Page 117 of Heartfelt Pain
CHAPTER 27
Roma
Uncle Dima: Answer your phone or the Barracuda is going in the harbor.
When his name flashes up, I answer.
“What the fuck did you do?” Dima’s rough voice asks.
I press the phone closer to my ear. I’m sitting on the couch, the TV playing. It’s a quiet evening; relaxing by anyone’s standards.
Dima’s huffy, bothered attitude tries to undo it.
“Is this about the car shop?” Is that why Dad’s called three times? I let him go to voicemail each time.
“The car what?” Dima asks. “What’s wrong with your garage?”
“No, I’m. . . what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Dima blasts. Usually, this level of sarcasm is left to Elijah. “Ren Callahan is closing up shop.”
My feet hit the floor, though, I don’t stand yet. “She’s what?”
“What thefuck is this, Roman?”
“You called me,” I point out. “What do you mean closing up shop?”
“She’s put the word out,” Dima explains, “and now people are saying she’s selling the business.”
“Okay.” News to me.
“Okay?” Dima’s frustration is palpable. “Okay, kid. You start fucking Ren again and now she’s fucking quitting the business!”
“I mean isn’t that what you wanted last time?” I mutter down the line.
“This isn’t like last time!” Dima yells. He’s gotta be with Dad, but there’s a car horn so they’re not at the house. They’re possibly still in the city. “It’s a delicate thing, Aunt Macy’s gig. Not just anyone can come in and do it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Dad might have issues with Ren and vice versa, but there’s a need for her job. There aren’t many people who can sit down and negotiate a deal between two criminal organizations. Ren does it in a fair and neutral way. It cuts out a lot of fighting between parties, to say the least. Less blood spilled that way.
“So, so,”—I can tell he’s upset by his stumbling words—“what is this? Huh? Why is your girl calling it quits?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
“Did you put her up to this, Roma?”
“Did I put her up to this?” The irony is staggering. Five years ago, this is exactly what my dad wanted. Now there’s a panic-fueled worry. “No, I didn’t do this. I don’t have anything to do with her business.”
“No pillow talk?” he questions.
I grit my teeth. Safe to say, everyone knows I’ve picked back up with Ren. I wonder how many times it came up in conversation today.
“No,” I tell him. “No pillow talk. If you have questions, call her during business hours.”
I end the call, letting the phone drop to the coffee table.
Ren’s got a spoon in her mouth, eating ice cream. Her eyes never leave the reality TV show playing, but they’re wide as she listens in. Blue-painted toenails wiggle as she props her feet up on the coffee table.
