Page 2 of Savage King

"I know." I roll my eyes. "Trust me. I know." My father is a judge, presiding over what is being calledthe trial of the year. For the last several weeks, whenever Dad and I’ve gotten together, all we’ve talked about is the Cosa Nostra.

"Why would the mafia want to hurt me? I'm just a curator. Nothing special," I say for the umpteenth time. It's a line I've been tempted to record on my phone to play for my dad and friends.

"There's a reason he warned you to be careful."

"Yeah, yeah," I intone. It's not the first time my dad has told me to be careful. He climbed the ladder to Federal Judge a few years back, and ever since, he's become paranoid that one of the accused might try to hurt me. To pacify Elli, I give her a hug and a kiss, then open the door of the Uber, whose driver is honking at me.

"Text me when you get home," she calls as I take a seat in the car.

"Yes, mother," I stick my tongue out at her in teasing.

She rolls her eyes and laughs, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders as she waits for her own ride. I tap a quickmessage into my phone, promising I will, but the weight of her words lingers longer than it should.

Text me when you get home. Such a simple thing. So normal. Yet, the ache it stirs catches me off guard, because Elli means it. She worries. She cares.

So different from my real mother—the one who wore diamonds bigger than her heart, who cared more about appearances than whether her daughter made it home safely at night.

The one whose absence still feels like a hollow echo, even after all these years. Even though she'd never been a real mother to me.

I sink back against the seat, the city lights blurring past the window.

Maybe that's why nights like this matter more than I ever admit.

Maybe that's why friends who say silly things liketext me when you get homefeel like the only real family I’ve ever had.

"Girls' night out?" the driver asks as he maneuvers the car through traffic, thankfully interrupting my gloomy thoughts.

"Yeah, got to let loose sometimes, right? What about you? Driving Uber on Friday night." I keep up the friendly conversation.

"You're my last one; then I'll go let loose." He winks at me in the review mirror. "Want to come?"

Despite it being eleven o'clock at night, I'm not tired, but I'm also not in the habit of accepting invitations from random Uber drivers. To keep him talking, I ask, "Where are you going?"

"My buddies and I have a poker night."

I laugh, "No thanks."

"Can't blame a guy for trying." He winks again. He is kind of cute with his bushy eyebrows and glasses. He doesn't look like a serial killer, but then again, if following my dad's cases has taught me anything, it's that one just never knows.

"… Judge Lambert declined…"

"Can you turn that up, please?" I ask. I haven't had time to follow Dad's trial and would like to hear what happened in court today.

"… remanding Carlos Orsi back into federal custody." The anchor concludes after the driver turns it up. "His lawyer, Nino Berti, held a press conference earlier, expressing his outrage at the unfair treatment of his client, Carlos Orsi. Controversially, Orsi is not on trial for gunning down another mafia don but for extortion and racketeering.”

The fact that Orsi hasn't been charged with murder irks my dad more than anything. He is hellbent on seeing Orsi at least convicted for the other crimes.

"Is that the guy who gunned down a mobster in front of witnesses during a dinner?" The driver asks.

"The same," I confirm.

"Damn, that was some serious shit." He exclaims.

"Yeah, technicalities and witnesses recanting is a bitch," I agree.

"Alright, this you?" he asks, stopping the car and ignoring the honking behind us.

"That's me," I say, finishing the transaction, plus a tip, on my phone. I step out of the car.

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