Page 157 of Merciless Daddy

One sincere compliment from Salvatore Scordato, and I forgot what to do with my hands.

“You look . . . acceptable too,” I said.

His mouth curved. “High praise.”

The nearby town sat twenty minutes away, all dark roads and bare trees and lakeside cottages with yellow windows. Sal drove. No driver. No convoy pressed visibly around us.

I knew guards were there. I saw the distant headlights once in the mirror. But he had made them fade into the background.

The building looked closed from the street. An old diner joined to an arcade, its neon sign dark except for one red letter that flickered weakly.

Sal unlocked the door.

Inside, arcade machines hummed in rows beneath low colored lights. The diner booths were empty. A jukebox stood near the back wall. The air smelled of fryer oil, old carpet, and sweetness from a popcorn machine.

I stopped just inside.

“You rented an arcade.”

“I hired it privately for the evening.”

“For me?”

“Who else would I take? Tonio would cheat and then get emotional about the prizes.”

“That is probably true.”

Sal put a small cup of tokens into my palm.

“I should warn you,” I said, “I’m extremely competitive.”

“Yeah, I kind of thought as much.”

“Yes but you have no idea.”

The first game was air hockey.

I scored in the first six seconds.

Sal looked at the puck in his goal. “That was unsporting.”

“In the air hockey world, we call it effecient.”

He leaned over the table. “Again.”

The second round lasted longer. He learned my angle quickly. I slammed the puck off the sidewall and watched it skim past his hand.

“Two-zero,” I said.

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

By the fourth round, I was sweating beneath my dress. Sal had removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. His eyes were narrowed. His mouth had gone serious in a way that should not have been attractive over air hockey.

I feinted left.

He moved.