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Ugh. I hate the nagging pit of annoyance forming in my stomach from swallowed pride, but I know it’s for the best if I take the loss and apologize. I don’t know how my bag got opened, but I doubt Rita would have pinpointed me out of everyone for no reason.
And being right, in this case, is most likely not worth the fallout.
Valentina (Unit: 1707): I’m really sorry, everyone. I honestly don’t know how my trash bag got opened, but I’ll be even better about triple checking it.
Callie (Unit: 1205): It’s okay, hun. Don’t worry about it.
Rita Fortune: Please make sure you pay your fine within 47 hours.
With a roll of my eyes and evaporation of patience, I close out of the app and check the time.
Shit. I’m supposed to be at dinner with my family in an hour, and I’m still covered in flour from the lunch rush at The Hole Story.
I make quick work of a shower, fix my hair, and throw on a little makeup before tossing on a cute black dress and some heels. By the time I’m heading out the door, I’ve almost forgotten about the trash-panda incident but not quite. The neon ticket on the counter won’t let me.
Maybe I should contest my violation?
No. The commute to work is too perfect. I can’t afford to get kicked out over a garbage dispute.
Giovanni’s, my father’s favorite restaurant and constant go-to three nights a week at minimum, is only a few blocks from my condo, a quick and easy walk, but I’m grateful for the small black cardigan I grabbed when the breeze becomes a little too chilly.
He has his own table, which the staff treats like it’s sacred or something, and he invested enough money last year to make him a technical partial owner. I honestly think they’d hold a candlelight vigil if he ever stopped showing up.
Of course, that would be appropriate, because if he stops going to Giovanni’s, he’s probably dead.
My dad is already sitting down at his VIP table when I arrive. He’s wearing a sleek navy suit and laughing with the server like they’re old pals. My brother, Nico, notices me first, standing up from the table and wrapping me up in a warm, solid hug.
“How’s the vibe?” I whisper into his shoulder.
He leans back and flashes his signature crescent smile at me. “Manageable. No fires yet.”
“You know, life is better with you around, big bro.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Just think of all those IOUs you’ve racked up when you were living in other countries and leaving me to deal with ol’ Tommy by myself.”
“I know.” He laughs quietly. “My debt is astronomical. Just tell me when to start repayment.”
“Oh, I will,” I promise with a wink.
As he rolls his eyes affectionately, Leo stands.
He’s tall and muscular and massive as always, and immaculately put together, and he’s wearing a suit that probably weighs as much as a small child because of the amount of fabric required. As if his size isn’t enough, the tattoos that crawl up his neck and peek out of his cuffs add to his appearance of toughness.
He gives me a tight hug, holding on a second or two too long, and Nico’s hand appears pointedly on my elbow to guide me away. If Leonidas Murphy were the last man standing on earth, my brother would still prefer to kill Leo himself than have me date him, unlike my father.
“Teeny, sweetheart.” Dad pulls me into a hug next, kissing my cheeks, then tilting my chin up and looking at me with concern. “You look thin.”
“I’m not,” I say, stepping out of his embrace and sliding into my seat.
“You never eat enough,” he says, motioning to the waiter without looking. “We’ll take the family antipasto, two house salads, and the veal piccata, extra capers. For all.”
“I want pasta,” I interject.
“Add a family-size platter of spaghetti and meatballs,” Dad tells the waiter imperiously.
I’m more of a chicken-fettuccini-alfredo gal, but I let it slide to avoid an argument.
Leo leans across the table with an easy grin, his green eyes locking with mine. “Been busy, Valentina? Stopped by the shop this afternoon for a coffee, but you were out.”
“Supply run,” I say. “Apparently, the city runs on oat milk these days.”
