was still on display and just as terrifying as it was when I was a kid.
But if you’ve been to the feast once, you’ve been a thousand times and when you’re working it, breaking up fights and making sure no one steals the dollars pinned to the saint, you’d much rather spend your Friday night curled up on the couch with your girl’s legs wrapped around your head.
Antonia, however, has other plans and instead of feasting on her, I’m watching her go to town on a bag of fried Oreos. I’m not complaining. I think one of my favorite things about Antonia is that she isn’t shy in front of me. There’s nothing worse than being on a date, ordering a steak and a loaded baked potato, and having the woman you’re with pretend she’s satisfied with the arugula on her plate. You know the second you drop her at her door, she’s fixing herself a sandwich.
Not Antonia, though.
If only I could get her to be as open and honest about the rest of her life as she is with her appetite, I might consider her my dream girl. She still hasn’t told me who her father is and won’t let me anywhere near her house. I tried to drive her home on Monday, and she brushed me off. After that, she got real quiet on me. Every time I called or text, she’d rush me off the phone or give me one-word answers. I couldn’t be mad, though, because I had given her the same treatment the week before.
Then Thursday rolled around, and she was chipper as fuck. She flirted with me and sent me pics of herself in about a half a dozen outfits, asking me which I liked best for Tig and Delia’s party. Truth be told, she looked fantastic in everything, but we decided on a black leather mini skirt and a red crop top. I couldn’t fucking wait until tomorrow, especially since I convinced her that underwear was not an option with that skirt.
Anyway, I think she might be bipolar.
It’s okay, I dig it.
What I don’t dig is that fuck who follows her around. According to the database, his road name is Ritmo. I noticed he was lurking around the parking garage when I dropped her off on Tuesday morning and that’s why I hijacked Richie and our cruiser to swing by her office and offer her a ride home, which of course, she declined.
I don’t think he is out to harm her, though. From what I gather about these guys, they pride themselves on some sort of brotherhood and when they’re not fucking the law, they take care of one another’s family. I want to believe this Ritmo character is following Antonia for protection, but that worries me too because I have no idea what she needs protection from. A guy like Tank Deluca has a lot of enemies and any street guy knows the way to hurt a man is to go after what he loves.
“You know I’m disappointed in you,” Antonia says.
T
he sound of her voice forces me back to the present. My brows draw together as I study her for a moment. She lifts a fried Oreo to my lips and grins. “I thought you would eat me under the table.”
I raise an eyebrow.
Now, we’re talking.
“Find a table and it’s on.”
She laughs and gives my chest a playful punch.
“I don’t mean that. Take a bite,” she encourages, pressing the artery clogging dessert to my lips. Sticking out my tongue, I get a taste of the powdered sugar before she pushes the entire Oreo into my mouth. Chewing, I watch as a satisfied smirk crosses her lips. Unable to help myself, I dip my head and crash my lips against hers. She licks the excess sugar from my lips before pushing her tongue into my mouth. My hands slide around her waist, and I pull her closer. In a crowded street, she’s all that exists, and that’s just as terrifying as the chipped saint wearing the black frizzy wig.
She breaks the kiss first and reaches up to finger the gold horn dangling from my neck.
“I think I need one of these,” she says.
“An Italian horn?”
“It wards off the malocchio.”
“It’s supposed to,” I say.
“I’m pretty sure Penelope wants me dead after your little display of affection on Tuesday. Is there a place I can get one here?”
Lacing our fingers together, I laugh.
“There’s a shop one block up that sells them. We can get you a horn and a shirt that says, “Italians Do It Better.” You can wear it to bed after I fuck you senseless.”
“I thought you prefer me naked.”
“I do, but my apartment can be drafty.”
She loops her arm through mine and I lead her to the little shop on the corner of 69th Street. We grab a horn and two shirts. Just as I’m about to check out, Antonia stops me and asks the little old man helping us if he has anything to honor Saint Gerard that we could purchase.
It’s not necessarily an odd request, my mom prays to Saint Anthony every morning. I guess I wasn’t expecting Antonia to be much of a holy roller.
“Is that your patron saint?”
She shakes her head.
“Saint Gerard is the patron saint of fertility. I thought maybe we could get something for Tig and Delia.” She pauses, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she lifts her gaze to me. “Wait, is that insensitive? How would you feel if you’re meeting someone for the first time and she hands you a prayer card to help with your infertility?” She shakes her head. “Oh, God, forget it. You said the whole point of the party was to get their mind off their struggles and here I am suggesting we throw it in their faces. Forget it, sir!”
I touch a hand to her cheek and coax her eyes back to mine.
“I think it’s very thoughtful.”
“Really?”
I nod just as the man returns holding a silver bracelet. It has a charm of St. Gerard, and on the back, there is a prayer.
“Let’s get it,” I say.
“Okay, but maybe we’ll give it to them after the party or even another day,” she suggests, and I agree. I pay the man for our stuff and Antonia takes the bag. As we exit the shop, she spots the Saint Rosalia statue across the street.
“What is that?”
“That’s Saint Rosalia.”
“Why does the saint have a wig on?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question since I’m six years old.”
According to my mother’s logic, the saint is old and chipped, and the organizers of the feast try to preserve her by dressing her up like a streetwalker, hence the black wig and dress, which is a new addition this year.
