Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)
Wicked Fame: Chapter 8

Books and movies may have romanticized the shit out of addicts and broken women, but I’ve seen enough druggies, prostitutes, and headcases in my time as a mobster to know that there’s no happy ending with someone like that. A craving like that only grows more destructive with time.

Someone who is in love with an illusion will throw away everything real because nothing has the power to surpass that euphoric, make-believe world of theirs. Sooner or later, sentiments like love, lust, and human connection will lose their allure.

My own mother was such a woman. Men were simply a tool for her to obtain the money needed to feed her true passion—meth.

Francesca is unsalvageable. I come to that conclusion every single time she stares at me with those haunted blue eyes. There’s nothing in them except fear and a commitment to avoid the truth by any means possible. She may be relatively new to drugs, but it’ll only get worse for her. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.

I may be a mobster, but I’ve always had a vision for my life: marry a nice girl from a well-connected crime family who will not complicate my life. If she’s willing, I’ll have kids with her. Otherwise, we’ll respect each other’s space and grow old together. Marriage is not optional for someone who wants to ascend in the organization. So I’ve always been prepared for the eventuality.

At least that was what I told myself before I threw my common sense out of the window and fingered Francesca. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Staring at my sorry reflection in the bathroom mirror only makes anger bubble in my arteries. It was a moment of weakness. When she was drinking, I felt her misery like it was mine, felt her pain throbbing in my chest. I simply wanted to take that agony away from her by any means possible.

But then she wanted more. When she came off her orgasm, she had the eyes of an addict who has found a new high. And I realized it wouldn’t end with her sucking me off. Because I wanted more, too.

Only an idiot tries to play hero for a woman like her.

I cannot forgive myself for letting Francesca drag me back to my past which I fought so hard to escape. I will not support another woman like that ever again.

Never enable a woman like that again.

Never sacrifice myself for a woman like that again.

A normal family, a peaceful family, even if it comes without love or happiness, is all I want now.

So why was I moved by the wounded vulnerability in her voice after she had a meltdown? What is it to me if she wants to self-destruct?

I need to splash cold, cold water on my face to get myself out of this funk but I dare not approach the toilets because that’s where I left my siren of death.

The more time I spend around her, the more I soften toward her in unguarded, unexpected moments.

I’m supposed to marry the woman Angelo has chosen for me. Nico called me yesterday to tell me that she’d be at this charity event. That’s the reason I’m here.

“Wear your fanciest suit,” he said on the phone. “You need to make a great first impression. Papa is very keen on you two working out.”

So am I. As much as I love my own company and banging random chicks when it gets too lonely, I would much rather have a wife who, even if she doesn’t love me, can be a reliable presence in my life.

Straightening my tie and wiping away Francesca’s wetness from my fingers, I march to where Nico messaged me he’ll be.

I blink when I crash into the strong body of another man on the way. He’s almost as tall as me. The moment I register his face, a spark of irritation corkscrews into my spine. I rub my jaw, hoping to cut away from him, but he blocks my way.

“Why were you talking to my sister?” he demands in an ominous tone.

“Shouldn’t you ask my name first?”

The veins in his throat stick out as he tightens his jaw. “I know who you are, Russo.”

And I know who he is—Francesca’s older brother and the CEO of Astor Hotels. Ethan Astor Jr.

“She was asking me where the restrooms were,” I lie.

He rolls his eyes. Not buying it, I see.

“I showed her the way,” I add to my previous statement. I don’t give a fuck whether or not he believes me. I need to find Maria Bianchi and get my marriage plans started. No better way to cut away whatever sick thread of lust has me wrapped around the heiress’s little finger.

“Took you a long time.” Ethan is still carrying out his interrogation. “You better not have hurt my sister.”

I did worse. 

“Why don’t you ask her about what happened?” I run a hand through my hair, laying waste to the hours I spent styling my hair to look less wild. “I’m busy.”

Without waiting for his response, I sidestep him and charge forward without looking back until I’m in the vicinity of a thin, pale woman wearing a red floor-length dress. Nico and Angelo bracket her like twin bodyguards.

“You’re late,” Nico snaps.

“This is Maria,” Angelo cuts in, right on cue as the woman raises her hand. I shake her hand. Weird. That was so businesslike. Guess neither of us has any illusions about what’s going on.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Russo.” Her voice is smooth and cultured. Heavy with fear.

