Page 64 of Mob Queen

“Who I pay for with my taxes.”

“I didn’t realize gangsters paid taxes. Maybe I should have the IRS check on that,” Miller retorts with equal venom.

“Yeah?” G’s voice lowers, and I know that tone. “Do you…”

“Enough,” I call from inside the private dining room.

“You’re fucking lucky,” G adds. I then hear something or someone bang up against the hallway wall. Clearly, either G or Miller pushed the other. Boys will be boys.

Miller storms into the dining room, and hovers over me. “You’re certifiable, you know that, right?” He places his hands to his hips and stands to his full six foot plus height.

“Are you hungry?”

The waiter arrives with two dishes and places them on the table. “Thank you,” Miller says and waits for the server to leave. “No, I’m not hungry.” He doesn’t budge, standing over me.

“Sit, eat.” I move my plate over to the first of the dishes and scoop some out. Then repeat it with the second dish. “Eat.” I pick up my fork and begin eating, then stop and look up at Miller. “Are you going to stand there, staring at me? If so, go ahead, but you’re really missing out. Pork ragu with polenta.” I pointedly look at the first dish. “And puttanesca.”

Miller’s shoulders relax as he looks at the dishes. “You’re a fucking puttanesca,” he grumbles.

“I’m capers and pasta in a red sauce?” I shrug. “I’ve been called worse.”

The moment of tension passes, and Miller chuckles. He pulls the chair out, and scoops some of the ragu onto his plate. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He motions between us. “We’re not compatible, at all. But for some reason, we’re drawn to one another.” I stop eating for a moment but refuse to lift my eyes to look at him. I don’t want to talk about this. It’s not a subject I’m comfortable with. I guess he can sense it, because he asks, “Where’s my burnt house?”

“I had the land cleared.”

“Why?”

“Because the builders are going to start working on a new house in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? It takes months to receive the appropriate approvals.”

“Not when you have money.”

“My insurance won’t cover it.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not having you build me a house.”

“You said it yourself; insurance can’t cover something that’s no longer there. It’s already in the pipeline. All you have to do is pick your finishes. I can do that too if you like.”

“Frankie,” my name is said with a sigh. I lower my fork and sit back in the chair, lifting the glass of scotch to my lips. “I don’t know...this is all...” Miller presses two fingers between his brows and releases a long drawn-out breath. “I don’t even know what this is.”

“Labels aren’t necessary,” I reply.

He drops his hand and rolls his eyes closed. “What are we?”

“Fuck buddies,” I say without missing a beat.

“No, we’re not,” he replies. He slowly lifts his chin and opens his eyes. “I asked you if you trafficked people, and you burnt my house down.”

I scoff and turn away. “I knew you weren’t in the house.”

“What happens when I say something else you don’t like? Are you going to kill my dog? Put a bomb in my car?”

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