Chapter Nine
Salvatore
Before knocking on Molly’s door, I pause for a moment, listening to her movements inside. I hear her rustling around, and can picture her nervous mannerisms. I knock, lightly at first, and the noise stops abruptly. Her high heels click against the floor as she walks to the door. Slowly, she opens it.
I don’t say anything, I just take her in with my eyes. She fills that dress out perfectly. The silky fabric drapes every curve. The soft color brings out the pink undertone in her cheeks. I scan her body, knowing what she wears underneath.
“You look lovely,” I say.
Molly blushes, pushing her hair behind her ear. “I’ll return the dress after tonight.”
“No need. You keep it. You’re doing a huge favor for me.”
Molly grabs her purse from the hook beside the door. “It’s not a favor. We have a deal,” she says, then pushes past me into the hallway.
I watch her from behind. She clutches the purse on her shoulder, her apple shaped ass swaying as she walks on high heels. I like this side of her, proud and indignant. It tells me that she knows I hold all the cards.
When we walk into the lobby of Firenze, I watch Molly carefully. She can’t hide the awe on her face as her eyes travel over the impressive murals depicting a rustic Italian village, set against the sleek, modern design of the bar and dining room. I know from her internet history that she enjoys cooking television shows and blogs. She spent most of this morning researching our own Chef Vega.
And here he is now. The crowd in the lobby parts to make way for him. After his stint on that cooking show, he’s a minor celebrity around here. Foodies travel from all over the country to get a glimpse of him and taste his famous, handmade pasta. Vega may have made his own pasta on the show, but in the restaurant, the task is performed by about a dozen line cooks. With his round belly, white chef’s hat, and friendly face, he looks like the stereotypical Italian chef. People in the crowd snap pictures and fawn over him. I remember Vega when he was a teenager, smuggling illegal firearms over the US/Mexican border for the Mariano’s. He always said he’d use the money to put himself through culinary school, and he did.
“Salvatore,” Chef Vega says, opening his arms. “It’s so good to see you.” He speaks with a slight, and very fake, Italian accent. I take his hand and shake it heartily. “It’s been a long time,” the chef says.
Vega acts like he’s out of the loop of Mariano business, but he isn’t. He knows I’ve been self-exiled from the family. If only his adoring fans knew that this restaurant is mostly propped up with mob money. Franco was an early investor in this venture, and still supports it.
“Vega,” I say, giving him a look to remind him that I’m in on his bullshit. “Good to be here.”
Vega’s always been a womanizer, and Molly doesn’t escape his gaze. Her turns to her with his beady dark eyes, gathers her dainty hand in his ham shaped fist, and kisses it.
“Bella donna,” the chef proclaims with his characteristic showmanship. “Welcome to Firenze.”
Molly is starstruck. Her cheeks burn pink while she gazes at the famous chef. “Thank you. I’m a big fan.”
Vega’s stare deepens. “A fan,” he says, pleased with himself. I know what he’s thinking, that he has a chance with Molly. A twinge of jealously makes me tighten my fists.
You don’t have a chance in hell as long as I’m around.
I remove Molly’s hand from his, claiming ownership. Vega gives me a bitter look.
“We have reservations,” I say. “We better get to our table.”
“Allow me to show you there,” Vega offers, his eyes flitting to Molly’s chest.
“The hostess can do that,” I say. “You must be busy. Don’t you have pasta to make?”
Vega glares at me as we make our way to the hostess table. I’d worry about him spitting in my dinner, but I know all of his schmoozing doesn’t leave him much time for cooking. While we wait behind the hostess table, I point out Uncle Franco to Molly. His table is the best in the house, and no one else sits there. It’s nestled in a dimly lit alcove that’s private, though not far from the action and energy of the restaurant. It’s like Franco’s throne, where commoners can approach him and pay their respects.
“That’s my uncle,” I say to Molly.
I don’t know what she was expecting, and but it probably wasn’t Franco in his fine suit, surveying the crowd like royalty, with a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket in front of him. Molly squints in confusion.
“He doesn’t look sick,” she says.
“He wears it bravely,” I say.
I wrap my fingers around her delicate wrist. Molly winces at my touch, but allows me to slip her arm through my elbow. I lean down and whisper into her ear.
“Remember, you love me.”
Molly’s lashes flutter nervously. She calms herself down, nodding to herself resolutely. I’m sure she’s telling herself that she’s in this for the rent, and nothing more. A counselor should know better than to lie to herself. Molly’s attracted to me. I have a sixth sense for that kind of thing. I’ve nurtured her crush, helped it grow and become strong. And very soon, I’ll be reaping my rewards.