“Call me Gabriele,” I tell her.

Her lips work, but it doesn’t resemble a smile. She’s trying too hard.

I saw her photos before. Maria looks a lot more worn down in real life. Like she emerged from a tornado. Emotionally, that might be the case.

“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Angelo clears his throat, his cue for Nico to make himself scarce. “Some of my old friends are here.”

The two men depart, leaving silence to descend between Maria and me. She gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. We stand side by side in solidarity, rooting around for a subject of conversation. I’m no socialite, but I don’t remember it being this awkward between Francesca and me, not even when she was my hostage. She had no problems voicing her opinions on my shoddy mobster ethics.

Can’t you at least point it at my head like a proper criminal?

I reign in the fluttery feeling in my throat.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask Maria, finally breaking the metaphorical wall of ice.

“I don’t drink anymore,” she replies. Quickly, lines gather around her mouth as she jerks back from me in panic. “I mean, if you wanted me to, I could, but my head is clearer when I don’t.”

“That’s okay.” I prefer women who value their health, anyway.

I inhale, suddenly jubilant. This is going great. Maria seems mature and sensible, a woman who treats her body with respect. The exact opposite of a certain young, reckless heiress who has no consideration for her own well-being.

“I can’t have more children. I want you to know that,” she blurts out. “I already have a son. My relationship with my ex is complicated. You’ll have to protect me all my life. There’s not much I can offer you in return except my father’s money and connections.”

“Angelo told me all that already.”

She whips her head upward suddenly. “So I’m wondering what you want from me, Gabriele, if we proceed with this marriage.”

“Not much,” I answer. “As long as you stay away from addictions, attempt to have intelligent conversations with me sometimes, and keep me company at dinner, I won’t ask for anything more.”

She swallows, then her frail shoulders shake with laughter.

“They were right about you.” She presses her fingers to her chin. “You really are a sweetheart.”

“I’m a mobster,” I remind her.

“Everybody hurts somebody.” Again, a long pause. “I won’t hold your job against you.”

All I can focus on is that when her lips round into an O, they’re nowhere near as luscious as Francesca’s.

Hatred clasps around my chest and drives the breath from my lungs. How could I be thinking of another woman when I’m talking to the one that could be my future wife?

Maria is good. Clean, in the way that spring water is clean. She’ll be right for me.

“I promise you that I’m not abusive. You won’t have to be afraid of me,” I say. “There’s not much I can offer you, either. My life belongs to the Russo family so work comes first and I’m not capable of romance, but I’ll guarantee your safety in every way. If you’ll trust me with it.”

She nods, though the stiffness of her movement tells me that she doesn’t fully believe my words. Scars don’t heal overnight, I suppose. “I was expecting a whole lot worse when they told me you were in the mafia.”

“Get it all the time,” I shoot back.

“So what do we tell Angelo?” she asks.

“Whatever you want to,” I reply. “It’s up to you.”

She nods. “Then I hope I’ll see you again, Gabriele.”

The next morning, I take the coward’s way out and make Ricardo tail Francesca.

“She threw up on you, too, didn’t she?” Antonio says when I slide into my seat at our small office which is essentially a front for one of Angelo’s paper companies that he uses to launder money.

I nod harder than I need to, hoping it’ll mask my embarrassment at how hot my skin feels at the mention of her name. “The girl’s a handful.”

“She gets under your skin.”

Gets under your skin and makes you feel like you’re in heaven. I still haven’t been able to put what happened at the gala out of my mind. I woke up hard last night. It has been a lifetime since I masturbated to just the thought of a woman.

The girl’s a fungus growing inside my brain. Simply the memory of her is enough to drive me mad. Every time images of her with my fingers inside her assault me, the texture of her skin becomes clearer, the taste of her sharper, and the desire to feel her wet walls clenching around my cock stronger.

“So, any progress on Luca’s contacts?” I inquire, rolling a pen between my fingers.

“I’m trying. There’s a guy I know. Used to work with him. Good with technology. Want me to contact him?”

“Can we trust him?”

“As long as nobody holds a gun to his head and demands he spills what we made him do.”

I bark out a laugh. “So no.”

