Page 32 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
“Glad you’re working late, Triple B.” He greets me with a smug smirk and his favorite insult. “Can you pick up an envelope at the casino?”
I raise my chin. “Why do you persist in calling me that?”
His twisted grin makes me think he’s hiding an enormous secret. “Tell the security guard at the gate you’re with C&C.”
The paper in my hand crackles beneath my fingers. “Emily and I are having dinner in less than an hour.” A girls’ night out she insisted on after her meltdown two days ago. I’m hoping over a good meal she’ll hear me out about my end-of-summer plans.
“I canceled it.”
I frown in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“The reservation. Dining out isn’t a good idea right now.” He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand and hasn’t stopped moving once. Either he’s coming down from a high or just getting started.
No. Emily invited him to dinner?
“Does she know you canceled?” I demand.
“Not yet. But things are sketchy at the moment, so I’m … um … lying low.”
I clench the papers tighter. Lord, he owes a drug dealer money, doesn’t he?
He clears his throat. “So, about the envelope? You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
I sigh.
“You can walk there and back while I lock up.” He glances around nervously, and I follow suit. But the warehouse is quiet, everyone having left for the day. Now his odd behavior hasmeon edge.
He rubs a finger beneath his nose. The cocaine itch, people call it. Often accompanied by a cocaine-induced paranoia—or so the articles I’ve read have said. Ciro’s habit is growing worse, not better. How does Emily not see it?
“Anyway, it’s too hot to dine out.”
You’ll be dining out soon enough with Mema and PopPop. The first dinner you’ll treat them to will be at that Italian restaurant they love so much.
“Before I go.” I hold up the fax. “This was under your desk in a ball. It’s non-construction related, and partially written in Italian. Do I enter it under travel expenses?”
“Give me that.”
He lunges for the fax and snatches it from my hand. “Stupid Sicilians needed a freaking phone number for the reservation,” he mutters, glaring at the offensive room confirmation.
I frown. “Is Emilio Smith an investor?”
“Jesus Christ.” He looks around wildly. “Lower your voice.”
My heart sinks. Because his harsh expression says it all—this isn’t construction related.
He punches the “on” button on the cement mixer, and it rumbles to life. The cylinder rotates three times before he tosses the paper inside.
I stare in disbelief as the fax disappears into the cement.
“Forget you saw that,” he grinds out, in a barely audible tone. With the cement truck churning, I’m sure I misunderstood.
Was that a threat?
Suddenly, I see Ciro in a different light. A mindless ass with a coke habit, and dangerously unpredictable.
“Ask for Tommaso.”
I glance from the spinning cement barrel to Ciro and then to the rafters overhead. A few more weeks, and then I’ll be gone.
