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He snorts a laugh. “I’m not married.”
I roll my eyes. “Says every married man trying to fuck around.”
“I’m not married,” he repeats himself, this time with more force. “I had to take a work call,” he explains, and for some reason, I believe him; but that just means he’s married to the mob, which is nearly as bad.
“How much is ‘protection?’ I’ll cover it, but you leave my mamá out of this.” He obviously doesn’t know our connection to Darius; I’ll pay, and then snitch to my cousin. That’ll be the last time this malákas steps foot inside our bakery.
“Five hundred a week.”
“That is fucking outrageous!” I balk.
Fabio flashes his dimples. “Extortion typically is.”
“One hundred bucks a month. No more, no less. You want to bust my kneecaps over it, go ahead,” I bluff.
He smirks. “But then, Katerina, how would you crawl back to that loser ex-boyfriend of yours who just got out of prison?”
“Nice to know you’ve run a background on me like a complete psycho,” I inform him.
“You’d better fucking believe you can’t take a step in this town without me knowing about it,” he promises.
I’ll see his smirk, and raise him one. “Wouldn’t it be a crawl?”
“That depends entirely on you,” he says, flicking an invisible piece of lint from the lapel of his three-piece suit.
Grabbing my purse from the table, I nearly rip off the zipper as I open it and shove my hand inside, grabbing the hundred dollar bill I keep stashed in the interior pocket for emergencies. “Here you go,” I say, tossing the wadded bill across the table. “This month’s ‘security’ payment. Since you’re the man harassing this business establishment now under your protection, kindly see yourself out. That’s what I pay you the big bucks for, after all.”
He chuckles, and I want to dump the cup of coffee over his pretty head, “grinds” and all, because that’s how you fucking drink Greek coffee. “Still owe me four hundred. For the week.”
I flick my hand like I’m shooing away a pesky fly. “Then run along and fetch your bat, because you’re not getting a penny more from me.”
He considers, and I’m worried he might call my bluff. Finally, he says, “I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll waive protection payments if you teach me everything there is to know about gambling.”
“Why?” I raise my eyebrow.
Fabio lifts a shoulder lazily. “I have my reasons.”
Crossing my arms, I warn him, “A private gaming coach will run you three hundred bucks an hour. You’ll wind up owing me money.”
“So be it. Do we have a deal?”
I try not to smile; this chump’s about to be taken to the cleaners. “Just cards and dice. No actual skin in the game.”
He tsks. “What changed? You seemed more than happy to show skin in our game at the hotel.”
“I don’t fuck around with a family man,” I tell him dismissively.
He narrows his eyes. “Last time I’m going to say it: I’m not married.”
“A Parisi family man,” I say dryly. “As long as we’re clear sex is not on the table, then you’ve got yourself a deal,” I tell him, extending my hand.
“Deal,” he says, and we shake. “Tell your mother thank you, but I’ll have to take a raincheck on breakfast. We’ll start our lessons tonight. I’ll text you the address.” He stands, walking to the door.
“Wait, you don’t have my number,” I call after him.
“Oh, Katerina, I’ve got your number.”
Fabio
