He pauses, then gives a stiff nod. “Yeah, it would be.”
I force a smile. There’s a strange look in his dark eyes that I don’t like, but I decide not to press him on it. I know he’s sensitive about Papa, and I don’t have the energy to argue about it right now. I have a long night ahead of me and I can’t be worried about what glimmers in the depths of my brother’s gaze. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, squeezing his arm. “Please be careful.”
“You say that to me every time you leave,” he grumbles.
“It’s because I worry.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” I say, picking up my handbag and jacket. “’Night.”
“’Night,” he replies, and there it is again. That damn look.
It makes my stomach twist because it always—without fail—means trouble.
And we really can’t afford any more of that.
Literally.
We can’t afford anything.
I carefully pull the apartment door closed since the landlord who goes by the name Mr. Raynor lives on our floor, and I don’t want to alert him since I won’t be able to cover the rent for this month and last month for another week. Yes, I’m behind. Yes, I want to choke my brother for putting me in this position because he insists that he’s going to be making good money soon with his new-ish job. And I use the word ‘job’ lightly. I know he’s gotten himself tangled up with some mafia thugs here in Manhattan, not that he’s admitted as much. He’s probably beating the shit out of people for his bosses and collecting money owed, not that he’s the one doing any of the actual collecting, as far as I can tell.
Jesus, who knew the mafia offered unpaid internships and that my stupid brother was qualified?
A chill slithers through me as I take the stairs as lightly as possible so as not to make any unnecessary sounds. Mr. Raynor has ears like an elephant, and the only way I know to keep him off our backs is to flash him a glimpse of boob every now and again when he confronts me.
I really don’t feel like watching the lecherous look on his face tonight as his eyes drop down the front of my shirt.
Blech.
But hey, it is what it is. I have to work with what I’ve got.
Who knew that six months ago our entire world would come crumbling down around us the way it has? I mean, I thought being forced out of Sicily ten years ago was bad, but this? This is complete decimation.
Regardless of the reason, Papa killed someone. I’m not naïve enough to believe he’s never done that before, but at least he’d never been caught red-handed. I could have convinced myself that he was innocent if it wasn’t for the fact that he quite literally had the man’s blood on his hands when the cops arrived at the scene.
Second-degree murder. That verdict just about blew my whole life out of the water.
He claimed it was self-defense, but if you saw my dad and the guy he popped, it doesn’t really add up. Luckily for my father, the jury bought it and that’s the only reason he wasn’t sentenced to death.
Unluckily for me and Frankie, all of the money we had that wasn’t already seized by collections for my mother’s medical bills was sucked up by exorbitant court fees and defense lawyers who couldn’t seem to get out of their own way enough to win a ‘not guilty’ verdict.
But the reality is, Papa killed a member of the Volkov Bratva, a vicious organization out of Brooklyn, and his own lawyers didn’t have death wishes.
The bank took our house and our cars, and we had to sell any possessions with value just to cover necessary living expenses.
Talk about seeing your future get swallowed up by a black hole.
And at twenty-four, I’d just barely began my career in bilingual childhood education before my job was yanked away from me halfway through the year. Seems as though New York State wasn’t a fan of hiring teachers whose parents are convicted murderers.
Some people can be so prickly.
Insert eye roll.
I was fortunate enough to have kept up a good relationship with the owner of the bar I’d worked at through my years at New York University, and even more fortunate that he re-hired me after being dishonorably discharged by the New York State Board of Education.
The pay is shit, but hey, it’s still pay, and I normally work about eighty hours a week just to make ends meet.
I tell myself that someday we’re not going to have to live paycheck to paycheck anymore.
Someday we’ll catch a break.
That is, if nobody breaks Frankie first.
I really don’t think my reputation can handle another mob crime blackmark.
Those will sink you faster than an anchor chained to your ankle.
I walk outside of the apartment building, hoisting my bag over my shoulder as I head toward the subway station. By the time I get down to the platform, a crowd of people has gathered. Tiny beads of sweat slide down my back as the minutes pass. It’s always so oppressively hot down here, even in the winter, and I say a silent prayer that the next train flashing its lights is the A train.
I check my phone for the time.
Ugh! Forget the heat. If it’s not the A train, I’m going to be late.
And my boss Jimmy is only so forgiving.
I let out a sigh of relief when I see the train screech to a stop at the platform. The doors slide open with a loud double ding and I practically leap into the car. I lean against the pole since I refuse to ever touch it. If I can’t get a seat, I find a place to rest my ass or my arm, preferably not on a fellow passenger, although it has happened in the past.
Regrettably.
That guy still gives me the creeps when I think about him.
As if I meant to rub myself against his crotch. For Pete’s sake, the train was crowded! And touching the pole — good God, the germs! Just thinking about it makes bile rise in the back of my throat.
Twenty minutes later, the train arrives at my stop. West 4th Street in Washington Square Park. The Grammercy Tap Room is only a few blocks away, and the weather is unseasonably warm for March, so the walk is actually refreshing.
I try not to focus on Frankie and whatever scheme he’s running because he is definitely up to something. I just hope that whoever the target is doesn’t know he’s involved, otherwise, who the hell knows how I’ll find him in the morning?
Or, if I’ll find him.
People that Frankie associates with—hell, mobsters, in general—are magician-types, and their best trick is making others disappear.
I just hope Frankie doesn’t do something stupid to prove himself to those thugs.
I know from experience what they’ll do in retaliation.
I let out a deep sigh as I walk past my old dorm. NYU doesn’t have a traditional campus, so the buildings are spread out in Greenwich Village. I remember long, raucous nights of bar crawls with friends, treks to Bleecker Street Pizza at two in the morning when pulling all-nighters, and parties with cute fraternity guys. I loved those times. I had no cares in the world other than getting good grades and having a freaking amazing time.
Graduation came much too fast.
And then Mama got sick.
I trudge the remaining block to the bar, the heaviness in my gut weighing me down like there is a pile of bricks sitting on my shoulders.
It’s hard to accept that she’s really gone.