Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“Not Carina,” I say.
“Not Carina,” he says, like a broken record. “Why not Carina? She’s beautiful, talented and traditional. Young. Unattached. Lucy is delightful. She is a credit to you and to your son, God rest his soul. But she’s too involved with the business, too tough. My boy needs someone who will cook and make babies and leave business in the hands of her husband.”
I hold my rage by a thread. Hearing him talk about Carina making babies with anyone makes me want to deliver his body in parts back to his family in Chicago.
I never suggested Lucy either. She’d destroy Sully within a week.
“Why dismiss the idea so quickly? What if she wants to—”
“She doesn’t.” I bring the flat of my hand down on the desk, knocking over the photo of Carina and Lucy at last year’s performance. “Carina is off limits, now and forever. Did you have anything else to discuss, old friend? Because if not, there’s the door.”
I point, ready to convince him of my position with a 45 shell between his eyes if necessary.
Don Pugliesi does the mouth shrug again. “You will think about it. I’m sure you will come around. Carina—” he says as he picks up his Fedora.
And that’s fucking enough.
In an instant, I’m on my feet, snapping my knife from its sheath at my hip. I hold the forged steel to his throat, his eyes wide as his hands go up, a whimper choking from his throat.
“J—Jesus Christ, Gennero! What the fuck… This is Christmas, for Christ’s sake! There’re no weapons at Christmas, you fucking know that. You’re the one that…”
He’s right. It’s the Christmas truce, hospitality and guarantees of safety. But he crossed the line and I don’t give a shit about any fucking truce when it comes to Carina.
Blood trickles along the edge of the blade.
“Jesus…” he says again, and I growl.
“You keep my granddaughter’s name out of your fucking mouth. She’s not marrying your fucking son or any other motherfucker you might have in mind. Clear?”
He nods, and I jerk the knife away, pushing him against the wall.
As I drop back into my seat, he shuffles out the door. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a trail of piss behind him.
I close my eyes and let out a sigh as I stare at the flickering monitors, absently stabbing the knife into the wood of my desk and twisting.
Carina. Is. Mine.
He didn’t close the door…
That thought comes a second too late. “What…” It’s Carina. “What’s going on?”
I growl. This is not how I wanted her to find out.
Carina stands in the open doorway in a gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans, her hair tumbling in auburn waves around her shoulders. Her face is fresh, eyes wide, her mouth falling open as her hands fly to her lips.
I knew it had to happen. I could only juggle the lies for so long.
She’s frozen as she scans the room. The photographs, the whirring computers, the bank of monitors, the sword, names of mobsters dead and alive on a whiteboard; the list of aliases; the weapons; the files containing material for extortion.
“Carina, it’s not—”
She chokes out an incredulous laugh. “It’s not what I think? Are you going to tell me you’re not involved with the fucking mob anymore? I hate that life. I hate it. I don’t want to be part of any,” She waves her hands around, “of this. I won’t. How could you?”
I think about lying to her. But when I look in her eyes, I know I can’t.
Even if it hurts her, even if she hates me. I can’t lie to her by omission or word.
I shake my head. “This is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. But your impression of this life is tainted by what happened to you. The world runs as it runs. What you think of as legitimate and legal…those businesses are just as filthy, maybe worse.”
“Oh, I fucking see.” She glares, her jaw set.
I step forward, reaching for the one thing in the world I really want, to tell her it’s all okay, but she sweeps an arm in front of her, stepping back.
“Nope. You don’t get to touch me. I know what the life is, Papa. I know that it killed my mom. My stepfather. Your son. It killed them. It ruined my life. And yours, or so I thought. How can you even…”
“Carina, please, just fucking listen for a—”
“No. No, Papa.”
She turns, bolting through the door, and I head out after her. As soon as I’m outside the door, she grabs my coat from the peg on the wall, pushing out the door at the end of the hall, running across the snowy pasture, making her way to the reindeer pens.
I start to go after her, but a strong hand grips my arm.