“Who are you working with?”
Vomit shoots out of Steven’s mouth, painting our heavy-duty black leather aprons pink. His putrid vomit hit my nostrils, making me gag.
Dad stops the wheel. Steven’s unconscious and his head hangs between his shoulder blades. Javier rushes over with a garden hose and rinses the vomit off my apron. Holding a hand over my mouth, I sprint to the bathroom and hover over the toilet. I vomit for what feels like five minutes. It was probably more like one minute.
Shit, am I sick? Maybe the smell of Steven’s vomit triggered a stomach bug.
“Are you all right?” Dad asks, holding out a sheet of paper towel.
I take it and wipe my mouth. “Yes, I’m fine. I think I’m coming down with the flu. I hadn’t felt like myself today. But I wanted to push through torturing Steven before I went home and climbed into bed.”
“Go home. I got it from here,” Dad says as he pulls me to my feet.
“Steven spit on me.”
Dad’s face darkens.
“He did it hoping I’d kill him before you arrived.”
He shakes his head. “Like a true rat, he wants to take the easy way out. Not a chance. I’ll continue to press him for a name. But if he hasn’t given it yet, he probably won’t. Whoever he’s protecting is holding something over his head. I’m not sure what it can be because Steven doesn’t have a wife and kids.”
“Maybe his mother or grandmother,” I add.
“Yeah, that’s always a possibility.” Dad kisses the top of my head.
“Torna a casa mia, bellissima figlia. Go home, my beautiful daughter,” Dad says in Italian.
On the way home, I ask Javier to stop at the store for saltine crackers and ginger ale.
An hour and a half later, I’m lying in bed, munching on crackers. The bath did its job. I feel relaxed. My stomach growls beneath my hand. I’m starving.
“Fitz,” I call.
He shows up at the door a minute later. “Yes, boss?”
“Order fried rice and six egg rolls.”
His brows bunch together like he wants to question me but doesn’t. “On it.”
“Oh, and pick up a package of fudge stripe cookies and Cakesters.”
He nods and leaves the bedroom.
I usually only want fudge stripes when I’m about to start my cycle. But I never eat Cakesters. They’re gross.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I scroll to the monthly app. Maybe my cycle dates are changing. I peer at the screen. My period is a week late. That’s odd. I shouldn’t have cravings then.
On Monday, I return to work. At this point, the fudge stripe cookies and I are besties. I keep them in my desk drawer.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
My assistant, Marissa, saunters in with a tablet in hand. Her shiny red hair hangs over her shoulder perfectly. The purple jacket and heather gray pencil skirt hug her curves.
“Ms. Cichello, would you like me to order lunch?”
“Yes.” I smile.
