Page 9 of Mafia and Gold Digger

Everything about my life has been a disaster since my dad was killed. He was a made man—until he decided to steal from his bosses and ended up being executed and fed to the fishes in the Hudson River. He paid the price with his life, while my family was practically cast out of the Imperiosi and left to fend for ourselves.

I was really lucky that I was able to stay on at my private high school after winning a scholarship. But apart from school, everything else changed overnight. We moved from our comfortable and spacious house and eventually ended up in a cramped apartment in a crumbling building. And money became a constant worry.

I try to make myself feel better about the money by deciding that as soon as I get out of here, I’ll ask Ronnie if they need any extra staff for the rest of the week. That is, if I make it out of here. Because despite trying to keep my mind from thinking the worst, panic stabs at my body.

I find myself pressing back against the seat. I hate being in this confined space with this man. His body seems too big for the space, and his scent surrounds me—a mixture of spicy and smoky.

Growing up, it’s always been made abundantly clear to me that you stay the hell away from the cops. They’re all friends with each other and look down on the rest of us who aren’t members of their special little club, especially people like me who’ve practically grown up among the mafia. All my life, I’ve been told that cops are slimy and creepy and they’re like insects you want to swat away from your skin.

Although, somehow, this guy seems different—smooth, immaculate,cold.

He parks his car on a random street with no cop station in sight. Getting out, he snatches open the back door, grasps my arm, and hauls me onto the sidewalk.

“If you wanted me to get out, you could havejust asked,” I mutter, trying in vain to shake his hand off me while at the same time attempting to pull down the skirt of my short dress.

He leads me down the street.

“Where are we going?” I’m proud of myself for making my voice sound bored despite the anxiety galloping through me.

“You’ll see,” is his infuriatingly short answer.

He catches my eye, and I shoot a scowl at him. But he ignores my glacial glare, instead trailing his eyes down my body. “Nice dress.” He lets his gaze linger over my legs. “Stolen, I presume?”

I hesitate for a millisecond. “Of course, um, it isn’t.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he drawls in an irritatingly casual voice. “You should always just plead the fifth.”

“Huh?”

“You know, your constitutional right to refuse to answer so as not to incriminate yourself. Don’t they teach you anything at school these days?”

“Funnily enough,” I reply airily, “the sorts of schools frequented by mafia families aren’t big on learning the niceties of American life.” I obviously know what the fifth amendment is, but I’m determined to make him think about something else than the fact that my dress is stolen. He knows my full name, which means he’ll have already looked up all my details, and having a Fiorelli as a father and an Imperiosi made man as a boyfriend makes it pointless for me to even try to deny my connections to the mafia.

He shakes his head at me. His hand almost touching my back is hot, and I tell myself that the shiver down my spine is just because of the whip of cold air that suddenly whirls around us—it has nothing to do with the man escorting me like I’m some perp being carted down the cellblock.

Slowing down, he stops outside a coffee shop which is sandwiched between a bakery and a small grocery store.

“I thought we were going to the station. Why have you brought me here?”

“I need a coffee.”

I gawk at him. “Seriously? You kidnap me, and now we’re on a Starbucks run?”Christ, can’t he get caffeinated on his own time?

“Not Starbucks,” he corrects smoothly, pulling open the door. “I have standards.”

I hesitate at the door, looking longingly at the park across the street. I can see the old guys sitting at the wooden tables and chairs, their heads bent over their chessboards. I never get the time to play at the park anymore. Either I’m working, looking after my mom, or looking after my siblings and trying to give them a decent upbringing. When I’d been younger though, my dad had brought me to the park often, and we’d play against the old guys.

That was when he’d still been here. I can’t help my mind wandering back to when he died. My mom hadn’t worked a day in her life. I’d begged her to get a normal job, like in a store or something. But no one wanted to give a job to a woman with the last name Fiorelli…

“You play?” His voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I reply in a wistful voice.

“Who taught you?”

“My dad.” I clamp my lips shut. Why on earth did I just tell him that? I shouldn’t reveal a single thing about myself. This is how they get you to talk. By asking casual questions, by pretending they’re your friend. And before you know it, you’ve mentioned something you shouldn’t have. An innocent detail you think is harmless but which they fit into their bigger jigsaw puzzle of information gathering. “What about you—can you play chess?” I quickly try to shift the focus away from me.

“I don’t play,” he clips.

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