Page 107 of Mob Knight

Joey might not know the extent of my anger, but she senses it. She places my hand over her heart before she puts hers over my heart.

“Which hospital are you at if you got stitches in your head? You probably have a concussion.”

“You know I didn’t go to one. Nothing I described is serious enough for that.”

“This isn’t home. You don’t need to fear dying and organ harvesting.”

“I hadn’t thought about that until you mentioned it. Besides, no one’d steal any part of me in Mexico to satisfy American medical tourism. No one who does that would touch me because I look too much like you. Speaking of which, why didn’t you tell Santi or me about Olivia?”

“To protect you.”

“From our cousin who’s my size but grew up in America.”

“With a father connected to theCosa Nostra, and a mother connected to the Culiacán.”

“Her father?”

“Yeah. She didn’t just marry into the Mafia. Apparently, she had ties she didn’t know about.”

“Like Santi and me. She had no clue we existed. We didn’t know about her. You let us believe our aunt was dead. You didn’t tell us when you found out she wasn’t.”

“Because it was safer for everyone.”

Jesus snaps at Joey, but her expression tells me she knows he’s right. As hurt as she is by the secret, she gets why her father kept it. It protected both women from exposure to other syndicates. But that protection ended when Olivia married Luca, and it’ll be nonexistent when Joey and I marry.

“The Mancinellis said you’re on good terms with them now. Is that true?”

“We do some business here and there.”

All of our homes have cell phone jammers. No one from the government is listening in—not in English, or in Spanish like now—but it still pays to be vague.

“Did something go wrong here?”

“No. They aren’t using you to get to me. What’s your boyfriend done to screw them lately? It’s more likely because of him. You’ve lived in New York for years with no problems. You take up with that blue-eyed foreigner and look what happens.”

Zarca gringo. Better than what Santiago called me.

“He has green eyes,papá. And he’s not the foreigner here.”

“Americans—”

“We’re in New York. The French didn’t steal this land from us and sell it to the Americans.”

“No, but they still stole it.”

El ruco.Old geezer.

No, not quite.

El chavoruco.

I’ve seen photos of him. A middle-aged man who dresses like he’s some suave twenty-something when he’s got gray hair and wrinkles.

Being a dick—even in my head—toward my future father-in-law won’t get me anywhere. I set aside my annoyance because I’ve got to play nice for Joey’s sake.

Joey’s phone is on the bedside table and buzzes. I reach over her and grab it. I show her the screen. She grits her teeth before mouthing, “work.” I hit ignore. She can call them back later.

“Don’t pretend not to get the point, little monkey. You were fine here before him. You might have done your studies at Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, but you did your grad school and clinical hours at CUNY-Hunter. You’ve been in America for years. A few days with the gringo, and you’re almost dead. Don’t think I don’t know about the mercenary who almost ran you over. I let that slide because it was just to scare you. This I won’t ignore. O’Rourke, you had your chance and failed. Stay away from my daughter or else.”

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