Page 101 of Working for the Mob

Chapter 30 – Art

Why was I doing this? Someone like Genevieve can’t be close to me. It isn’t safe. I’m a target. A liability. Just being close to me puts Genevieve at risk.

I’m being selfish. I want Genevieve next to me. I need her around me. I live for her frustrated wrinkle every time I say something she disagrees with. I want to be the one to make her feel likes she's the most important thing in the world.

I kept telling myself “it’s worth it.” It’s all worth it. Because I knew this moment in the speakeasy – with my arms around her, held tight to my chest – it was one of those leaves floating down the river.

I love her. I love her whether it's what’s good for her or not. And I deserve to have these moments just as much as anyone else. Or so I thought.

???

Genevieve and I returned to our booth after the slow dance.

“Should I get us another round?” I asked her, back at the table.

A mischievous smile played across Genevieve's face. “Same thing, please.”

I returned five minutes later with a whiskey neat and a whatever-the-hell girlie drink Genevieve drank.

“When do you think Mr. Harry will get here?” Genevieve asked.

“I expected for him to be here by now,” I said. The whiskey lost its bite and every sip came easier now.

“I wonder what hung him up?”

“Maybe he lost himself in a lucky lady’s arms, and lost all sense of place and time?” I asked.

Something changed. Everything felt different, and it wasn’t just the liquor. The apprehension and stress dissipated. The “what happens next?” question looming over us had popped. For the first time in our relationship, we knew where we stood.

Genevieve would stay and run the café. She knew that I wanted her to. That made a world of difference to the both of us. Maybe we could do this.

“Good for him,” she said.

I leaned in and open-mouth-kissed her. Her tongue darted in and I welcomed it like my next breath. The casualness behind the kiss stood out to me. There wasn’t a “will-we-won’t-we?” to it anymore. Genevieve belonged to me.

I leaned back, put my feet up in the seat across from me and my arm around Genevieve. She rested her head on my shoulder and we listened to the band strike up a ragtime piece. We stayed like that for a couple more songs, until the barman with a combover strode up to our table.

“Art Necci?” the bartender asked, although he already knew.

“Yes,” I said.

“Call came in. Your meeting’s been canceled,” he grunted. And added hastily, “Sir.”

“Thanks,” I said, struggling with the information. Canceled? Did this mean the deal was off? This could be a huge blow to my income. Money I already had plans for. “Did he mention rescheduling?”

But the barkeep had already left our table with his back turned to us. Either he didn’t hear me or was ignoring me.

Shit.

“What do we do now?” Genevieve asked.

Her empty glass cap matched my whiskey cup. The band was on a break between sets, with most people returning to their booths. We could wait for the band to start again. If Genevieve wanted to dance more, we could. I wouldn’t mind sitting here with my arm around her for the rest of time.

“Do you want to wait for the next set?” I asked.

Genevieve studied her glass, with a line creased across her forehead. “We could,” she said, and seemed as enthusiastic about it as though I told her that the napkins needed to be restocked.

“Would you like to do something else?”

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