Page 58 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“Not happening.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
He shoves me inside, closing the door. “Hey!” I jiggle the handle, but he’s locked me in here. “I hate you!” I shriek.
“That’s a dollar,” he calls from the other side of the door.
“You owe me ninety-eight!”
“I’ll be back in a little while.”
Nope.
I give it a few minutes before I pull a pin out of my messy bun, bending it into a long line and working it inside the lock. This one’s much easier to open than the lock on Vince’s home office; I turn the knob while pressing the pin, and the door opens.
Strolling through the kitchen like I belong here, I spot a cook in the back, but the man doesn’t pay me any attention. Reaching the service entrance to the front, I sneak a peek around the corner. I don’t see Vince, but a bartender appears, blocking my way.
“You’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.” Hetskswith a hint of an Italian accent.
“Story of my life.” I flash a flirty smile, as I don’t want to be sent back to the broom closet.
“Come sit.” He motions for the bar, and I walk around and climb on the stool. “What can I get the little trespasser to drink?”
“Soda, please.”
“One soda, coming right up.” He ducks behind the bar, grabbing a bottle and pouring me a glass.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip through the straw.
“Now, tell me how you got in through the back,” he says in a much less playful tone.
“Vince. I’m guessing he’s your brother?” They share the same facial features, but this guy looks way younger.
His face gives nothing away. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“I’m Luna.”
“Ah,” he says, leaning over the bar. “No wonder my brother was trying to keep you hidden in the back.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Pretty little thing like you would give all these old men heart attacks,” he comments, motioning to the older clientele.
“What about you?” I tease.
“Worth the risk.” He winks at me. “On second thought, not worth the risk.” He straightens, and I follow his gaze.
“Great,” I mutter. Vince is storming over.
He and his brother exchange something in Italian, and Vince jerks the drink from my hand. Sniffing it, he takes a sip before handing it back to me.
“Sure, help yourself,” I grumble.
An older man approaches, and he and Vince shake hands. “Who’s the pretty girl? She your daughter?” he asks Vince, and his brother snickers.
“Yes, Vince. What is our relationship?” I ask innocently.
“She’s a family friend I’m looking after,” Vince says, giving me a warning look. “Let’s take this conservation to a booth.”
