Page 19 of Bellini Born
“And this Matteo guy, whom I tore a new asshole, is the head honcho in charge? The one who can issue a death warrant with the flick of his wrist?”
Her face twisted into a grimace. “Pretty much.”
“Oh my God,” I groaned, both hands flying up to my mouth as the truth sank in. “On a scale of one to ten, how fucked am I?”
Gabi tilted her head from side to side. “Normally, I’d say a ten, but—” Her words were cut off by my muffled scream. “Butyou are in a unique situation.”
“Unique, how?”
“Well . . . for starters, you single-handedly saved his daughter’s life. And if there’s one thing that twenty-two years in this familyhas taught me, it’s that he now owes you a debt, which we takeveryseriously.”
Suddenly, I was hit with a flashback to that day. The suit-wearing hottie I now knew was a stone-cold killer mentioned something about a debt.
Then the crowd said . . .
“Debts must always be paid,” I whispered.
“Bingo. It’s kinda the family motto. In reality, it’s an unbreakable rule. You incur a debt, you have to repay it.”
Standing, I shook my head. “The only thing I want is for him to forget the whole thing ever happened and to drop off the mafia’s radar. Can that be my repayment?”
Gabi scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, that’s not how this works. It’s not like you saw him drop his wallet and chased him down to return it. This is serious.” She widened her eyes. “Life and death kinda serious.”
My voice grew weak. “I was just doing my job.”
“I know.” She gave me a sad smile. “And I’m really sorry I got you tangled up in this.”
I scoffed. “You and me both.”
“But I need you to promise me one thing.”
Tilting my face toward the ceiling, I breathed out, “Oh God, what now?”
“You can’t tell anyone about this.”
There was no containing my snort. “Who am I gonna tell? Jimmy, down at the diner, who abuses our offer of unlimited coffee refills so he can sit in a booth during my entire shift and squeeze my ass?”
“Right,” she agreed. “I just had to put it out there, is all.”
“I’m not looking for any trouble,” I promised.
Though, apparently, it was too little, too late for that.
When a piece of mail arrived from the bank that issued my student loans, my stomach bottomed out. The grace period ended two months ago, and I’d missed both payments since.
What did they expect me to do? Pay the loan instead of rent? Would they rather I be homeless and hungry? Because that’s what I would be if I prioritized chipping away at that six-figure debt with the meager funds earned by working at the diner.
It’s not like I wasn’t trying to get a better job. A degree in communications offered a wide variety of career paths to choose from. I’d submitted applications to a PR firm, a publishing house, and several other local businesses that were seeking either social media managers or entry-level human resources employees.
I wasn’t picky. Hell, I was so desperate that I would have happily taken the first job offered. Anything was better than what I was doing now.
But not a single place where I applied even called to set up an interview. They all sent a generic rejection email saying I wasn’t qualified. According to them, my degree wasn’t enough. They wanted someone with experience.
How the fuck was anyone supposed to gain experience if no one was willing to give them a job without it? Seemed like a catch-22.
Nauseous, I opened the envelope, expecting some pretentiously worded reprimand for being past due, accompanied by a threat of what would happen if I didn’t submit payment immediately.
Instead, four words printed in bold text stood out on the page.