The hostess leads us to the table. I hold Molly’s arm tightly while I stare at Franco. The very sight of him makes me seethe. I haven’t seen him since he gave Snake the orders to kill my father. Inside, I’m roiling with anger, but I present a calm, cool front.
“Salvatore,” Franco says, standing from his seat. He pats both of my cheeks with his palms. “You look good.”
“Good to see you, Uncle Franco,” I say, biting back bile.
Franco turns to Molly with a paternal like kindness. “And you are the sprite that captured my nephew’s heart. No woman has been able to do that until now. You must be very special.”
Molly giggles, blushing under the compliment. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m not very special.”
“Don’t listen to her.” I look at her with adoring eyes, then kiss the top of her hand. “She’s very, very special.”
Franco clasps his hands together. “It’s wonderful to see you two together. You’ve made an old man very happy.” He gestures to the table. “Sit. Sit. Molly, may I pour you some champagne?”
“Yes, please,” Molly says, taking her seat.
Franco doles out the champagne, then sits, focused entirely on Molly. He barely looks at me. He asks her questions about her life, what she does, where she’s from. Molly answers each question with nervous humility. Her cheeks are constantly red, and she keeps pushing her hair behind her ears. I watch her, looking forward to when I can take her home, unzip that dress, and see her ass in the panties I carefully chose for her.
Franco talks about the restaurant, and goes on and on about the talented Chef Vega, who is his personal friend. My uncle doesn’t mention the fact that we’ve been estranged. I knew he wouldn’t. Franco is old-school, meaning sexist. He doesn’t believe women should be involved in the business.
During the light-hearted conversation, I squeeze Molly’s hand from time to time. She cooperates, knowing we have to put on a good show, by looking at me lovingly and batting her lashes. But I want to intimate to her that this isn’t entirely fake. While Franco describes the gnocchi pesto, I reach under the table and casually squeeze her knee.
Molly’s lips part, and she turns to me with a wild stare. Franco couldn’t see that. It wasn't for his benefit. I give her a knowing smile while sipping my champagne.
After we order our meals, I decide it’s time to get down to business. I discreetly send Molly a text, telling her to excuse herself to the restroom. After she checks her phone, my little puppet does just that.
With Molly gone, Franco drops the kind, old man act. He calls the waiter over and orders two fingers of whiskey, then turns his darkened stare on me.
“A fine young woman you’ve got there,” Franco says in a suspicious tone. “She doesn’t seem like your type. I can’t see her with a ball gag in her mouth.”
Franco’s whiskey arrives. He downs it in one sip. The waiter is there in a seconds to whisk the empty glass away.
“I’ve matured,” I say. “And so have my tastes.”
“Hmm,” Franco mutters, not convinced. He narrows his eyes, regarding me closely. “I decided to meet with you because of the blood we share. But don’t think for a second that I’ll let you double cross me.”
I hold my hands up, showing him my palms in surrender. “I come in peace,” I say, with a laugh. “But seriously, Uncle Franco, I understand why you killed my father. He was a rat. So that’s that.” My throat tightens when I say those words. It feels like betrayal.
“You got straight to the point,” Franco says, refilling his champagne glass. “I’m glad to hear you speaking rationally. But why did you disappear for so long? You had me worried.”
“It was a shock at the time. I admit. Monty was a rat, but he was still my father. I had to grieve for him. But I’m out of those woods now. Thanks to Molly.” I pause, making an effort to appear humble. “I want back into the family.”
Franco’s face is callous as he sips his drink. “You think you can come back, just like that? What about the bad blood between you and Snake?”
“There’s no bad blood on my end,” I say, lying through my teeth. “I’ve forgiven Snake. He was doing his job, following orders. And I may have disappeared, but I was never gone. When Anthony was kidnapped, I stepped up to help. Why? Because he’s family, and so are you.”
“I see,” Franco says, coldly. “You mentioned you had something else to discuss that I’d be interested in. What would that be?”
Franco, old man, you’re so predictable. You don’t give a shit about blood or loyalty or family. You just want to know what’s in it for you.
I straighten my tie. “I’m glad you asked. As Molly explained, she’s the founder of a nonprofit. They’re struggling with funding.”
Franco bristles. “You’re trying to hit me up for money? I don’t run a philanthropic organization.”
