Page 37 of Forbidden Pregnancy
“Ithaca, New York.”
Fuck. Ten miles away from my lake house. The safe house where Renzo kidnapped Myra. My worst fears seem to be confirmed and materializing into something right in front of me, but I can’t quite form a clear picture of what the fuck is going on.
“Are you applying to Cornell?”
“What’s that?” Gino asks. I don’t know how he’s made it this far while being this stupid, honestly.
“Never mind. I need you to meet me.”
“Bro, I’m in Ithaca.”
“So am I,” I growl — although really, I’m ten miles out. “Meet me at Personal Best Brewing in fifteen minutes.”
Thankfully, Gino’s uniform of sweatpants and a black hoodie ought to make him indistinguishable from the college kids. He’s not that much older than them, even if his education focused exclusively on courses and skills applicable to the mafia.
“Where is that? Why are you in Ithaca? What the fuck is happening right now?”
“Are you working with Renzo or looking for him?” I ask Gino. Time to cut to the chase. Every second that passes lowers Myra’schances of survival. A gunshot only takes a millisecond to kill someone and I know that all too painfully well.
“I know exactly where he is,” Gino says. “I’m conducting soft surveillance for when he returns…”
Great. That’s one question answered, but not all of them.
“Be there in 15 or I’ll turn your balls into a necklace.” My tone is much more menacing than it needs to be, but it’s imperative that I get this point across.
“Did Luigi send you?” Gino asks. “Because this is one hell of a mindfuck if he did.”
“Be there.”
“Ciao, boss. I’ll be there.”
Personal Best Brewing is your typical college town brewery run by older millennials. Metal seats. Despondent bearded white bartenders with ear gauges and flannel. The scent of french fries. Various groups of college alumni either tuned into the baseball game onscreen or their flights of piss-colored IPAs.
I order whatever Sam Adams they have on tap, waving off the bartender before he can describe a beer that just sounds fruity. I expect Gino to be late, but he shows up right on time dressed exactly how I think he’ll be dressed. The sweatpants outfit makes perfect sense, because he can still conceal a weapon.
Nobody will suspect that in a liberal hippie hotspot like this one. He barely makes eye contact with me before sitting at the bar, pretending we’re strangers. The flannel guy approaches and Gino orders… an apple martini. He couldn’t be more different from his brother.
“An apple martini?” I mutter while staring at my latest parlay on my phone. The Avalanche really fucked this one up. I had them holding up the last leg of my parlay, absolutely certain they wouldn’t screw up this playoff game against the Dallas Stars.
I don’t have time to react, but this just fucks up the rest of my money this season. Not ideal. I throw back at least half of that Sam Adams. Gino waits for his drink before talking business. It’s a family trait.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Gino asks after his first sip. “If you don’t mind me asking. Did Luigi send you here to babysit?”
“I’m here for my own reasons.”
“They must be connected to mine.” He takes another sip. I haven’t pieced it together yet either. What the hell is going on here?
“One of us has to say something.”
Gino gives me a sympathetic look. “You’re not on Renzo’s side, are you?”
“Renzo’s side?”
Gino sighs and puts his head in his hands. “I’m taking a big risk trusting you.”
“Are you?”
“Luigi sent me down here because dad’s acting all suspicious that my brother is doing a job for the Corsini family.”
