Page 46 of Thrown into the Mob

“Nobody looks twice at an old man in an ugly car. It's a rule.”

He adjusted Madd's collar and his eyes moved to Madd's shoulder and the mark visible above the neckline.

“You look thin.” That was directed at me.

“We’ve been eating well and cooking every night.”

Madd grinned and cleared his throat.

“Fine. Madd’s been cooking, and I’ve been on peeling and slicing duty.”

Arnie patted my shoulder. “We’ll make a chef out of you yet.” He reached under the counter and pulled out an insulated bag. “There’s enough food for a week. Everything’s labeled and the reheating instructions are on the lids.”

"Grandpa, you can't keep bringing us food. We’re grown men and we’re supposed to be hiding out.”

Arnie glanced at the clock on the wall. “Isn't there a phone call you need to make?”

“Me?” Madd swiveled toward me. “It’s Conrad who usually does it.”

Arnie tapped his head. “As far as I recall, you’re in this together.”

“Conrad, did you tell Grandpa about our argument?”

I put both hands in the air in surrender mode. “How could I? Besides, I wouldn’t share that. It was between us.”

Madd hesitated and narrowed his eyes. “No talking behind my back, and no sharing hints as to how to fatten me up.” He wagged his finger, and I was tempted to grab it.

My mate squeezed Arnie's arm on the way out. The door jingled, and through the foggy window, I watched him cross to the payphone on the wall outside.

Arnie continued folding towels, and the laundromat hummed around us. Three machines were running plus a dryer. Someone's jeans were going around and around behind the glass and the zipper pull tag was clanging against the metal drum. The place smelled of detergent and warm fabric.

“Sit.”

Arnie pulled out a stool behind the counter. He kept folding, and I suspected, based on his precise movements, that he’d been making food and laundry neat his whole life. He didn't rush to fill the silence.

After a minute he said, “I brought you something.” He reached into a carrier bag and pulled out a small package, wrapped in brown paper. “Open it.”

It was light and roughly the size of a paperback. I unwrapped it carefully because the paper was folded so beautifully, almost like origami.

Inside was a dark blue scarf. It was obviously hand-knitted because it was slightly uneven in places. This wasn’t done by a first-time knitter but perhaps by someone whose hands weren't as steady as they used to be.

“I started it the day after we met.” He picked up another towel. “I make things when I'm worried. It keeps my hands busy. And it's for you, not for Madd. He's got plenty.”

I ran my thumb over the stitches. The wool was good quality, and I knew that because Evander’s nanny had knitted him caps and scarves when he was a kid. I used to sneak into his room as a kid and put them on, pretending they were mine.

“You needed something to keep you warm, something that was just yours and would absorb your scent.” He stopped folding. “I know what it's like joining a family that isn't yours. Feeling like you're on the outside and everyone knows the rules except you.”

He spoke of how his late mate had joined the pack without much adjustment because he was part of another prominent mafia pack. But it took years for his mate’s kin to accept him because he was the younger Durand son and wasn’t destined to be Alpha.

“So I fed them, and they stopped treating me like a guest and began to treat me like furniture.” He grinned. “That's when you know you're in, when they stop being polite.”

“Ranger was never polite.”

“There you go. You’re halfway there.” He patted my hand. “You're family, Conrad, because my grandson chose you and I trust his judgment, and that's enough for me.”

I brushed the scarf against my cheek and it was warm and inviting. My mate’s grandpa had made this for me, and I would treasure it always.

“Thank you.” It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all I could say at the moment.