“You know, I always wondered why people pin dollars to the saint,” she says. “I even googled it after I went to the San Gennaro festival in Little Italy, but I couldn’t really find an answer. Some people say it’s sacrilegious, but if you think about it, it’s really not all that different than lighting a candle in church. Most of the time the candles are in front of saints.”
She’s got a point.
“I never really thought of it like that,” I say, eyeing the statue. “Should we pin a dollar?”
“Why not?”
She grabs my hand and drags me across the street. Digging into my pocket, I pull out a couple of singles and hand them to Antonia. She rolls them and grabs a pin from the statue, threading the tip through the dollar. Once it’s fixed to the saint’s dress, she rolls another dollar and hands it to me. It’s the first time I’m partaking in the tradition and I make the sign of the cross when I’m done, just as I would if I was lighting a candle.
Turning back to Antonia, I grab her hand and pull her against me. I press my lips to hers and she winds her arm winds around my neck. Angling her head, she gives me better access and my tongue slides past her lips. I devour her shamelessly on the street, in front of the saint.
“My dick was in that mouth.”
The blood in my veins instantly turns to ice as I pull away from Antonia and turn around. Standing five feet away is Hound. I don’t hesitate for a second. I charge at him, grabbing him by his kutte. He tries to shrug me off, but I spin him around and pummel him into the grotto holding the beloved saint. Someone screams and before I realize what I’m doing, my fist rears back and collides with Hound’s face. Not once. Not even twice. I do it over and over until my knuckles are bloody and I hear Antonia beg me to stop.
The next thing I know, someone is pulling me off Hound. I turn around and I’m surrounded by five or six men, all of them wearing the same insignia as the man I just beat the shit out of. Antonia pushes her way past them and stands with her back to me.
“Don’t you dare,” she shouts.
“Get out of the way, Tonia,” one of them demands. I narrow my eyes as the man steps forward and sure as shit, it’s Tank DeLuca.
Great.
Chapter Eighteen
Antonia
My body shakes with anger as I keep my eyes pinned to my dad’s. Swallowing, I force myself to find my voice.
“If you have any love for me whatsoever you will stop this right now or I swear, you’ll never see me again. I am done. Do you hear me? Done!”
“This has nothing to do with you,” he argues.
My eyes bulge in disbelief.
“Are you kidding me? Hound just disgraced me in front of all these people. It has everything to do with me.”
Crossing his arms against his chest, my father spits the toothpick hanging from his lips into the street and looks from me to Marco who is standing directly behind me.
“It looks to me like a cop just assaulted an innocent bystander at a festival and in turn destroyed public property.”
Before Marco or I can respond, Cash walks up to my father.
“His nose is broken, boss. We gotta get Doc on the horn,” he tells him.
“He’s lucky that’s all that’s broke,” Marco snarls.
I tear my gaze away from my father as Marco moves to stand next to me. Rubbing his bloody knuckles on the front of his tee, he pierces me with a look. As angry as he is, there is nothing but concern flashing in his eyes. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He assesses me for a moment before turning his attention to my dad.
“Marco…” I murmur.
Ignoring me, he shakes out his swollen fist and steps toward my dad.
“You her father?”
“You going to pretend like you don’t know who I am?”
“I know if I had a daughter, and a man disrespected her the way your pal just did, I’d be shaking the hand of the man who rearranged his face and getting a few punches in myself.”
Dad laughs.
“That so?”
“Yeah, it is,” Marco says, confidently. “You want to call 9-1-1 and tell them I assaulted that piece of shit, go ahead. Tell dispatch I say hello. But do it before you lose your shot because in five minutes, I’m taking your daughter out of here and I’m going to spend the rest of the night erasing tha
t fool from her mind.”
“You hear him, Cash? This guy is trying to tell me how to handle my daughter.”
“With all due respect, sir, your daughter is a grown woman and in case you haven’t noticed, she can handle herself just fine. However, she doesn’t have to handle shit because so long as she’s with me I’ll happily take the trash out where she’s concerned.”
Oh, wow.
It’s probably not a good time to ask Marco if he wants to get married and have babies, right?
No man has ever defended my honor or stood up to my father before.
Instead of proposing, I move to his side and loop my arm through his. He turns his head slightly and gives me a wink.
Yeah, I’m totally marrying this one.
“You’re fucking dead,” Hound hisses.
We both turn at the sound of his voice and find Mouse and Ritmo holding him up. His face is a mess, and there is blood dripping from his chin.
“You hear me, motherfucker, I said you’re dead.”
“Careful,” Dad warns.
“Fuck that! He broke my nose.”
“It was an ugly nose anyway,” I point out.
Deciding he’s not worth my time, I look back at Marco.
“You ready to get out of here?” he questions.
I give him a quick nod before looking back at my dad. His expression is blank and to my surprise, he doesn’t say a word. The silent treatment is new for us and I don’t know what to make of it. If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure I care. I’m more concerned with what Marco is thinking and feeling.
I shrug my bag high on my shoulder and give Marco’s arm a squeeze. He takes my cue and starts to lead me away. As we’re about to pass my father, he leans forward.
“You’re making a mistake, Antonia.”
Those words make me freeze. How can he still think Marco is anything but sincere when he just attacked Hound on my behalf? If there was any doubt in my mind that Marco’s intentions weren’t pure, they are obliterated.
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