I shrug, relaxing my posture. Franco’s not receptive to a hard sell, so I soften my approach.
“There are a lot of benefits,” I say. “Nonprofits aren’t required to be transparent about their donors, or where the funds go. I’d say, if you were donating a large portion of money, you could have a say in how the funds are allocated. And don’t forget, there’s the tax exemption.”
Franco withdraws into himself, staring at the ceiling. I know I’ve captured his interest. He’s probably thinking of all the ways a nonprofit could benefit his business. The man really is a genius when it comes to organized crime.
“Now I see,” Franco says with a laugh. “You’re using this poor girl.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
A few moments later, Molly returns to the table. I stand up to greet her, but I don’t stop there. I hook my arm around her waist, pull her close to me, and press my lips against hers. She tastes sweet. I want more, but I stop myself.
“There you are, baby,” I growl against her ear.
Molly is rigid against me, but she lets out a little gasp against my ear. That gasp makes my dick surge with excitement. I’m ready to get the bill and take her home.
After dinner, the three of us linger in the lobby saying our goodbyes. Chef Vega tries to approach us. I warn him off with my eyes, patting the side of my leg where my gun is concealed. The chef scurries back to the kitchen. Franco kisses Molly’s hand, then takes me to the side.
“I want to hear more about this charity angle,” Franco says. “It sounds very promising.”
“It is,” I assure him.
“But I have to make sure that you and Snake have put your petty nonsense aside. I’m going to set up a meeting. We can all have a talk.”
My best friend murdering my father is ‘petty business?’
“Sounds great.” I turn to go back to Molly, but Franco grabs my arm.
“I don’t give a fuck if you’re using that girl or not. But if you think for one moment that you can fuck the Mariano’s over, well-“ His voice trails off as he pats my back heartily. “You’re smarter than that.”
*
Molly
Is that it? Is it over?
I stare out of Sal’s car window, watching the glittering LA skyline as it materializes before us on the highway. I’m a little champagne drunk. My head is spinning after meeting Chef Vega, and Sal’s Uncle Franco, who has an otherworldly presence like his nephew. From the way the waiters and other patrons fawned over Franco, I gather that he’s a very important and powerful man. But did I expect Sal to have any other kind of lineage?
“You were great in there,” Sal says. “Very believable.”
“Thank you.” I scrunch down in my seat, uncomfortable with Sal complimenting me. I can feel the lace of the silk panties bunching around my hips. What was I thinking wearing the panties Sal bought for me? I wasn’t going to, but my cotton panties showed visible lines through the fine fabric of this dress. I didn’t have much of a choice.
Is it over?
Our agreement had stipulated one night, one month’s rent. That should be it. Sal should drop me off, and I’ll never have to deal with him again. But at dinner, Sal had showed signs that he wasn’t done with me. There was the way he squeezed my knee beneath the table. Franco couldn’t see that, so Sal wasn’t faking. And that kiss when I returned from the bathroom. I keep telling myself it was all for show, but it didn’t feel like it at the time. Sal had called me ‘baby,’ the sentiment delivered right next to my ear, where Franco might not have heard, in his gravelly voice.
“I enjoyed the restaurant,” I say, clamoring to keep the conversation on superficial topics. “The food was delicious. And I got to meet Chef Vega. His pasta lived up to its reputation.”
Sal scoffs. “You can thank a twenty-year old Guatemalan for that. Not Chef Vega.”
“Yes, well.” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a bit silly. “You can’t expect him to make all the food in the restaurant.”
Sal glances at me, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You didn’t notice, did you?”
I sigh, not in the mood for his games. “Notice what?”
“The celebrity chef wanted to fuck you,” Sal says, casually. “He was practically undressing you with his eyes.”
“Stop it,” I scold him. “That’s not true.”
“Of course, I wasn't going to let that happen,” Sal says. The darkness in his eyes deepens. I think I detect a hint of protectiveness over me, but that can’t be right.
I roll my eyes with exaggeration. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t see it, do you?”
I roll my eyes. “See what?”
Sal turns from the windshield, looking right into my eyes. “How beautiful you are.”
Something shifts inside of me. I want to say something snarky, but Sal seems sincere. Instead, I turn towards the window, hiding the fierce blush in my face. I really need to look into that propolis Greg was talking about.
When we get to the apartment building, Sal walks me inside, all the way to my door. He stays close to me at all times, so close, I can feel the heat radiating off of him. At one point, his hand finds it’s way to my lower back. While I unlock the door, he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s checking out my body. When I go inside, he follows me.
