Chapter Ten
Salvatore
I’ll admit, my usually unshakable pride was dented with Molly’s rejection. It’s not something I have much experience with. Even when I’m not paying for it, I’m never turned down for sex. But then again, I’ve never had a woman like Molly, brimming with small town innocence. Okay, so she won’t fuck after the first date. What does she want, a promise ring?
Not that she didn’t want to go to bed with me. I know why she didn’t return the panties along with the dress. They were probably soaked through. I felt the way her body had yielded against me when we were in her apartment, the way her thighs unconsciously parted for my hand. I had her body, just not her mind.
Luckily, I don’t back down from a challenge. I fully intend to conquer Molly, and with what Franco has planned, I’m confident that I’ll win her over. My interest in her keeps growing, and sometimes, I have to remind myself what the real endgame is; destroying the Mariano’s.
Today will be a first step in that direction. If I want to take down the most powerful crime family in LA, I have to be careful, methodical, calculating. Once I work myself back into their ranks, I have to make sure they become comfortable with me, complacent. In that state, they’ll be easier to manipulate. Sure, it’s a long game, but I have all the time in the world.
I’m headed to the meeting Franco scheduled, straight into the snake den. Everyone else is already there at the concrete shop when I arrive. I imagine Franco called them all earlier to tell them exactly how he wants this to go down. I take that as a good sign. Franco’s interested in using Molly’s charity, and for that to happen, we all need to get along. I’m more than happy to put our differences aside, for now.
It’s deathly quiet inside the concrete shop when I enter. My footsteps echo through the cavernous space. There they are, all of my enemies at one table. The hulking Bruno, my slimy uncle, that bitch, Jess, and of course, the snake in the grass himself. I make eye contact with Snake first thing, giving him a cocky smile. He glares at me.
I do have one ally in attendance, Anthony, though he’s a reluctant one. Anthony avoids looking at me altogether. He looks like he’s sweating bullets. He doesn’t want the others to know that he’s been helping me, and for good reason.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I say, striding up to their table. I fix my eyes on Jess. “And lady.”
Jess meets my gaze unflinchingly. Her husband beside her straightens up protectively. I can almost see why Snake would betray me for her. She’s got a nice figure, and a pretty face behind her long dark hair. And, I’d argue, she has bigger balls than Snake. She singlehandedly launched an attack on a powerful mob family by trying to poison my father, a capo, at his own birthday party. I respect her for that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I want to slowly torture her while Snake looks on.
The only one of them who greets me is Bruno, which takes me by surprise. He extends his huge hand and shakes mine.
“Good to see you, Sal,” Bruno says with a solemn look.
“Yo, Beast. Good to see you too.” Despite myself, my tone is sincere.
Franco claps his hand. “That’s what I like to see. Letting bygones be bygones.”
“Family,” I start. “Is all we have. That’s what I learned while I was away.”
“Is it?” Snake says, sarcastically.
“Now, Snake,” Franco says, like Snake’s a petulant child. “Salvatore has expressed a desire to rejoin the family. And I think we should give him a chance. The purpose of this meeting is to smooth things over between all of you. Bruno seems to be aboard. Anthony, I believe you’re grateful for everything Sal did to help when you were kidnapped.”
Anthony stays silent, neither confirming nor denying this, just studying the nubs of his chopped off fingers like they have fingernails.
“That leaves you, Snake,” Franco says, purposely avoiding Jess. In his eyes, she’s not supposed to be here. Since she insists on being involved, Franco just pretends that she’s not here.
“How can you trust him?” Snake says to Franco, completely ignoring me.
“I, too, had that concern,” Franco says. “But when I had dinner with Sal and his wonderful girlfriend, I saw how much my nephew has changed. Molly, you should meet her, she’s a lovely young woman. See.” Franco takes out his phone and shows Snake a picture. “There she is. That’s the three of us at Firenze the other night.”
Snake looks at the picture, then at me with a raised eyebrow. “That’s your girlfriend?”
“She is,” I say.
Snake appeals to Franco with an incredulous expression. “You really believe him?”
Franco ignores the question. It pleases me to no end to see Snake seething with anger at this.
