Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Ricardo drains his glass. “I’ll be frank then. Mr. F doesn’t believe you’re a serious man. You know my boss, he has very strict, very traditional views on life, and your reputation, well, it’s not exactly to his taste. So while your business proposal is solid, he rejects the idea of entering into a partnership with you, in particular. I’m sorry, Prime. I wish I could say it isn’t personal, but—“
That’s like a kick to the balls. Bad enough to be turned down by this stooge, but to hear him essentially call me a fucking loser to my face is almost too much. The only reason I’m not snapping his over-padded neck right now is because that would only confirm his boss’s point and would shut down any potential for future access.
This is a test. Plain and simple. I can lash out and prove that I’m the immature fuckboy they think I am, or I can find a way to turn it to my benefit.
I know what they see. Prime Spadaro, rich playboy, a new woman every night, a new car every week, rolling in cash from his lucrative real estate investments and the thick margins on his multiple parking lots. Not to mention the other side of my operations, all done for the Corsetti Famiglia, the real source of my wealth and power. They see an operator, a smooth talker, a joke.
They see the image I’ve carefully built for myself.
And the worst part is, I can’t deny any of it.
“Would it help Mr. F’s opinion of me if he knew I planned on getting married?”
Ricardo looks genuinely surprised. He smirks like I’m joking, but his smile quickly fades away. “Is that for real? I didn’t know you had a fiancée.”
I fucking don’t. I have no idea why I blurted that out.
“I understand Mr. F’s reservations about me, but I can assure the both of you that I’m a serious man and I’m truly committed to settling down and focusing on my many successful businesses. You can relay that to him, if you think it would help, but either way I’ll be speaking my vows very soon.”
“Wonderful news! Well, congratulations are in order then!” Ricardo orders more drinks and grills me on the details of my future wife.
I’m cagey. Mostly because she doesn’t exist. I tell him she’s got dark hair, that we worked together, that she’s Italian and she’s got family in the city, and the more I talk the more the shape of this very fake woman begins to resolve in my mind.
“I’m sure Mr. F will be very interested to hear about your upcoming marriage. I wish you nothing but success. We’ll be paying close attention, I’m sure.”
“I appreciate that.”
We shake hands. He downs his second drink hurriedly, rattles off more pleasantries, and gets the fuck out of there without paying.
I slump down into my seat, head hanging into my hands.
“Well fuck me in the mouth,” I whisper over my empty glass of bourbon.
I took a bad situation and made it astronomically worse.
Now, I either find a wife on short notice—
Or I lose any chance at ever connecting with Mr. F again.
Which is unacceptable.
Because I’m going to clutch that old, rotting bastard’s black, withered heart in the palm of my hand and look him in the eye as he dies knowing I’m the one who brought him down.
CHAPTER 4
DEANNA
“Hey, Mom? Can you give me a hand with these?” I grunt as I prop open the door to the house I grew up in, a row home unit in a relatively bad south Philly neighborhood. The hinges creak as I strain to shout over a radio blaring Steely Dan. “Mom? Hello?”
No answer and I’m not sure why I expected one. With a groan I manage to get the grocery bags into the house, pausing grimly to take in how pathetically empty they are. I do the math, planning meals in my head, but I know that’s futile. Mom’s going to make whatever she damn well pleases, no matter how many times I tell her we have to stretch everything.
“There you are, Deanna.” Mom’s in the kitchen like usual. The stove’s going and she’s got a pot of something cooking. It smells like her typical Friday evening gravy: red sauce, lots of garlic, whatever random leftovers are still good from the fridge. It was one of my favorites, growing up, and the nostalgia still gets me.
“Hi, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and start unloading the bags, but I stop a moment later when I hear a thump from upstairs. “What was that?”
Mom sighs, waving a spatula toward the stairs. “It’s only your father. He’s in one of his moods.” She looks at the ceiling and crosses herself, shaking her head like it’s the most annoying thing in the world.
Ice fills my guts. “Dad’s alone up there?”