Page 244 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

The pay is shit, but hey, it’s still pay, and I normally work about eighty hours a week just to make ends meet.

I tell myself that someday we’re not going to have to live paycheck to paycheck anymore.

Someday we’ll catch a break.

That is, if nobody breaks Frankie first.

I really don’t think my reputation can handle another mob crime blackmark.

Those will sink you faster than an anchor chained to your ankle.

I walk outside of the apartment building, hoisting my bag over my shoulder as I head toward the subway station. By the time I get down to the platform, a crowd of people has gathered. Tiny beads of sweat slide down my back as the minutes pass. It’s always so oppressively hot down here, even in the winter, and I say a silent prayer that the next train flashing its lights is the A train.

I check my phone for the time.

Ugh! Forget the heat. If it’snotthe A train, I’m going to be late.

And my boss Jimmy is only so forgiving.

I let out a sigh of relief when I see the train screech to a stop at the platform. The doors slide open with a loud double ding and I practically leap into the car. I lean against the pole since I refuse to ever touch it. If I can’t get a seat, I find a place to rest my ass or my arm, preferably not on a fellow passenger, although it has happened in the past.

Regrettably.

That guy still gives me the creeps when I think about him.

As if I meant to rub myself against his crotch. For Pete’s sake, the train was crowded! And touching the pole — good God, the germs! Just thinking about it makes bile rise in the back of my throat.

Twenty minutes later, the train arrives at my stop. West 4thStreet in Washington Square Park. The Grammercy Tap Room is only a few blocks away, and the weather is unseasonably warm for March, so the walk is actually refreshing.

I try not to focus on Frankie and whatever scheme he’s running because he is definitely up to something. I just hope that whoever the target is doesn’t know he’s involved, otherwise, who the hell knows how I’ll find him in the morning?

Or,ifI’ll find him.

People that Frankie associates with—hell, mobsters, in general—are magician-types, and their best trick is making others disappear.

I just hope Frankie doesn’t do something stupid to prove himself to those thugs.

I know from experience what they’ll do in retaliation.

I let out a deep sigh as I walk past my old dorm. NYU doesn’t have a traditional campus, so the buildings are spread out in Greenwich Village. I remember long, raucous nights of bar crawls with friends, treks to Bleecker Street Pizza at two in the morning when pulling all-nighters, and parties with cute fraternity guys. I loved those times. I had no cares in the world other than getting good grades and having a freaking amazing time.

Graduation came much too fast.

And then Mama got sick.

I trudge the remaining block to the bar, the heaviness in my gut weighing me down like there is a pile of bricks sitting on my shoulders.

It’s hard to accept that she’s really gone.

Walking these streets brings back such bittersweet memories of us embracing the little time we had left and basking in the sunshine of Washington Square Park. She always loved the Village and would often come for a visit when I was living here to take me shopping or to dinner.

A pang assaults my chest.

God, I miss her so much.

I’d give anything to hold her hand again and to traipse through the foliage and brick pathways in the iconic landmarks of lower Manhattan.

Tears sting my eyes and I blink them away before they have a chance to fall.

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