“Molly is more than a pretty face,” Franco says. “As the owner of a nonprofit, she presents a valuable opportunity for the Mariano family.”
Jess snorts. “You mean like volunteer work?”
Franco swats his ear like her question is a buzzing fly. “Why don’t you explain, Sal?”
“Gladly,” I say, folding my hands together. “Donor advised funds.” I pause for a moment, watching the confusion spread on their faces. “These kinds of funds allow donors to make large, tax exempt contributions to charities, but the charities don’t have to get the money all at once. It can trickle down to them monthly or yearly. Meanwhile, the funds are still available to the donor to collect interest, all while remaining tax free.”
“Interesting, huh?” Franco says, before anyone has a chance to respond. “I’ve already decided to set up a fund myself.”
I can tell Snake and Jess aren’t exactly on board with the idea, but Franco is, so they don’t have a choice.
Franco stands, straightening his cuffs. “I’m throwing an event at my home this weekend. I’ll announce the fund then. I expect to see all of you there. And you can meet Molly.”
Snake looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Can’t wait.”
*
Molly
The woman sitting across from me at the white linen covered table looks like a model. She’s tall, elegant, and of course, thin. Her deep brown hair is unbelievably smooth and shiny. Her skin is clear like glass. There are no wrinkles on her face, except for between her brows, but that’s because she’s scrutinizing my resume.
She straightens the pages, then lays them on the table in front of her. “Your last waitressing job was five years ago.” She squints at my resume, reading. “At the Chicken Fry Hut?”
I’m suddenly embarrassed. Those words sound ridiculous coming from her carefully painted lips.
“That’s right.” I take a long sip of the water she provided me.
“Mmm-hmm.” She scrunches her brow again, returning to my resume.
This dining room is so elegant, I feel out of place. It has a clean, minimalistic look, just like the food. The chef here presents ingredients in their most pure form, most of them plucked from the rooftop garden. His dishes are works of modern art; clean, white plates, simple vegetables like splashes of paint, accentuated with streaks of flavored oil. They’re beautiful, but do they make for a good meal? I wouldn’t know. I can’t afford the astronomic prices he charges.
Today, I set aside my lunch break to look for a part time job. After the emotional rollercoaster ride with Sal the other night, I can’t rely on him to do me any more favors. Back in my hometown, whenever I needed extra money, all I had to do was walk into a few restaurants with a resume. Usually, one of the first few places I visited would have my name on the schedule by the weekend, or sometimes, before dinner service that night.
“You’re only seeking part-time work?” my interviewer asks. I can tell from her expression that this isn’t ideal.
“Yes, nights and weekends. I have a full time job. I’m just looking to make some extra cash.”
She laughs, so hard, a snort flies out of her pretty nose.
“Excuse me,” she says, waving off her response. “Miss-“ she consults my resume for my name. “Miss Wright, I get a lot of people like you looking for work, people who aren’t from around here.”
I shift in my seat, acutely aware of my otherness.
“Waiting tables in LA isn’t like the rest of the country,” she explains. “It isn’t a part-time gig for beer money. It’s a career, a passion. Our wait staff doesn’t just take the orders, no. They’re salespeople, the face of the restaurant. They deliver Chef Moralis’ message and vision to each and every table.” She looks to the sky when she says the chef’s name, like he’s a deity.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t realize- So, you don’t want part-time staff?”
She glances over my resume with a sigh. “I can offer you a dishwashing position. That’s minimum wage. No tips.”
I do the math. Minimum wage in LA is fifteen dollars an hour. With a part time position, that’s only a couple hundred dollars a week, which is not nearly enough. I wonder if Chef Moralis’ vision includes his kitchen staff living in poverty while his wealthy patrons overpay for skimpy salads. As much as I’d like to say that to the goddess in front of me, I know it won’t make me feel any better.
I shake hands with the model, and walk out with my resume, and my tail between my legs. Waiting tables has always been a reliable backup plan, something I could turn to when I needed a leg up, but in LA, it turns out, that’s not an option.