With a frown, Antonio gets back to typing. He’s old enough to be my father, if I had to guess, so I’m surprised he manages to use a computer so well. Though to be completely honest, I have no idea who my father is. I’m simply guessing his age at this point. He might have been way older than my mother, an already-married middle-aged man with poor taste in women. She was never sober enough to talk about him.

And I never asked. There was no point in growing attached to a person I’d never have in my life.

“How was your date?” Antonio’s gruff voice knifes between the prickly edges of my memories. “The one you got all dressed up for.”

“Fine,” I reply. “I think it’ll work out.”

“So whaddya want me to get for your wedding? I need to start saving up now.”

A black cloud gathers inside my ribcage at the question. The finality of marriage was something I always understood but it never scared me before.

Now…now I can’t forget the feel of pink lips whispering I’ll return the favor against my ear. The tightening of my stomach muscles is a physical pain that refuses to fade no matter how much whiskey I drink.

“Nothing.” I grip the side of my chair tightly, the feel of delicate glass against my skin. The amber liquid swirls inside. I’ve never drunk so early in the morning on the job before. Damn it. “It’s her second marriage. I doubt there’ll even be a ceremony.”

If this doesn’t let up, I’ll end up an alcoholic myself. Is this how people get addicted? When they desire something too much and it slips out of their grasp?

Antonio’s gaze hardens. “Is that why you’re drinking?”

“What? No.” Despite the reluctance that bites my insides, I empty the remaining alcohol into the bin and put the glass away. “Maria isn’t bad at all.”

“A ringing endorsement.” Antonio scoffs. Did he always have so many wrinkles on his face or has it grown in proportion to his disapproval?

“Prettier than I deserve,” I remark drily, my gaze hitting the empty ceiling before bouncing back to the blank Google page on my computer screen. “She’s everything I dreamed of.”

Everything I dreamed of and everything I’m realizing I don’t actually want. 

“If you say so.” Antonio’s expression could freeze a desert. He rolls his shoulders and gets back to work.

I, too, start clacking keys on my computer. Pretending to be productive is better than pretending to be alright. I’m officially still incurring the boss’s wrath for screwing up with Luca, which means I don’t have to go to the weekly meetings the capos attend or do any actual jobs. I decide to use the time to look up Maria’s ex-husband, the abusive asshole I’ll have to deal with eventually.

Christian Ricci

He’s a bigshot businessman. Designer suits, gray hair, a smug smile, and eyes that advertise his asshole status more effectively than a neon sign. His billions were made in Hollywood. He’s a producer and more than a few actresses have filed sexual harassment lawsuits against him. It confirms that he’s human garbage but that’s nothing I didn’t know already. I’ll need useful details if I’m going to keep him in check—such as who he uses to do his dirty work, how much law enforcement he has in his pocket, and how to make sure he doesn’t touch Maria again.

I’ve almost forgotten about Francesca and am deeply invested in tracking down Ricci’s closest associates when my phone goes off all of a sudden. I refuse to examine the jump in my heart rate too deeply as I see Ricardo’s name flashing on the screen.

He wouldn’t call unless something happened with Francesca. I hope she didn’t decide to finally spill the beans to the police. Though that would at least get her out of my hair. Fucking an addict is one thing but I have no sympathy for traitors.

“You don’t need to give me a report until the end of the day,” I say to Ricardo. In fact, I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to hear about Francesca Astor ever again.

“We have an issue here, though.” Ricardo’s breath swishes against my ears through the phone. “She’s being pressed by some of our men.”

“Our men?”

“Nico’s boys,” he corrects himself. “She was getting the goods from them. But she forgot to pay them the correct amount so they’re going to do the regular drill.”

The regular drill involves threatening nonpaying clients, roughing them up a little if it comes to that. If it looks like they can’t cough up the money at all, we hook them into prostitution so they can repay us with their earnings. But since Francesca is rich, it won’t come to that.

The roiling in my gut gets worse when I hear the rough voices seeping in through the phone line from Ricardo’s background. Intimidating, loud voices. And one scared whimper. My fist finds the hard desk to slam into. Anger is a monster inside me, thrashing violently.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my palm, the desire to do physical harm spiraling inside me. I can’t believe I want to hurt my own family over a girl. She’s a damned nuisance.

“Seems like they’re starting.” Ricardo whistles.

