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Falynn
PLAYLIST: ? DREAMERS - K.FLAY ?
Giovanni Sorrentino,son of Giuliano Sorrentino, renowned mobster and businessman. The news slams into me and leaves me breathless. Though I’ve suspected, hearing it from Gio’s lips is a whole new level of shock altogether. I don’t know how to process the information, so I spend a ridiculous amount of time gaping at him.
He picks up his drink and takes a sip. “You understand why I’ve been reluctant to let you go.”
“Because you’re the mob and the mobwhackspeople!”
“You’ve been watching too muchSopranos.”
“Are you kidding me? I witnessed you and your men murder a guy!”
“You should scream it louder—the other half of Las Vegas didn’t hear you.”
“I’m…I’m going to be sick.”
I stumble onto unsteady legs and beeline through the penthouse, straight for the bathroom. The sugary alcoholic contents of my stomach are in the toilet seconds later when the knob on the door jiggles. Gio is standing outside.
“Open the door,” he says calmly.
Curled against the toilet bowl, butt on the tile, I heave some more. “No,” I croak feebly afterward.
“Falynn, you’re being ridiculous.” The tone he uses is that of an exasperated husband when his wife whines about something he deems frivolous. “Open up.”
“Go away. I didn’t ask to be inGoodfellasthe sequel!”
“Anyone who would make a sequel to a classic like that deserves to bewhacked.”
“Now, you’re fucking with me!”
I’m not sure what it is about the moment that’s churning my stomach. It could be the truth. It could be the pint of double fudge brownie and strawberry cheesecake ice cream I consumed. Or the whiskey sours duringPulp Fiction. Maybe a vengeful combination of all three. All I know is I hug the porcelain toilet ’til Gio’s footsteps fade, and the only sound left is me puking my guts out.
To my surprise, I wake up in the king-size bed. I twist and turn, tangled in the sheets. The morning light spills into the room without consideration for its brightness. Retinas burned, brain a muddled mess, I push myself off the bed. Problem is, my foot’s still caught on the sheet. Down I go, smacking face-first into the floor like a cartoon character.
SPLAT!
Gio laughs. I’m shocked, because a) I didn’t notice him in the room, b) I haven’t ever heard his laugh sound so uncontrolled, sounfiltered, c) I don’t remember how I got to bed, or d) all of the above.
All of the above.
“Oh, it’s you again?” I mumble as he stands over me. I begrudgingly accept the hand he offers. He hoists me to my feet in an easy flex of power. “How did I get to bed?”
“I put you to bed…again. It seems to be a habit of yours.”
That’s true. Third night running.
I rub my kneecap, which sustained carpet burn during my fall. “Did I pass out in the bathroom?”
“You did.”
“Then how did you—you know what, never mind.”
“I’m a crazy mobster and you don’t think I have the means to get into a hotel bathroom?”
He’s in a playful mood today as he gives me a shoulder squeeze and then strolls out of the bedroom. He’s in another crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. It might be only 9 a.m., but apparently it’s never too early for a smoke—Gio sticks a cigar between his lips and lights up. I follow him like a curious puppy.
“Breakfast as usual,” he says, gesturing to the cart. “Eat up. You emptied your entire stomach last night.”
