Page 3 of The Mobster's Angel

I keep finding excuses to talk to her.

I can't stay away.

When she smiles at me, it's like I'm dying of thirst and she's water. I'm addicted to that smile.

I'm addicted to her.

Last month, she took the Rossi children to the park. Her old, beat-up bike got a flat.

Of course I just happened to be in the park, too. And of course I insisted on wheeling her bike home, walking beside her while the kids went on ahead.

She protested, but I fixed the tire for her. And then I went and bought her a new bike.

Maybe it was overkill. But I couldn't handle the thought of her riding a bike that wasn't totally safe. I couldn't allow my angel to have anything but the best.

Sometimes when she finishes swimming, she lies by the pool. And as the sun slowly dries the water from those delectable curves, she reads. Mysteries mostly. Some historical fiction, too.

Reading those sorts of books isn't really my thing. But I read them anyway. Because I need to memorize and understand every little thing about her.

Last week, I selected a book I knew she would like and gave it to her. But not as a gift.

No, I'm more selfish than that. I want her to have a reason to see me again when she returns it.

The phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. I tear my eyes away from Olivia, who is busy pulling weeds in a flowerbed in the Rossi family’s backyard. She’s wearing denim shorts and a little pink crop top, but business calls.

I answer the phone without first checking to see who is calling. I have a feeling I already know who it is.

“Jack.” My father’s voice greets me, raspy from too many years of smoking and weak from the fact that he’s not long for this world.

“How are you doing, Dad?”

I kick my feet up onto the desk and cross my legs. Dad never calls for a friendly chat. He has a job for me.

There’s a long pause while he exhales a deep breath—probably smoke filled. “They’re gone.”

I already know who he's talking about. “What do you mean, they’re gone? Their staff is still working.”

“The intelligence is solid. They’re running.”

I pull the phone away from my ear while I collect my thoughts.

The Rossi family owes my family millions.

They’re on a payment plan.

Looks like their luck has run out.

I return the phone to my ear, and Dad is still silent. “Leave it with me,” I tell him. “I’ll sort it.”

A second later the line goes dead.

My father is not a man of many words. I guess neither am I.

I’m a man of action, and action will be taken.

They have businesses all over the nearest city. Some turn a decent profit. Others are just places to clean their dirty money. Clubs. Pawnshops. Laundromats. Those types of things. None of their businesses will have a fortune in the cash registers, but I don’t even want their money. I want to ensure that they have nothing to come back to.

Ever.

---