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“Do you have a coat?” he asked, and his voice was raspy again. “A jacket? Or a purse?”
I nodded at him but kept my gaze trained on the floor. “Yes.”
“Go get them.”
His order had me shuffling my feet toward the kitchen, but as I approached the door, I heard his strong voice speaking with the old woman with the clipboard: “I want this all cleaned up and boxed. Take it to my storage lot in Queens.”
With my back to him, I stiffened at his brisk orders.Was I just going to let him do this? Get away with it?
My shoulders immediately sagged.
Did I have a choice?
If it was just him, just Acuig, then I’d fight this, as I’d been fighting it since the building had come to the attention of the developer. But this wasn’t a regular business deal.
This was mob business, and it seemed like somehow, I’d become a part of that.
FML.
Seriously, FML.