I can’t bring myself to go back to the center. I can’t put on a happy face, not today. After texting Greg to tell him I’ll work from home for the rest of the day, I board a bus that’s headed for my part of town. The journey is long on this nearly empty bus, with several stops. It makes me aware of how naive I was about LA. I imagined in a big city like this, public transport would be the norm. That’s how it was in San Francisco when I’d visit with my family as a kid. I’d marvel at the trolleys, pedestrians, and bus system, thinking, no one needs a car here!
Naive. That’s the word of the day, isn’t it? I thought I could move to LA, and solve the mental health problems of everyone here. I thought I could save my brother. I thought I could complete my arrangement with Sal and keep my sanity intact.
Sal. My thoughts turn to him as the bus stops and starts repeatedly. I wish I thought he was an asshole. I wish I hated him. But I can’t stop thinking about him, his body pressed against me, his lips on mine. The memory alone makes my heart pound.
When I finally get off at my stop, I walk to my building, consciously hoping that I don’t run into him, and subconsciously hoping that I do. Sal is my only source of excitement these days, albeit a masochist one. The emotional pleasure he brings is equaled only by the emotional pain. It’s a thrilling, dangerous, and irresistible cocktail.
Sliding my key into the front door, I get a feeling. It sends goosebumps up my arms. Every sense is on alert. He’s here. I know it. I open the door slowly, peering into the dark hallway. After coming from the sunny street, my eyes have to adjust to the light. As they do, I make out the tall figure in a dark suit in the distance. I squint, making sure the apparition is real. Sal’s handsome face comes into view. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He steps towards me.
“Good afternoon, Molly,” he says.
The door swings shut behind me. We’re alone. “Afternoon, Mr. Mariano.” I put my head down and start towards my apartment. Sal appears in my path.
“Don’t do that, Molly.” His smile deepens. “It’s Sal.”
“Sal,” I repeat, entirely due to reflex.
Sal doesn’t move out of my way. I look up at him, half expecting him to apologize for his behavior the other night. But his expression wears an armor of confidence. What was I thinking? This man doesn’t apologize for anything.
“Uncle Franco is having a barbecue at this house this weekend,” Sal says. “He asked me to invite you.”
I pull back, look him square in the eye, and laugh in his face. “No. No way. I’m not doing this charade with you anymore.”
“This isn’t a charade. I’m delivering a invitation from Franco. He was quite taken with you.” He inches closer to me. “And I can’t blame him.”
My entire body blushes. What is Sal doing to me? He’s so confusing. What’s real, and what’s fake? What’s attraction, and what’s intimidation?
I straighten my posture. “I won’t be able to make it.” I shoulder past Sal. He lets me go, for a moment.
“How about I sweeten the pot for you,” Sal says. “Should we say, one month’s rent?”
I stop in my tracks, swinging my head around. “One month at the discounted rate?”
He shakes his head. “One month’s rent. Period.”
I’m stuck in a honey pot of temptation. I’d be able to pay off some of my personal bills that have been piling up. After that soul crushing interview, it’s clear that this is my only option. But if I’m going to whore myself out, I need to make sure it’s worth it.
“Two months,” I say. My voice is so cold and cutting, I surprise myself.
A growl rises from Sal’s throat. I’ve involuntarily pleased him.
“Two months,” he agrees.
The power gives me a rush, and I decide to go with it.
“Are you going to kiss me in front of Franco again?” I ask. “You didn’t ask if that was okay before.”
“I didn’t think I had to ask.”
“You did. And you do.” My voice falters a little. I clear my throat, standing my ground.
Sal seems to be feeding off my energy. His eyes sparkle as they bore into me. “We have to make it believable, Molly. You don’t want to break Franco’s heart, do you?”
The slick bastard, using his uncle to appeal to my emotions. But the truth is, no I don’t want to hurt Franco.
“One kiss.” My throat is tight. “You can hold my hand.”
“Five kisses.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
I don’t think I’ll do much better than that, so agree to these terms.
“And I pick my outfit,” I say. It seems silly having to say this. I feel like a child.
“Fair enough,” Sal says. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at one.” He flashes me a brilliant, heart shattering smile, then turns around and leaves the building.
When he’s gone, I grasp the wall, reeling from the buildup of adrenaline. I go into my apartment, and lock every lock. These actions are futile, however. Sal has a key.