CHAPTER TWO
Teresa
It’s not that I don’t love Staten Island.
Okay, fine. I don’t love Staten Island. But it has nothing to do with aesthetics. Working-class heroes take pride in their homes, lawns and businesses. It’s got charm. It’s got swagger. But if you live here, you better own a pair of brass balls, because as far as the rest of New York City is concerned, you’re the bastard stepchild borough. No one is going to stick up for Staten Island except you. Which brings me to yet another truth about this place.
Shit does not change.
Standing across the street from Tommaso’s, I’m leaning against a brick wall of the deli where I bought my first and last pack of Parliaments, before my mother caught and grounded me for a month. My black hoodie is zipped up and pulled down low over my face. There’s an AM New York in my hands, but I’m not reading a single word. No, I’m watching Silas Case follow the same damn routine he followed when I was a child and used to ride bikes on this block. He’s unlocking the door to the restaurant—a place he doesn’t even own—and pacing inside to make an espresso. His first of many throughout the day, while men slip in through the back door to drop off envelopes. Tribute to the boss.
Here. Hold my eyeroll.
I suppose there have been subtle changes. Silas definitely has a lot more white hair, more molasses gooing up his step. If I were filming this scene, I would open with a nice establishing shot. Get the whole old-school, business-lined block in, before switching over to a low-angle shot of Silas. Close-up on the shuffling steps of his shiny wingtips. His wrinkled hands as he unlocks the door. A suspicious look over his shoulder toward the hooded figure across the street.
He disregards them with a grunt, though, because this is his neighborhood. And no one fucks with Silas Case around here.
In picturing the various camera angles, I realize my eyes have drifted shut, yearning tickling my belly. My mind drifts to the application to The Film Institute I dropped into the mailbox last week, my hopes and dreams sealed tight inside yellow manila.
Probably won’t happen.
Definitely won’t happen.
Focus on the task ahead. This isn’t a movie. This is real life. The man who just slipped inside Tommaso’s isn’t an innocent, doddering old relic. He’s a dangerous felon who could ruin my brother’s life. Throw him into the dire circumstances my parents fought to keep us from. If this were a movie, though, I know exactly how it would end. My brother and I sitting beside one another on an airplane, a feminine voice coming over the PA system to announce we’re headed to Los Angeles. Click. Our seatbelts connect. Fade to white.
“Quiet on the set,” I murmur, unzipping my hoodie and tucking it beneath my arm. The absence of my sweatshirt leaves me in a tank top that’s as tight as a second layer of skin. I immediately feel more in control with my body as a weapon. Not that I intend to unleash it on Silas Case. God, no. It’s more of a battlefield tactic—one that rarely fails me.
My inner confidence is less substantial than quicksand, but who’s going to notice when the outline of my demi cup is much more interesting? “And we’re rolling…” Once I’m across the street, I toss the newspaper into a dented, green trashcan and walk into Tommaso’s unannounced.
A gun barrel winks back at me in the darkness. “Who the fuck?”
Pause.
In my attempts to break into the entertainment industry, I’ve had several shitty bit parts as an actress, so I’ve been around a lot of fake guns. But I’ve only seen a real gun on a single occasion.
My father came home late one night, which wasn’t unusual. He didn’t notice me sitting in the shadows in the living room as he discarded his shoes in a plastic garbage bag, then carefully slid a gun from a shoulder holster, stowing it in the bag, along with his shoes. Loafers my mother had bought him for Christmas. As long as I live, I will never forget his expression when he turned and saw me. Devastation. Why hadn’t I just stayed in bed?
That night, we drove together to the edge of a river, filled the bag with rocks and let the current take it away. The very next day, my father approached Silas Case and demanded to be let out of the oath he’d taken.
That same boss points a weapon at me now. And it’s not a movie prop.
Get the upper hand back. Don’t let him see your fear.
“Teresa Valentini.” Hoping to hide the fact that I’m trembling, I jerk my chin toward the sputtering espresso machine. “I like a lemon twist with mine.”
