Page 92 of Working for the Mob

“Not in the slightest,” I said.

He deflated, like all the fight had dissipated from him. His angry demeanor vanished and was replaced with watery eyes.

“If you start crying in my office, Pa’s going to call you a ‘bitch’ from his grave,” I said, and he humorlessly let out a snort of laughter.

“I went to see him and Cissy,” he said, referring to Jamie. “Just to check on them. I picked them up some food in Turnersville. I just … fuck. I can’t believe he was the one to get hurt. I always assumed it’d be …”

He stopped mid-sentence and looked up at me. He didn’t need to finish. I knew he meant ‘me.’ He always assumed I’d be the one to get hurt. That’s brotherly love for you.

“You got anything else to say?”

“What?” he asked, surprised.

“You said you wanted to share some news,” I said.

“Oh, right. The drifter––he’s definitely working for the Valuncias now. It’s something to keep an eye on,” he said.

Whatever the hell the Valuncias wanted with him, it couldn’t be good for us. Did they know his connection with Genevieve? I needed to find that goon and put the screws on him.

“Thanks for the update,” I said, and Lance nodded and left without another word.

???

I finished early and dropped by the café to find Mr. Baker working on the espresso machine.

“Good afternoon,” he said, like a school teacher starting class.

I nodded in acknowledgement. “Is Genevieve here?”

“In the back,” he said.

He turned back to the espresso machine and I entered the backroom to find Lucy stirring a saucepan over the stove.

“Hello Lucy,” I said.

“Be careful,” Lucy said, and nodded towards the stock room. “She’s in a mood.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Are you baking scones tonight?”

Lucy looked just like when I told her to pick out a new wardrobe. “No, I’m making creampuffs! I think they’ll be a good addition to the café.”

“Lucy,youare the best addition the café has ever had,” I said and kept walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Lucy blushing.

In the stockroom, Genevieve soundlessly moved her lips while ticking off crates of soda bottles with a pen and a clipboard. A loose strand of hair fell across the wrinkle etched on her forehead. She huffed each time she jabbed each crate as though they intended her personal harm. I felt glad I wasn’t the one her anger was directed at for once.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

She shushed me without taking her eyes off the crates. I wanted to brush the brunette strand out of her eyes, throw her on top of a soda crate, and revisit the last time we were here. Alone together.

Her father needed to add “World Class Cock Block” to his resume.

She continued to count for a full minute, before cussing loudly and throwing her clipboard to the floor.

“If that breaks, I’m taking it out of your salary.”

“Dammit!”

I was prepared for her patented anger blazing at me like the sun on a summer’s day, but she covered her eyes instead. I preferred for her to be angry.

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