Page 22 of The Tenth Circle
“I do hope you’re controlling your temper, Hendrix.” Mom’s authoritative voice kills the light mood. “We’ve come so far.”
“Only bashed like three skulls, we’re good.”
Auntie Pop and Mom offer raised brows in unison.
“What? I’m joking…shit.”
Mom picks up her glass of whatever, bringing it to her lips as she says, “I know you’re tired of me harping on your past, but itcan easily sneak up on you if you’re not careful. Especially in a new world filled with pretentious rich people.”
I counter her stupidity with an eye roll, knowing what I respond with next will not bode well with my guilt or her cheery disposition. “A world you chose to bring us into when cashing in that lottery ticket.”
It was a shot under the Gucci belt, I know. But I would’ve been more than happy skating through life in public school and the chic apartment she somehow managed to earn working retail.
Her eyes harden. “You know why I did that.”
Of course. Because she’s a mom, and every mom dreams about giving their daughters a magical life.
Enter a cheap suited wannabe mafioso who stole Mom’s heart…along with her dream of a big happy family when she had me.
It turns out my father wasn’t exactly just a “wannabe” gangster—he was actuallypart of the mafia. Not a crazy huge part, but enough to take a fall for those who were.
Well,are. And heis, not was.
I don’t know.
Doubt being in prison takes the mobster out of a Sicilian.
Vincenzo Pecorino. The father I never met and the man my mother loved but never married. Thank fuck for the second because I’m pretty sure his last name is a type of cheese.
“I do…” I sigh, hating the remorse that always comes with being a brat to her.“Sorry, that was a dick move.”
Auntie Pop reaches over to squeeze my hand, then winks.
The doom and gloom passes, so we go back to lighter topics of conversation, and are deep into reality T.V. when our waitress breezes over to the table, arms folded as she introduces herself. We all share our greetings and she moves on to taking our order.
The chick, whose name is Ryan, nods along with Mom and Auntie’s extremely complicated substitutions and takes it all in without writing anything down.
Mom switches out her burger bun with lettuce. Extra onions, but only if they’re red. No pickles and a dash of mayo.
Auntie wants a goat cheese salad with no goat cheese and extra blue. I refuse to even question the perplexity of that one.
Nevertheless, Ryan smiles, not showing an ounce of annoyance with their outrageous requests, then focuses on me.
“And you, babe?”
“I’ll just take a cheeseburger and french fries.”
“You got it. Drink?”
“Pepsi, please.”
With a wink she spins around and prances back into the restaurant. I don’t know how waitresses in Manhattan do that shit, stowing away so much information all the way to the line and unleashing it on a bunch of chefs.
Shit. Bex would be terrible at this job.
Archer on the other hand…
A flash of russet red catches my eye to the right, where a small gate separates us from the sidewalk. There strolls the man in question, grin already bright with his notice of me.
