Page 63 of Skin Deep

“Anyone have a pen?” Owen’s eyes were still on his screen.

“Here,” Declan said, acting like he was pulling one out of his shirt pocket—which he didn’t have.

“Forget you,” Owen said. He looked around and called the first waitress he saw over to our table. She came back a minute later with a pen. He turned the letter over and wrote something on the back of it. He looked at me. “It didn’t seem right to show it to you on a phone. Something about the old man’s craft deserves more respect than that. It deserves ink and paper.”

My eyes scanned the words. Over and over.

“If she comes to me soon, I will be an angel who cries in heaven when she arrives. My beautiful granddaughter. Make her smile so I will. Take care of her for me.”

“He wrote that for you?”

My eyes lifted to find Owen’s when he interrupted my thoughts. “Yeah,” I said, taking a long pull of my beer. I understood the second part, but what did the first part mean?If she comes to me soon, I will be an angel who cries in heaven when she arrives.

Comes to me soon? When she arrives?

I had no idea what was going on, but a feeling of dread sat in the pit of my stomach like tar. Why would he tell me that? Was she sick?

Kelly’s eyes gave me a quick glance and then landed back on the stage.

“What?” I said to him. “What do you know?”

He shrugged. “You seem to have a habit of picking the wrong women.” He took a drink of whiskey. “They all belong to Macchiavello in some way.”

I didn’t respond to his comment. If I did, getting fired was the least of my worries. I stood, walking away from the table. When I got to a quiet section, close to the bathrooms, I pulled out my cellphone. I dialed her number three times. Then once more. No answer. I had no idea how to get in touch with her, except for going back to the place in Modica.

I'd been denying myself this since the last time. But the letter Pasquale Ranieri left for me kept repeating in my mind.

What if something was wrong?

And what about what he’d asked me.

Seven days to live.

Or was that for him? Looking back, he had looked sick, though his mind had been as sharp as a tack.

Damn. I really liked that old man. He made me think of Jackie Mays. The connection I shared with him. They were both strong figures in my life. And I'd only met Pasquale once.

I tried the number again.

“Fuck me,” I said, turning to face the wall, my balled-up fist against it when it only kept ringing.

“Hey?”

My eyes glanced to the left.

A brunette with glittery eyes and lips was staring at me. She was dressed like the rest of the waitresses. I didn't say anything, but she continued.

“Is that your friend on stage?”

“What did he do?”

She laughed. “Nothing. My friend and I—the one who's working your table—we were wondering if ya'll would want to have drinks after our shift is over?”

“Talk to my brother,” I said, moving around her. “He might be up for it.”

“But my friendreallylikes you and Ireallylike your brother—”

She went to grab my shirt as I started to walk, and at the same time, a bulky guy came around the corner, shoulder checking me.

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