Page 4 of Chicago Sin
“Si signore. Glad to be back.”
It’s not true. I’m not glad to be anything. Glad isn’t an emotion I’ve known for a very long time. But it’s what I’m supposed to say.
Don Pachino pulls a thick envelope from the inner pocket of his five-thousand-dollar suit and hands it to me. “This is to get you on your feet again.”
I tuck it in the pocket of the jacket Marco brought me when he picked me up. The one that feels so foreign on me, even though it was my favorite.
“Thank you, Don Pachino.”
He takes a puff of the cigar. “I got you a no-work construction job. Pays six grand a month. You’re taken care of, Mando.”
I bow my head, the gratitude I should show not surfacing. I have to fake it. “Thank you. I’m so grateful.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? You’re family, Mando.”
“I appreciate that. So much.” Jesus, I hope my tone doesn’t sound as flat to his ears as it does to mine.
I don’t mean to look, but somehow, I find myself staring across the room at Grace, rubbing her tits over Emilio’s chest.
“You were gone,” Don Pachino says with finality. He’s making it clear where he stands on the issue in case I’m gonna make waves.
I don’t answer because what the fuck am I going to say? Yeah, it’s cool he stole my fucking fiancé while I was doing time like a good soldier. Sorry if I don’t go kiss his cheeks and let him fuck me in the ass some more while he’s at it.
Don Pachino doesn’t take kindly to my silence. His casual air evaporates, and he looks me square in the eye. “There will be no retribution for it. Capisce?”
I only hesitate a moment before I nod. One thing I always respected about Don Pachino—he’s damn clear about his expectations. “Understood.”
“Do not test me on this.”
“I won’t.”
“We’re Family. All of us.” He gestures around the room with his cigar. I wait for him to finish his point, but all he mutters is, “And you were gone.”
Yeah.
Got the memo.
I was gone. My girl was fair game.
Now I know how things get played.
I definitely feel disrespected by both of them, but the truth is, no hearts were broken.
I may have thought I loved Grace when I left, but that shriveled and died long before I got the news about her new engagement. It died that first year in prison when she stopped writing and never came to see me.
“I want you to stay clean while you’re on parole. You ride that no-work job and build your life again. Don’t carry a piece or drive a car or violate the other terms of parole. I don’t want you getting sent back for something stupid.”
“I’m not going back,” I agree.
No fucking way.
Not because I’m so goddamn happy to be out. I still can’t dredge up a single lick of emotion.
But I’m damn sure I won’t go back.
I’d rather take a bullet to the head.
Chapter Three