“Valentini.” Silas doesn’t blink, but there’s recognition in his tone. “You been out of this neighborhood so long you forget how to have some goddamn respect?”
I raise my eyebrows, hopefully giving no indication that I’m on the verge of peeing my pants. “You’re the one pointing a gun at an unarmed female.”
“I didn’t stay alive this long by taking chances.” He dips the gun, indicating my waist, the sweatshirt tucked under my arm. “Prove it.”
Thankful I left my trusty stun gun back at the Motel 6 I checked into, I lift my hands in the air and let the hoodie drop. I turn in a circle, rolling my eyes when he makes an appreciative sound. It doesn’t even make me want to cringe. Oh no, this is familiar ground, having my body serve as a distraction. Same way I do at work, I lean into that lecher behavior and show Silas it doesn’t affect me whatsoever. I lift up my shirt, giving him a better view of my back waistband. When I’m facing him again, I even give my tits a nice little shake. “No gun. No wire. What do you say? Can we be friends now?”
His coffee-stained eyes narrow, humor curling one end of his mouth. “I remember you now. Couldn’t have been older than fourteen when your father left like a thief in the night.”
“Correction: he stopped being a thief in the night when we left. And he’d paid his dues.”
“Oh yeah?” His gaze slithers down my thighs, but I refuse to flinch. “What do you know about your father’s time with me, little girl?”
Smoothly as possible, I cover my misstep. “Only that we were all unhappy. And that he came to you and worked something out. A way that allowed us to leave in peace.” I take a long pull of oxygen. “I’m here to do the same for my brother.”
“No.”
That single word is like being backhanded, but I command myself to maintain my poker face. I’m immediately resentful that he stole the upper hand I earned by shaking my tits, though. His smile tells me he loved doing it, too. “He can’t be that valuable to you after four weeks.” A thought occurs. “Or are you still salty about my father leaving?”
“Your brother is indispensable, just like the rest of these baby birds that want to be gangsters.”
“So it is about my father?” I take a couple experimental steps into the restaurant, orbiting this man I’m hating more by the minute. “And my brother isn’t a baby bird.”
“Oh no? He’s some hidden gem, but he needs his five-foot-nothing sister to come wipe his ass?” He winks at me. “Not that I mind the scenery.”
I flutter my eyelashes. “As far as you’re concerned, this scenery is government land. And I’m the president.”
His laugh catches him off guard. After a few seconds, he lets the gun drop, and my insides unclench. “Let’s go sit down. I like to drink my espresso hot.”
I make a sweeping gesture toward the dining room. “Age before beauty.”
My feet sink into the plush, outdated, ruby-red carpet as I follow Silas toward a two-seater table. He heaves a breath—and his belly—to get into the booth side of the table. Then he sets about rearranging himself. Straightening his collar, his coat. Twisting his ring. Organizing his spoon and espresso within reach. Those sharp movements remind me he’s not some harmless grandfather. Didn’t he almost blow my head off when I walked in here?
“All right. Let’s continue.” Staten Island is packed into his voice like sardines. “Is this about your father?” He pinches his fingers together in front of his face. “Poco.” A little. “These kids…they think working for me is like a job at fucking Starbucks. They get bored and decide they want out. I can’t allow that. Not without a penalty. You let one out, they all start itching to fly the coop.”
My first thought is: this isn’t as bad as I was expecting. My second one is: don’t be naïve. There’s a shoe waiting to drop somewhere and it’s not as cute as the wedge heel ankle boots I’m wearing. “So what’s the penalty? Money?”
A smile stretches across his face. “I got money, sweetheart.”
“A job, then.”
He leans back and sips his espresso. Seconds tick by as he studies me, thoughts cranking behind eyes that have probably seen more than their fair share of gruesome sights. “You should already be dead,” he says, finally.
The hair on my arm stands up, bile rising in my throat. “My brother didn’t tell me anything. Only that he can’t come home to Los Angeles. I filled in the blanks.”
No answer as he absorbs that.
“Look, this isn’t going to mean anything to you, but…” Heat burns behind my eyelids. “My parents are gone now. Died within four days of one another. Dad first. Then Mom. He’s the only blood I have left.”
