Page 48 of Sinful Bargains

“But the papers?—”

He pointed a finger at me. “Stop reading the goddamn papers, Antonio. Half of it’s lies, the other half’s trouble. You’d do well to leave it alone, you hear me, boy? You deliver the damn papers—you don’t read ’em! That ain’t your job! They got proofreaders in the city! You’re a paperboy, so deliver the papers! It takes me long enough to pack them up for you!”

Frustration boiled inside me, but I didn’t dare show it. I just wanted to understand why everyone acted like this. The papers and the news claimed there was a mafia, but everyone I knew who might be connected swore it wasn’t real. Why did people clam up or get angry when you said the word “mafia” in this town?

“But why can’t we talk about it? If it’s not real, then?—”

Mr. Russo leaned onto the counter. “Kid, there are things you don’t stick your nose into. Things that ain’t your business. Joey’s a good man, and that’s all you need to know. Now, if I hear you bring this up again, we’re gonna have a problem. I’ll have to dock your pay or, worse—fire you. And you’re a damn good paperboy. I don’t wanna do that, but you keep pushing, and you’ll leave me no choice. You got it?”

I nodded reluctantly, knowing this wasn’t the end for me. “Yeah. I got it.”

I slung the bag of newspapers over my shoulder, adjusting the weight as Mr. Russo straightened up and muttered to himself, loud enough for me to hear, “Kids these days. I tell ya.”

I didn’t respond. I just pushed open the door and stepped out into the smug morning air. But as I hopped onto my bike, I knew one thing for sure—this was far from over. Someone was going to have to explain why the newspapers were printing this.

After that talk with Mr. Russo, I wished I’d just let it go. All the mafia rumors, the questions—perhaps were better left alone. But I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity got the better of me, and I started asking a few of the neighbors on my paper route. Just questions here and there, nothing serious—or so I thought.

That morning seemed like any other. The streets were quiet, the air crisp despite it being springtime, and my basket weighed down with newspapers. Then, out of nowhere, a car rolled up beside me, its tires crunching softly against the pavement.

I glanced over—and my stomach dropped. Vincent “Lucky” Accetta.

Oh, fuck.

Everything in me screamed to pedal faster, to bolt and put as much distance as possible between me and the man staring out from the car window. But what was the point? You don’t outrun someone like Vincent Accetta. I knew that much from the papers alone. They called him “Lucky” for a reason—he was a walking miracle, having survived not one, but five assassination attempts.

I gripped the handlebars of my bike tighter, trying not to let my nerves show. My instincts told me one thing for sure: I was in hot water. Boiling fucking water.

“Hey, kid,” he said with a smile that didn’t hold a trace of sincerity. It was fake—like the smile a predator might give before pouncing.

“Uh…hi?” I barely managed to get the word out; my throat felt like it had closed up entirely.

“You got a minute?” he asked casually, like we were old friends.

I looked around, hoping someone—anyone—might be in earshot. But the street was empty, and even if someone was nearby, I doubted anyone would dare cross Vincent “Lucky” Accetta. I gripped the handlebars of my bike tightly. “I—I gotta finish my route. Papers don’t deliver themselves, sir. Mr. Russo will dock my pay if I don’t finish on time.”

“It’ll just take a second.”

I hesitated. My heart thumping like it wanted to escape my chest, but I nodded and reluctantly wheeled my bike to the curb. He stepped out of the car in his nice, tailored suit and polished shoes, starkly contrasting my worn trousers and sneakers. He looked powerful. Dangerous. And someone you didn’t want to mess with.

Before I could think better of it, the words tumbled out of my mouth. “Look, I don’t know anything about anything. If this is about something I said, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”

Vincent raised a hand, cutting me off mid-ramble. “Relax,” he said. “If I wanted trouble, we wouldn’t be talking.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Word around town is you’ve been asking questions,” he continued, “about things that don’t concern you. About people who don’t like being talked about.”

“I wasn’t trying to cause any problems!” I blurted out the words, spilling over each other in my panic. “I just—people talk, and I got curious. I swear, I’ll stop. I’ll keep my mouth shut, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, and something dark gleamed behind them. They reminded me of my father’s eyes—cold, calculating, and full of a darkness you didn’t argue with. I felt small under his gaze, like a mouse caught by a hawk. “That’s smart,” he said. “Curiosity can get people hurt, Antonio. You don’t want to end up in over your head, do you?”

I shook my head so hard I thought it might fall off. “No, sir. I swear, it won’t happen again. I’ll forget all about it. I’ll forget I even heard the word ‘mafia.’”

He chuckled then, but it wasn’t a friendly laugh. It was low and cold, like a predator's sound before it strikes. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking his time with the first drag. I could tell he was enjoying how scared I was. Then he exhaled, his eyes on me the entire time. “But—” he started, pausing, “I got a question for you now.”

I tightened my grip on the bike, my palms damp with sweat. “Yes, sir?”

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