Page 37 of Unforgivable Ties

“Who was that?” she asked, throwing her backpack at the foot of the sofa.

“My mom.”

Stephanie looked surprised, as if someone like me could even have a mom. I certainly didn’t deserve one with all the horrible things I had done.

“Oh,” she responded.

“We’re going to see her soon. She thinks you’re my girlfriend.” I walked up to Stephanie, running my index finger along her collarbone. “So get used to playing the part.”

“What the fuck, Vincenzo! Why do you just volunteer me for these things without asking?” she said, bristling like a little angry kitten.

“Because you’re the only one for the job,” I shrugged. “You signed yourself up for it the day you saved my life in that warehouse.”

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Stephanie huffed, crossing her arms and turning her head to the side. Even in her angry pout, I found her hot as hell.

“I know, Doc,” I said, ruffling her hair.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to play the part of her boyfriend. Any excuse I had to touch her, to be close to her, I was taking. She made my heart behave in strange ways I wasn’t used to, and I think I liked it.

Stephanie

It was one am, and I was done for the night. I was getting off pretty early, compared to how my weekend shifts normally went. But Cesare had texted me and said to go home.

Vincenzo was taking me home. I had barely adjusted to this late night lifestyle, but he thrived on it. His work in the mafia had conditioned him to these nocturnal hours, where the city, draped in darkness and mist, came alive in its own illicit way.

His phone pinged, and he pulled it out of his pocket. After unlocking it, he scanned the incoming text message.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I complained, gesturing my hands forward.

“We’re at a red light,” he deadpanned, reading the text message with an unreadable expression.

I sighed as I watched the light and made sure it didn’t turn green. As the neon glow of traffic lights reflected on his furrowed brow, I noticed a sudden tension in his rigid posture. His grip tightened around the sleek black device, knuckles bleached white as he stared at the screen. The light turned green, but we did not move.

“Fuck,” he muttered, looking at the phone screen.

“What is it?” I asked.

“We need to make a detour.”

“Drop me off on the corner if this is mafia business,” I said. “I told you, I’m not entangling myself further in this.”

“I’m not dropping you off on the corner at one in the morning,” he shot back, throwing the car into gear. “Don’t worry, it’s not even that bad.”

The tires screeched as he took off down the street. I gripped the sides of my seat, trying to steady myself against his reckless driving. City lights blurred past us as Vincenzo raced through the streets in a deadly ballet of swerving and high-speed turns.

“Your driving sure is,” I muttered under my breath.

I didn’t bother arguing with him. He wouldn’t drop me off at a subway station in the middle of the night, even though I was perfectly capable of getting myself home. I had gotten myself home in the dark for years at that shitty apartment complex I used to call my home.

We pulled up in front of a lounge that was drenched in a scarlet glow cast by the neon sign reading “The Underground Vault.” I could only see a sliver of the inside, but I could tell it was nice—black marble lined the floor, and I could see how nice the furniture was, even in the dim lighting.

“The emergency was going to a club?” I asked incredulously, glancing over at Vincenzo.

“We own the club.”

Of course they did. I wondered how many establishments the mafia owned in NYC, how many places were legit businesses by day and hubs of illegitimate activity at night. Was the entire city just a cesspool of crime, glitz and glamor on top, a seedy underworld beneath?

“Let’s go,” he said, opening the car door.

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