“Why wouldn’t that mean anything to me?”
“I-I don’t know.” I’m humiliated when moisture obscures my vision, so I toss my hair back in order to look up at the ceiling. “If the penalty is a job…I’ll do it. Once it’s over, we’re both off the hook.”
He inclines his head. “Do you have the Instagram?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The Instagram.” I watch from way out in left field as Silas tugs eyeglasses out of his pocket and peers down at the screen of his cell phone. “One of these squares opens it…”
Whoa. What is with the topic change?
Recognizing the pink icon across the table, I reach across the table and punch the app with my index finger. “Uh.” Ducking my head, I check his pupils for dilation. “Should I call a nurse?”
“Here it is.”
“Here what is?”
“My son. Will.” Silas faces the screen in my direction. “Looks like he’s in Texas now. Last week it was Louisiana.” The lines around his mouth tighten. “He’s driving across the country with his dog.”
“That sounds slobbery.” Leaning in, I get a good look at Will, and okay. Hell. My ovaries sit up and pant against my will. He’s what the ladies at my job refer to as foine. Yummy in a dangerous kind of way. A harsh, unshaven jaw that looks like it would leave rug burns on the insides of a woman’s thighs. His eyes are hidden by dark sunglasses, but the creases between his heavy, black brows tell me they’re hard. Discerning. In the picture, Will is leaning back against an old, orange convertible, with a giant—I mean, freaking enormous—dog sitting on the hood, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Will’s arms are crossed and I can’t help but zero in on those corded forearms, the breadth of his chest. God. Damn.
He’s a beast in the sack. I don’t even need a test drive to make that judgment.
I don’t test drive at all anymore. Men are fun to look at on Instagram. They can lift heavy things. The human race needs their man juice to procreate. But this vibrator-packing girl is just window shopping, thank you very much. That dog might be looking at Will with hero worship in its eyes, but within a month, that burly and apparently loaded male human would be making demands on my time and patience without giving anything in return. Except, maybe, an occasional half-hearted lay. Just like the rest of his brethren.
I might only be twenty-three, but I’ve been burned by enough men to know they share a common gene. They can’t see past their own needs and if those needs—physical, emotional and food-ical—aren’t being satisfied non-stop, they check out and start looking for the next girl who can provide instant gratification. Or an ego boost. I have zero time for it. Why am I thinking about this at all?
Sitting back in my chair, I start to ask why we’ve gone off the topic, when a thought occurs. “Wait a minute. I don’t remember you having a son.”
“My wife could never conceive.” He inclines his head. “My girlfriend did, though.”
“There it is. Lovely.” Impatience cranks in my middle. “What does your son have to do with my brother?”
“Will is the job I’m giving you.”
Without permission, my abdomen knits up tight, as if in anticipation of coming into real-life contact with Will. Silly, neglected hormones. “I don’t follow.”
Silas Case laces his fingers together, placing them carefully on the table. He seems to be choosing his words. “Will manages Caruso Capital Management—a revered hedge fund—and he’s only thirty-two.” That takes me off guard. After looking at Will’s picture, I didn’t expect him to work behind a desk. More like beneath a vintage car or in a football uniform. My musings are interrupted when Silas Case continues. “He’s throwing away everything he’s worked for in order to drive around the country with his fucking dog.”
“Why?”
He snorts. “There is no acceptable reason. I don’t care if the dog is dying.”
My heart lurches. “The dog is…dying?”
Silas tilts his head. “Don’t go soft on me now. I’m handing you a chance for your brother to walk away free and clear. And I’m giving you the chance because you don’t flinch and I like that. It’s rare these days.”
“Touching,” I say, trying to sound bored. Truth is, though, I’m still stuck on that massive pooch meeting his maker. Despite its size, the dog looks young. “So what’s the actual mission, captain, so I can decide if I choose to accept?”
“This has gone on long enough.” Silas’s fist comes down hard on the table, splashing espresso on the white tablecloth. Another reminder that the man sitting across from me is a cold-blooded mafia boss. A tyrant who has ruled this neighborhood since before I was born. “I take responsibility for what I did. But it’s no excuse to let his business fail.”