“And you’re just watching?” I scream into the phone. “I put you on the job to…” To observe her, I remind myself. To tail her, not protect her.

“There’s three of them. They look like they are higher ranked than me. I’m not sure I should get involved.”

“Tell them to wait. I’m on my way.”

“What’re you planning to do?”

“Pay whatever she owes.”

My mind whirls like a wound-up clock. The drug business is under Nico’s supervision. Nico cannot find out about my interest in Francesca. But I have no other choice. I’m not having her hurt on my watch. Not when the very thought of someone else’s hands on her is acid in my throat. I tell myself I would feel this way toward any woman. I’m a decent guy. I don’t hurt women. Not unless it makes them come.

“Isn’t it better to let things run their course? Her supplier is also from the family,” Ricardo breezes on. “If she dies, well, that’ll shut her up forever. Problem over.”

He should count his lucky stars that he wasn’t close to me when he said that. Otherwise, his teeth would be scattered around his feet.

“Did you forget about her background? She’s important. The police will be on Nico’s trail if anything happens to her. I’m only helping him avoid trouble.”

On paper, that sounds like a sensible argument. A hesitant pause from Ricardo stirs up my doubts.

Guilt burns my nerve endings. I should’ve gone myself instead of sending a soldier.

“Well, when you say it like that it makes sense. No wonder you’re my boss.” Ricardo chuckles.

“Don’t let things spiral out of control before I get there,” I say as I dash for my coat and throw it on. Antonio is giving me a pitying smirk from across the room.

Yeah, there’s something really wrong with me.

I resent the part of me that cares for her. I resent the weakness that has taken root inside me since the night I touched her, the weakness I thought I’d shed after I left her alone after we finished. I swore to never let someone distress me the way my mother did.

The memory of the longest night of my life, when I lay dead and bleeding in the snow before Angelo found me, loops back. I should’ve learned my lesson.

I will not lose everything for a woman again.

I will not lose my mind over a woman who doesn’t possess the capacity to care for me in any meaningful way.

Once I get my hands on Francesca fucking Astor, I’ll make her pay with her life.

I’m surprised I avoid getting a traffic ticket for my driving. However, the result of my speeding is that I get to the location in twenty minutes. Ricardo is standing outside the building, grey smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette.

“Third floor,” he says. “Want me to come with you? In case things turn violent.”

“I can handle it,” I growl. “Go back to the office.”

The metal elevator is old and rickety and makes a bellowing sound as it ascends. My temper has swollen into a mass of violence in the span of my trip here so I punch through the door with no regret.

“Don’t fuckin’ break our door,” says one of the men as I step into their office. Francesca is sitting on the couch, shivering, though I can’t tell if those tremors are because of fear or withdrawal symptoms. The low light details a red cut on her face. The bleeding has stopped but she was hurt.

“I said not to touch her until I got here,” I grab the collar of the thug who has the misfortune to be standing right in front of me. “What part of that did you not understand?”

The other two men, who had been guarding Francesca, leap at me instantly. As I let go and swing my arm back, my knuckles scrape against the edge of a naked blade in one of their hands. I don’t even bother checking if it cut me. I know it did.

“Not our fault. She was resisting too much,” the other one explains, as he senses the anger that’s a flame in my eyes and pulls the knife out of his comrade’s hand.

The rest of the exchange is a blur of words, the incessant hammering of impatience against my bones. Francesca’s wide, scared eyes stick to my face and never leave for the six minutes until I manage to get her untied.

I pay her outstanding balance of twenty thousand dollars, which isn’t as high as I’d expected. Nico’s definitely going to hear of this. He isn’t going to like my behavior. My mishandling of Luca is already a sensitive issue. Yet now I’m bailing the only witness to that episode out of her drug debt.

The boys untie her and she hobbles over to me faster than a kangaroo.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this.” Her frail, tear-soaked words press into my chest along with her cheekbone. “I’m sorry I made you do this, Gabriele. But I’m so glad you’re here.”

Warmth soaks through my skin coupled with a buoyant feeling. Strength. Pride at having protected this frail, innocent, broken thing.

Is that what this is all about, some fucked-up psychological bullshit? I couldn’t save my mother from her self-destruction so I want to save Francesca Astor? When she’s way more hopeless than my mother?

