Page 84 of Offside Bride

Mr. Fiorentino’s eyes narrow, scanning the crates with the precision of a barcode reader. The warehouse feels like it’s closing in, the air thick with tension and the smell of rusted metal. I can practically taste the danger.

Gustavo, apparently deciding the floor could use some Italian seasoning, spits and growls, “Those Irish bastards double-crossed us!”

Everyone flinches. Well, everyone except Mr. Fiorentino. He doesn't even blink.

Uncle Whitey steps forward, his face red with indignation. “Now wait just a minute?—”

But Mr. Fiorentino silences him with a single look. He bends down, examining one of the crates closely. His perfectly manicured finger traces a symbol etched into the wood.

“These are Russian Bratva trademarks,” he says, voice smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. “It’s not a mistake.”

The enforcers on both sides stand at the ready, hovering their hands near their pockets. I’m starting to feel like the referee in a particularly rowdy hockey game, except instead of sticks, everyone’s packing heat.

I just hope the Italians kept their end of the deal when we agreed to no firearms.

Mr. Fiorentino straightens up slowly, like a cobra uncoiling. In two smooth strides, he’s right in my face. I can smell his expensive cologne and see my terrified reflection in his eyes.

“I consider myself a patient man, Mr. O’Malley,” he says, each word precise and measured. “But I don’t like to play games.”

I resist the urge to back away.

“The only game I play is hockey,” I manage to say.

His lip twitches. Is that amusement or annoyance?

“Do you know what is supposed to be in these crates, Mr. O’Malley?”

I shake my head. “Honestly? I have no clue.”

Uncle Whitey steps forward, his face ten shades of red. “Now, hold on just a minute,” he says, “Brian made this deal without consultin’ me. And there’s no way he could’ve double-crossed ya bozos because he was in the clink when the shipment came in. We only just found out about this warehouse ourselves!”

Gustavo, looking like he’s about to pop a blood vessel, spits on the floor. “He’s lying!”

Uncle Whitey puffs up like an angry rooster. “Listen here, ya meatball-for-brains! Sawyer’s got nothin’ to do with Brian’s operations. They’re not even on speakin’ terms!”

Mr. Fiorentino looks me up and down like I’m a disappointing draft pick. “You really are that clueless. Aren’t you?”

I’m about to defend my honor when Maggie, apparently forgetting we’re in the middle of a mob meeting, snorts loudly. “Believe me, he is soooo clueless. I should know. I’m his wife.”

Great. Thanks for the support, wifey.

Mr. Fiorentino’s gaze slices to Maggie then back to me. His jaw clenches, and I can almost hear the gears in his head turning.

The Italian enforcers shift nervously, while Uncle Whitey’s guys look ready to break into an impromptu Riverdance of violence. Everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for his next move.

Finally, Mr. Fiorentino orders his goons to close the crates back up, then turns to me and Uncle Whitey, staring us down.

Trying to read his expression is like trying to decipher a stone statue—impossible and slightly unnerving. The guy’s got a poker face that would make Vegas weep.

“I want this fixed,” he says, his voice as cold as center ice but with an underlying bite that could strip paint.

And just like that, he’s gliding away like some sort of mafia magician. His strong but silent tattooed friend follows without a word, probably communicating in secret mob eyebrow wags or something.

As they disappear into the shadows (because of course they do—these guys probably practice their dramatic exits), Uncle Whitey lets out a whistle that sounds like a deflating balloon.

“Well, that coulda gone worse,” he says, adjusting his flat cap.

I turn to him, eyebrows raised so high they’re practically touching my hairline. “How exactly could that have gone worse? We’ve got crates full of Russian nesting dolls instead of…whatever the hell was supposed to be in there, and now Mr. Smooth Criminal wants us to ‘fix it’.”

---