“What did you do?”
His black eyes turn glacial. “None of your business.” Battling a fierce urge to look away, I nod once and he continues. “Let’s see what it takes to make you flinch, shall we?”
Trepidation sneaks into my gut, but I shrug. “Have at it.”
Silas’s attention falls to my breasts, lingering there long enough to make my arms tingle with the need to cross. “There are only three things in life that drive a man. Power, money. And women. Will has those first two bases covered, but even unlimited cash and clout couldn’t keep him from this ridiculous escapade.” He refocuses on my face. “That leaves women.”
What the hell is he getting at? “Seems to me if he’s rich and powerful, women come as part of the deal.”
“Sure. But I’m talking about a specific woman. The kind the makes a man change his plans. Rearrange everything.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You strutted in here looking like a centerfold and stared straight down the barrel of my gun. There’s something about you. I don’t change my plans for nobody, but my son isn’t like me.”
My pulse picks up. “What are you asking?”
“I won’t be the reason he throws it all away. I need him to succeed.” He smoothes a wrinkle in the tablecloth, very, very carefully. “Find Will. Convince him to give up this ridiculous escapade and go home. Back to his company.” His gaze ticks to mine. “I think we both know what I mean by convince him.”
I’m not so sure I hide my true feelings this time around. How can I when my skin is crawling with spiky-legged ants? Silas wants me to sleep with Will. Wants me to feign interest and give my body to a stranger, with the hope he grows attached to me—enough to bring him home. There’s no question about that.
My system feels jolted, top to bottom. I’ve used my body as a shiny object and form of distraction since I started filling out a C-cup. But I’ve chosen to use it as a weapon—a harmless one that I’ve never deployed for the wrong reasons. Having this man call out my secret and ask me to put my money where my mouth is? I might as well be sitting here with no clothes on. No artful makeup or pricey shoes. Nothing.
Just Teresa. A girl who works a dead-end job and has no chance at film school.
So I do what comes naturally and default to indifference. No way is he going to know he stripped off a layer of my skin. Especially when my brother’s freedom is my goal. I’ll agree to anything he wants and adjust later. “Convince him. Right.” I swallow. “So, I’m just supposed to believe this is all about you wanting the best for him?”
“Yeah,” he snaps, daring me to question him. “Is that so hard to believe?”
His motives don’t matter. He’s giving me an out. I can’t give him a chance to change his mind. “So, let’s recap. I…encourage Will to go back to his fancy-pants life in New York City. You let my brother off scot-free?”
“You’ve got a week.”
I reach deep for some bravado. “If I can get it done sooner, how about you throw in airfare?” He’s clearly not impressed with the suggestion or my charming eyebrow waggle, so I push back my chair and stand, ready to split before he takes back the offer. Now that I’ve had time to recover from Silas’s request, I’m mostly back in control. Convince a man to do something? I’ve had a harder time opening a jar of pickles.
After all, Silas didn’t specify that I had to sleep with Will. He only implied it. There’s a way to meet the crime boss’s demands without selling my soul.
Isn’t there?
I’ll be conning Will no matter what happens.
Remembering the dog’s expression of rapture, guilt climbs my neck like a ladder, but I shake it off. I can handle any amount of guilt to help my brother. “If I’m doing this, it’s going to be done right. I need a few days to plan and make my cover story credible. The week starts when I get to Texas.”
His mouth is flat, but he agrees. “Sure.”
“Any further instructions?”
“Under no circumstances can Will know I sent you. Other than that? No.” His gaze travels downward, lingering on my thighs. Between them. “You seem like an adventurous girl. I’ll leave the dirty details to you.”
Acid climbs my throat. Unable to get out of there fast enough, I swagger toward the exit, but Silas’s voice brings me up short. “Oh, and Teresa, don’t be alarmed if I send someone to keep an eye on you.” He winks at me. “Just to keep you honest.”
Smiling through my alarm, I finally make it out the door.
Texas, here I come.