Disgusted, I shake her off with more force than necessary. She wobbles before steadying herself.

“This favor’s not free,” I bite out in a brutal tone of voice.

“I’ll pay you back,” she says immediately as she falls into step behind me. This is the meekest I’ve seen her since the day we met.

“If you had that much money, you’d have paid him,” I reply, pointing to the soldier who is happily counting the dollar bills I threw on the scraggy table.

Francesca’s inhale is shaky. “I just forgot, okay? With all the things on my mind. I can arrange the money. It’ll take a month at most.”

“Or you could stop doing drugs?” I stick my hands in my pockets. Irritation clings to my skin when I detect the immediate resistance that stiffens her shoulders. “Just a suggestion.”

“I’ll try.” The low, apologetic note in her voice could easily pass for sincerity. But I know it’s just her feeling sorry at the moment. Nothing more. “By the way, why does it make you mad? That first night, too, you were angry at me for being high. Do you realize how much of a hypocrite that makes you? Your own family sells these drugs and profits off people like me. I’m one of your big-time clients.”

My lips grow cold. She doesn’t need to remind me of what kind of business I’m in. I’m not blind to what I do.

There’s no harm in selling a little escapism to people who want and need it, as long as they’re paying the right price for it. It’s a product, no different from shoes or designer bags.

It’s a choice. A lifestyle. In the past, it never bothered me to witness our customers decaying slowly over months and years. Some of them are pretty high-functioning. They never have any problems in their work or life because of the habit. They never get caught, never lose anything. We call them happy endings. They get all the pleasure with none of the side effects.

But Francesca won’t be one of them. Because she’s like my mother.

This may have started out as an escape for her, but it will take over her entire personality. It will become a replacement for all the things she’s losing—her art, her social relationships, her confidence, her mind.

I suck in a breath when we’re outside. The sunshine, too hot and sharp for a winter afternoon, burns into my skin with vengeance, reminding me of the dumb mistake that’s trailing me, her golden curls catching the daylight. Idiotic thoughts emerge from the cesspit that’s my brain: I want to stroke that hair. I want to fist my fingers around it.

“I have a whole repayment plan worked out for you,” I tell her instead, charging to my car in long, unceasing strides. No more getting distracted by her pretty face and vulnerable expression. “My help doesn’t come cheap.”

She gulps. Lowers her gaze. Clasps her manicured fingers in front of her chest. “Whatever it is, I won’t stop you from doing it to me.”

“It’s something you need to do for me,” I correct, fully aware she’ll take this the wrong way. She probably thinks this is going to end with something as cheap as a blowjob.

I make no attempts to clear her misunderstanding. I ought to leave her to find her way back home herself, but I don’t need her getting into trouble after I just rescued her so I let her ride with me. I should look into a change in my profession. With this new streak of protectiveness that I’ve developed, I’m better suited to being a cop rather than a Mafioso.

“Wait here,” she says when we pull up at her family’s townhouse. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts I didn’t realize when I drove her all the way back home.

 “Don’t go. You hurt your hand badly. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I check my knuckles in the rearview mirror. She’s right. There’s a nasty cut there, slashing across my skin. It’d be troublesome if this got infected.

She hurries inside and I wait around, purely out of curiosity. I’ve never seen what a rich girl’s first aid kit looks like.

My disappointment must be evident when she returns with a normal-looking plastic box.

“Were you expecting painkillers or something?” she inquires.

“For a tiny cut? You’re offending my pride as a gangster.”

Her soft fingertip glides over my skin. “Looks like a shallow wound. Hope this doesn’t hurt.”

She takes out a piece of cotton and douses it with rubbing alcohol. At the damp feel of it against my skin, at the errant brush of her soft hair against my face, my stomach cramps with a hot, unknown sensation. Her luscious, rose-scented exhales are flooding over my face, filling my nose with the scent of flower petals. When she’s being gentle, caring, and kind, she’s extraordinarily mesmerizing. And so human. Not just a problematic druggie but a compassionate girl who touches my heart with her small gestures.

“Did you eat lunch?” she asks. “The cook made lasagna today. It’s delicious.”

“Take your nurse cosplay somewhere else,” I snarl, irritated at myself for growing sappy every time she does something nice. “I’m not into it.”

“I think you are.” A tiny smile curves on her sensual lips.

