AllFreeNovel
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His smile widens, and it feels like it lights up the space between us.
“Give me a shot. Text a friend, tell them you’re going to Trattoria Seven with a stranger you met on the side of the road, then text her when we get there. Or tell them I’m Dante Romano, that Marco knows who I am, that I’ve been a customer. Best-case scenario, you make a new friend. Worst-case, you get out of the cold, eat a free meal, and get a free tire.”
I stare at him.
He smiles at me.
A breeze comes, biting into my thin sweatpants.
“Trattoria Seven?” I ask of the fancy Italian restaurant owned by the family I work for. He smiles.
“They have good ravioli.”
I do not like ravioli.
That’s a sign, right? A sign from some higher being telling me this is a bad idea?
“Look, I appreciate this. Truly, I do. But I’ll wait for a tow. I look like a sewer rat dressed in slum clothes, and—”
“You’re gorgeous. Come, text a friend, and I’ll call mine.” His hand moves to his pocket and he grabs a phone, tapping a few times. “Joey. Yeah, Dante. Gotta car on the side of 98. Can you take it to your place, get it a new tire? Add it to my tab.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—” His eyes flit to mine, and something in them makes me shut up.
“Perfect.” He taps the phone again without even saying goodbye, sliding it into his pocket before staring at me. “Handled. Text your friend,fiorella.”
I chew my lip, a habit I formed when my mother was dying and I thought crying was inappropriate because my dad wasn’t crying, and Lola wasn’t crying, so I shouldn’t either. I’d chew that lip raw until Lola had to make me swish salt water to help ease the ache.
“Now,” he says, the word stern, a thick eyebrow lifting.
Marco trusts him, I think to myself. I’m pretty sure Marco is a good judge of character.
And because, really, how much worse can my life get, and because something about this man has the blood in my veins turning into electricity, I nod. I shoot a text to Candy, telling her I got a flat, that a guy that Marco knows gave me a ride, and we’re eating at Trattoria Seven.
Any of my old friends would panic. Fuck, if I text Lola, she will lose her mind and drive up with Ben in tow to kick my ass.
But the girls of Jerzy Girls? Nah.
Candy: Got it, babes. Share your location with me and be safe. Call if you need me.
Eleven
-Lilah-
The restaurant we pull up to minutes later is owned by the Carluccios. There are rumors about what happens in the connected butcher shop, about how they get the finest imports of cheese and dried meats, and how on earth they turn a profit when the price of the luxury meal barely covers the cost of ingredients.
Money laundering, some say.
Greasing palms at customs, others insist.
Tax evasion, even more whisper.
But I’ve always liked the version that isn’t spread as often—that way back when, the Carluccio family saw that there were no authentic Italian restaurants in the area. That in a community of Italian immigrants, they deserved a hub. The story goes that the family built the restaurant and the butcher shop and the small Italian grocer with the idea of it being an asset to the community.
Years and years of being delusional and optimistic will do that to you—make you see the best in a literal mafia family.
Dante parks in the lot, walking around to open my door, letting in the cold night air.
“I’m sorry, but this . . . I . . . I am so not dressed for this,” I say, biting my lip.
