Page 13 of Wrong Place Perfect Time

My neck twists and I strain to see or hear whatever, or whoever it is I’m suddenly convinced must be watching me.

The whole street’s empty, but I feel eyes on me again. Except now I feel like I’m safe.

No landlord in my face and no mob gangsters,not until tomorrow, at least.

Making my way up to my apartment, I consider my onlyrealoptions.

Don’t go to work for Portello tomorrow and put myself in real danger.

Or…go work for Portello and put myself in real danger.

That’s not even factoring in the ‘where would I go if I ran vs. staying here in my apartment?’ scenario I’ve already thought about at least a dozen times.

If my landlord is Portello’s cousin, then he’d know where to find me. Hell, he just read my address on the pink slip anyway.

So, either way, I figure I’m screwed.

But apart from all that, the thought of my mystery man makes me want to go back.

It’s not as if he’s going to appear right here in my apartment.

Even if he did, what would I say?

I have no idea, but his memory is so fresh that I can think of a hundred things I’d like to do to him and then have him return the favor.

Oh, what I’d do to the man if I was locked in a room with him…just the two of us.

CHAPTERFOUR

Rocky

Don Portello’s eyes stare past me, fixed on a point in the past somewhere.

A place I can’t see myself because I wasn’t even born yet.

“Your Papa and me,” he reflects. “We used to get along. He used to be able to tell what I was thinking…when we were boys back in Calabria,” he murmurs before his attention shifts to the present.

His eyes narrow and regain that cold, gray stare I’ve grown used to.

For long enough, seeing it in my own Papa’s eyes has trained me that this life doesn’t make saints out of any of us.

My eyes must have some of the questions in my mind, making the old man smile to himself.

“But today,” he explains for my benefit, “I have no idea what your Papa is thinking. And it feels like he has the upper hand by sending his son to talk. I thought he would’ve come himself,” he says, letting the smile fall from his face.

I take a breath to push down my rising anger again. “He’s not a well man. And the shock of what you’ve done has…,” I say through gritted teeth.

But seeing how much Don Portello seems amused by what I feel and say makes me stop.

I won’t give him or any Portello the satisfaction of gloating after their cowardly attack on us.

“I’ve been sent here to ask why,” I continue. “But I think it serves more as a warning if I know my father,” I tell Portello, who lifts his brows in a question.

“A warning?” he asks. “A little late for that,” he scoffs.

“I think it’s time you Martinellis learned who'sreallythe boss and how to take orders. That’s the only thingyouneed to understand,” he snaps coldly.

Sensing I might do what I’m thinking, the whole room reaches into their coats again, this time showing what they have instead.

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