For a second, I can’t take my eyes off their fullness.

My eyebrow molds into a sharp V. “Are you flirting with me, Francesca?”

“Can’t I?”

“Wouldn’t advise it. Flirting with a man like me leads to bad things.”

“I don’t mind.” Her gaze darkens a fraction when she lifts her head. “By the way, who was that woman you were talking to at the charity gala? You know, after you abandoned me in the toilet.”

I retract my hand as the sting of alcohol settles under my skin. She’s getting clingy. Or is it jealousy?

“Why’re you so interested in my life?” I yawn. “It’s none of your business, by the way.”

“I don’t want to sleep with you if you already have a wife,” she asserts, closing her fingers into fists.

“I don’t,” I assure her, the burn of acid sloshing against my throat. “Also, you’re not sleeping with me. You let me finger you. Once. It’s in the past.”

I’m toeing a dangerous line. I’m technically single since the matter with Maria isn’t decided yet, nor are we officially engaged or dating. Francesca is technically of legal age. What we did was technically just sex. And technically, having her open up to me lowers her chances of ratting me out to the police.

Why is this scenario built entirely upon flimsy technicalities?

“Once or twice doesn’t matter.” Her tongue curls in her mouth.

“It was once,” I assert.

“What’s the big deal?” Francesca says. “It was just physical.”

“No, wasn’t. It’s escapism. Addiction.” Possibly something worse.

 “I felt something for you last night, Gabriele,” she whispers. I wish she was a habitual liar, but she hasn’t lied to me a single time so far so I assume this is also the truth. “Something deep. I’m not saying it’s love. But I needed you.”

“You needed to come again,” I say, turning my head away. The street is empty. No people. “And I was the only man who could make you.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not true. What I want…it’s not something my body craves. It’s something my soul craves. Sounds crazy when I say it, but it’s less lonely with you around. I mean, even when you watch me paint at my studio I don’t hate it. Because you’re witnessing how miserable I really am. You’re staring at the real me without flinching. Since I don’t want to impress you or be loved by you, I’m free to be myself when I’m with you.”

What Francesca said to me before is tightening around me like a noose.

Don’t give me false hope with your mixed signals and break my heart. I’ll never forgive you.

It’s already too late for that.

“You’re talking nonsense,” I say, though her confession has settled in my bones like a radioactive substance. My inner voice says she’s not the only one who is less lonely when we’re together. I, too, have grown addicted to her empathy and compassion which has made me show her parts of myself I wouldn’t reveal to anyone else. “You still high?”

“I haven’t taken anything today.”

“Then what’s with that confession?”

“It’s…I had to say it.” I hear the one gasp that tears the steady rhythm of her breaths. Blood rushes in my ears. “Haven’t you ever wanted a friend? Someone you could be yourself around?”

“Make friends your age,” I advise as she slowly wraps a bandage around my hand and secures it with surgical tape.

“I do have friends my age,” she answers. “But I’ll disappoint them if I show them my dark side.”

“So what? Let them deal with it.”

“I guess…I like you more. Can’t say why. You’re always mean to me, but I suppose you did save me today. So you must be a softie on the inside.”

Heat creeps up under my skin.

“I don’t like you,” I say flatly.

Her jaw drops. “Why not? I’m pretty and kind.”

She was pretty, too. 

Old memories converge in the present.

“You remind me of my mother.” An undertone of bitterness weighs down the air between us.

“Was she a bad woman?” Francesca’s hand is a warm touch on my skin. Almost comforting.

I nod. “A druggie like you. An alcoholic, too. Never once did she seek any help. She abandoned me when I was in my teens. Left me to fend for myself.”

Her swallow forms a heavy curve, disrupting the smooth line of her throat.

“I’m sorry, Gabriele.”

“For what? It’s not your fault I was dealt a bad hand by fate.”

“For being like your mother.” A long, meaningful pause. “Is that why you joined the mafia?”

I sigh. “That’s enough of my tragic backstory. Go back home.”

She doesn’t argue. Gathering her stuff, she gives me a sideways look filled with concern.

“What will you make me pay with?”

“Expect the worst.”

“A kidney?”

The cough of laughter pummels its way out before I can do anything about it. Trust her to make a joke out of nowhere.

“I don’t want any part of your body. I’ve had enough of it.”

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