Page 6 of His Passerotta

I chuck the apron to the floorboard before slamming my back against my seat, a low groan pushing through my clenched teeth.

Okay, I can fix this. I just need a jump. Or even a phone to call my brother. I could probably talk the clerk into letting me use the store phone, or…

I lean toward my window and look over at the gas pumps. Anthony is standing outside the silver Porsche I cut off earlier, his hand eagerly on the pump handle as he stares at the numbers racing on the screen.

I wonder if he remembers me.

If maybe, maybe he’d be willing to help me out… Again.

What better option do I have?

I throw open my door and rush over to the pumps, making it to him just as he jerks the nozzle from his tank.

“Hey,” I say, pulling his attention to me. “Could you by chance give me a jump? My car won’t start.”

He doesn’t spend even a millisecond thinking about it.

“I’m late for something.” He puts the handle in its spot and yanks open his door while I glance around the parking lot, searching for a better option.

What time does the wedding start again?

How much time exactly do I have?

I don’t know, but I’m going to be safe and say not enough.

When Anthony goes to shut his door, I grab it and earn a confused scowl.

“Sorry.” I let go of the door and take a step back. “I know this sucks of me to ask because you obviously have somewhere to be, but, the thing is, I’m a makeup artist and am supposed to be at a wedding right now at St. Francis. It’s really, really important to the bride that I get there in time for her wedding because… Because you know, most important day of her life and all that.” I let out a nervous chuckle while Anthony just stares at me.

Okay, let’s try another tactic.

“I—I could pay you.” I glance at my car, remembering the money scattered in the passenger seat. “I have like two-hundred bucks I could give you for ten minutes of your time.”

Two hundred bucks… To the millionaire driving a Porsche… That’s even worse than the pity strategy.

“St. Francis…” Anthony ponders. “That’s the Catholic church downtown?”

I bob my head feverishly. “Yeah.”

His jaw shifts side to side while he thinks. It’s several seconds before he throws his hands up in what looks like defeat. “Fuck it, why not? Get in.”

“Get in?” I glance at the passenger seat, suddenly remembering who I’m talking to.

I want a jump from the mobster. Not a lift.

“It’s on my way,” he says. “If you want a ride, get in. Either way, I have to go.”

He shuts his door before I have a second longer to consider the offer, starting his car up a moment later. It pulls up several feet before I sprint for the passenger door.

“Wait!” I yell, earning myself a tap of his brakes.

I hop into the car and barely have the door closed when he floors it.

“Thank you,” I huff. How I’m out of breath from a ten-foot sprint, I don’t know… Maybe it isn’t the run that has my heart racing.

“Don’t mention it.” His eyes pin to the road with an intensity that makes me wonder if he’s really focused on driving or if he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even flinch when his phone goes off.

“Uh, someone’s calling.” I point to the dash where the name Settimo flashes along with a phone icon. Settimo, as in Settimo Gruco. Definitely a mob guy. Maybe even the leader.

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