Page 47 of Sinful Bargains

Angela scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed Marco’s car parked out front every Saturday night,” Lucy smirked.

Angela sipped her martini, completely unfazed. “This is about Adriana.”

“Sure it is,” Lucy mouthed before turning back to me. “Anyway—back to Artie. What exactly did he say?”

“He wasterriblyshy,” I began.

“He usually is,” Lucy cut in.

“It was the way he looked at me. The energy he exuded. And then, when I walked away,” I sighed, shaking my head, “he told me if I everneededanything to let him know.”

Angela shrugged. “Well, he’s just being a good guy. Arthurisa good one.”

Lucy scoffed, swirling her drink. “Arthur is aman, Angela.And weallknow no man in this town does anything for free. I don’t care howgoodthey seem.”

Angela frowned, considering. “Well…how did he say it?”

“There was just…anemphasisonanything,” I admitted.

“Ohhh.” Angela sighed, eyes widening in realization.

Lucy smirked into her martini glass, nodding knowingly. “I could have told you that, and I wasn’t even there. But you know what? I think Artie would begoodfor you. You should let me set you up on a date.”

“Absolutely not,” I said immediately.

“Why not?” Lucy pouted dramatically. “Once Joey finds out, he’lllosehis mind.”

Angela tilted her head, considering. “Thatcouldbe entertaining.”

“My love life isnotyour entertainment,” I shot back.

But the idea of making Joey jealous lingered in my mind, and it tugged at something inside me.

ANTONIO

Ihad spent days trapped in my own head, questions circling like vultures. Was Joey really in the mafia? And if he was—did Ma know? Or was she too caught up in his swagger to see him for who he really was?

No matter how hard I tried to piece it together, the answers slipped through my fingers, leaving me with nothing but a pounding headache and more questions. But I couldn’t let it go. Not until I knew the truth.

I stood inside Mr. Russo’s small newspaper shop, waiting to head out on my morning paper route. The air smelled faintly of newsprint and fresh coffee, as it did every morning. Behind the counter, Mr. Russo was busy sorting through stacks of newspapers, organizing them for everyone’s routes.

I shuffled my feet, my nerves getting the better of me. The question I’d been dying to ask was burning a hole in my brain, but part of me wondered if I should keep it to myself. The longer I waited, the more the silence suffocated me. As I fidgeted with a newspaper, I finally asked, “Mr. Russo, can I ask you something?”

He didn’t even look up from what he was doing, stacking and sorting the morning papers with practiced efficiency. “You can, but make it quick. I’ve got things to do, and you’ve got papers to deliver.”

I swallowed hard, my nerves threatening to choke me. “Do you think the mafia is real?”

That got his attention. He paused mid-motion, his hands still on the papers, and turned to glare at me. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto mine. “What kind of question is that? Where you gettin’ these ideas from, kid?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. I just hear stuff, you know. People talk. Plus, it’s always on the front page of the papers.”

He snorted and shook his head. “No. Ain’t no mafia. Just a bunch of shit people tell to scare kids like you into behaving. Now, hand me that stack of newspapers,” he said, nodding toward the pile at the end of the counter.

I grabbed the stack and brought it over, but the question still burned in the back of my mind. I couldn’t let it go. “Then why do people call JoeyThe Shark? They say he’s?—”

“Enough!” he snapped, cutting me off. His voice was sharper now, clearly angry. “Joey’s just a guy trying to live his life. He’s brought Staten Island to the height it’s at right now! You’re Italian! This is stereotypical hate being plastered by those who don’t want men like Joey to succeed! People like to run their mouths when they don’t know nothin’. Joey’s the best goddamn thing Staten Island’s ever seen, you hear me?”

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