Page 93 of Working for the Mob

“Uh … Genevieve?”

“He was right?”

“Who was right?” I wasn’t expecting to play a game of twenty questions on my visit.

“My dad,” she said to the wall of cleaning supplies and a couple broken chairs. She sniffled and a vacuum opened in my insides. The last thing I wanted right now was for her to cry again. I could handle her angry, but not crying. I needed to choose my words carefully or I’d be drowned by the Niagara Falls.

“What was he right about?” I asked, slowly. I might startle her if I talked too fast.

“The drinks.”

That didn’t explain anything.

“I think you’re going to have to connect the dots for me.”

“We sold thirty percent more drinks this week than last week. Thirty percent!” her voice shook.

“That’s good. Right?” What did she have to be angry about?

“It's because we moved the display and lowered the price. And it drove up sales and our margins are even higher now,” she said between breaths.

“Why is this a bad thing?” I asked.

She rounded on me with ferocious red brimmed eyes and

“Do you know what my dad wants me to do?” she demanded. I shook my head. “He wants me to leave with him to go back to uptown.”

My heart froze over. No. I couldn’t lose Genevieve. But if she went back to the city, I wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore. I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting hurt. Or hurting her. I opened my mouth to let her know I’d support her, but she cut me off.

“He wants me to stay locked in an upscale cage. BecomeMrs. James Hutchins. Raise babies and throw tea parties for all the hoity-toity women in Manhattan.”

The thought of another man with his arms around Genevieve sent ice through my veins. I wanted to pick up the dropped clipboard just to slam it on the ground again. But I wasn’t about to beg for her to stay. A Necci never begs.

I swallowed the blizzard inside me and shrugged. “If that’s what you want,” I said, forcing the words out.

“You think that’s what I want?” she spat the words at me, but I still breathed a sigh of relief. She gestured at the walls wildly. “To leave all this? Everything we’ve worked for? EverythingI’veworked for?

“Don’t you think I deserve more? Don’t you think I’ve proved myself capable of doing whatever the hell I want?”

I huffed down her accusation. This wasn’t fair. I had never once implied she wasn’t anything less than competent.

“I––”

She cut me off again. “And if he’s right about these damn pop-soda margins, what’s to say he’s not right about me? That I’m no more capable than this cleaning supply?”

She slapped a dustpan from a shelf to clatter to the floor, which echoed in the tiny stockroom. Once it steadied, Genevieve’s heavy breaths thundered in my ears.

I was speechless. How could I find the words to tell Genevieve she exceeded my expectations every time she took on a new challenge? That our books had never been cleaner, the café had never been this profitable, that she kept my tiny empire running like a well-oiled machine?

She stared at me expectantly, mouth open––her eyes begged me to say anything. Give any validation she was right. Tell her she ran the books and managed the café seamlessly.

Instead, I stood there foolishly, wishing I could find the words to tell her to stay with me and help me run the town forever.

I finally opened my mouth, but a whooping from the dining room reached us in the back. Startled, Genevieve shot me one last look of disgust before hurrying to the front. I tailed after her.

We found Mr. Baker in front of the espresso machine, eyes glowing, and a fist in the air.

“I did it!” he exclaimed to us. He slammed his fist on the counter at our puzzled faces. “I fixed the espresso machine. Watch.”

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