Page 3 of His Passerotta
I yank my hair tie to let caramel locks frame my face, and the world spins for a moment at the forceful movement, so I grasp the wheel and wait for it to pass. Beads of sweat form on my hairline.
This is bad.
This is so bad.
I have zero time, but I have to stop. If I don’t, I’m going to pass out and give Rose bigger problems than a bad battery and questionable head gasket.
A convenience store on my right catches my attention, and I whip into the parking lot, cutting off a silver Porsche in the process. When a horn blares, I cringe and wave.
“Sorry,” I say as if the driver can hear me.
I owe a lot of apologies today.
* * *
Anthony
“I’m getting fuel, then I’ll be there,” I tell my brother, Settimo, via Bluetooth.
Settimo grunts. “Why the fuck are you out of gas?”
Flicking my eyes down to my gauge, I consider whether I can make it.
No. I’m thirteen miles away, and my fuel light has been on for seven. I can’t chance it.
“Anthony!”
“That’s how cars work,” I mutter, willing the slow ass Hyundai in front of me to pick up the pace. There’s a gas station just up ahead. “I’m like two miles away. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I already did the math. I’ll be lucky to be there in twenty. Fifteen if I break enough laws.
“Jesus Christ, you are such a child,” Settimo says, his sharp tone cutting to the bone.
A child. I’m a thirty-year-old capo in the Gruco Crime Family. I’m on my way to meet my brother and the two top-ranking Bratva men to discuss an airstrip investment that would make millions… Even so, to my brother, I’m a child.
At this moment in time, I can’t quite blame him for the retort, but it still gets under my skin.
“I’ll be there. Just calm down.”
“Calm down?!”
I can see the vein popping from his neck even being across town from him. If it isn’t a bullet that kills him one day, it’ll be his heart.
“What the hell are you even doing, Anthony? You knew about this meeting for a week.”
“I was securing a new investment,” I lie. Well, sort of. I was interviewing a chef for a new restaurant I’m opening as a legitimate Gruco business. So, in a way, it’s important. I may have gotten a little carried away with the dish I had him prepare. I could’ve picked something simpler.
Something tells me Settimo wouldn’t understand.
Settimo scoffs, and I hang up before he can say his next snide remark. He calls back right away, just as I’m pulling into the gas station, and I look down to hit ignore on my phone.
When I look up, I’m inches away from crashing into a red blur that cuts in front of me, speeding like a teenage boy with something to prove.
My breaks squeal as I blare my horn.
“Fucking prick,” I mutter before pulling up to a pump.
* * *