“Thanks again, Molly,” Sal says. “You really helped me out.”
“We had an agreement,” I say coldly, hanging my purse on the hook. I stand back from him, waiting for him to say goodbye and leave. But Sal doesn’t look like he wants to leave anytime soon.
He’s staring at me like he owns me, like I’m his. He takes a step towards me. I take a step back. We repeat these actions until I’m backed up against the kitchen door. I’m trapped. Sal steps towards me, closing the space between us. There’s a dark intensity radiating off of him. It makes my pulse quicken. I don’t know if I want to run away, or jump into his arms. Am I just going to let him claim ownership over me?
“You really look amazing in that dress,” he says, his eyes glancing down my body.
“It’s very nice. Thank you.”
Sal leans down. His face is inches from mine. I hold my breath, ready to bust out of my skin. He strokes the side of my cheek.
“You never mentioned if you liked the other present I got you.” Sal’s eyes drift down my body.
“What are you talking about?” I know exactly what he’s talking about.
He laughs darkly against my face. “Save it, Molly.”
I feel the world closing in around this tiny space where Sal is holding me captive. The silk panties are the nicest underwear I’ve ever worn on my skin, and they’re currently flooding with moisture. Sal presses himself against me. Electricity surges up my spine when I feel the budge in his pants. There are two bulges, actually. I quickly work out that one is his cock, the other is a gun. Why does he have a gun?
I can’t speak. I think I’m going to melt into a puddle at his feet. My brain is so lit up with stimulation, that I can’t decide whether I want this or not. My body is crying out for me to surrender to him. My mind is petrified. But if I shove him off of me, will he pull that gun out?
“That kiss,” Sal says, breathing against my face. “It felt right, didn’t it?”
“I thought we were faking.”
“You thought that was fake, huh? Maybe I should try again.”
His arms slither around my waist. His body is flush against mine. The bulge is his pants is like a rock in contrast to the soft fabrics that separate us, and it’s growing. I feel like I’m in a dream when Sal lowers his face to mine. I give in to the dark, swirling sensations in my belly, and let him kiss me.
The heat of his mouth invades me, barreling through my veins and warming every cell. He gently parts my lips with the tip of his tongue, and then, we are tasting each other. My muscles go limp and weak, but he’s holding me up with his arms tight around my waist. Sal’s groans are deep and full of desire. His hand slips lower down my backside, and he cups my ass.
I’m locked in this moment, both physically and mentally. His every touch sets my nerves on fire. He grinds his pelvis into mine, and I feel the two bulges, both deadly in their own way. He pulls away from my lips, then kisses down the side of my neck, gathering my skirt in his hand.
You swore you wouldn’t do this, I tell myself.
But it feels too good to stop. He caresses the back of my bare thigh. His fingers flit over the lace lining the panties.
Think about how you’ll feel in the morning when he’s gone.
I consider this thought, letting it wash over me like a cold shower. The dress. The panties. The rent. The sick uncle. This was clearly all a complicated scheme to get me into bed. And once Sal gets what he wants, then what? Will he lose interest in me? I know myself. If I have sex with Sal, I won’t lose interest in him. I simply can’t afford the heartbreak.
“Sal,” I say softly, while his face is buried against my neck.
“That’s right, say my name,” he growls.
“Sal,” I repeat. He grips my ass harder, moving his kisses to my neckline. I press my palms against his chest, definitively pushing him away. Sal gets the picture. He looks down at me, confused, vulnerable for a moment, but he quickly disguises it with a sinister smile. I scoot away from the wall, my eyes on the weapon at his hip the entire time. “It’s been a long day,” I say, lamely. “I’m really tired.”
He nods, stroking back his hair. My body screams at me for pushing him away. Blood pumps more fiercely between my legs. But I can’t give in to my primal urges. Sal cocks his head, considering me for a moment, then gently takes my hand.
“You should go to bed,” he says, like it was his idea all along. “Sleep well, sweet, Molly.”
I hold my breath until Sal is out of my apartment. I exhale deeply, gripping the wall to keep from toppling over. Sending him away was the right thing, I tell myself. A relationship with him would never make sense, and a one night stand is out of the question. I’ve fulfilled the terms of our agreement, and our business together is over.
To prove this point, I pack the dress back into the box from where it came. I don’t pack the underwear, because Sal would probably like that too much. Around two in the morning, I creep down the hallway, place the box in front of Sal’s door, and run for my life back to my apartment.