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Jeanie
“Cheer up, sweetie, we all get fired sometimes.” Giovanna pours a shot of cheap vodka and plunks it down onto the bar in front of me. “Go ahead, on the house. Call it a consolation prize.”
I frown at the shot and I don’t want to take it. I barely drink liquor, much less the stuff that tastes like rubbing alcohol, but I know better than to turn down a free drink from Giovanna. I grab it, throw it back, and choke it down without sputtering—too much, anyway.
Giovanna laughs. The old woman’s a firebrand with salt-and-pepper hair cut short in a curly poof and wrinkles etched into her skin like rivers on a map. Her dark eyes are sharp, but kind, and she’s quick to laugh but also quick to anger. Nobody messes with Giovanna, especially not in her own bar.
“Thanks, I think,” I say once I can speak again. The cheap vodka simmers in my guts, and I feel warm and fuzzy. I sip my wine and wonder if maybe I should cool it on the alcohol.
It’s ten past four in the afternoon and I lost the most important job of my life yesterday. Maybe I should stay sober and plan on what to do next.
But to hell with it.
“I remember the first time I got fired,” Giovanna says fondly, smiling into the distance of her memory. “I was a waitress at a diner and this old regular grabbed my ass. I told him to go screw himself and the owner fired me. Ah, those were good days.”
“Sounds like they were awful days.”
“I was young and had the world ahead of me, just like you. Don’t worry, there will be more jobs.” She frowns down at the end of the bar where a group sat down a moment later. “Speaking of which. Hey, you lot, what the hell do you want?” She walks off to serve the young men.
I lean forward and sip my wine. If this were a normal situation, Giovanna would be right. I’m young and that mailroom job didn’t really matter. I mean, who cares about making barely enough to pay rent in some grunt dead-end position at a horrible company filled with assholes and thieves?
I cared, because it was the first step of my plan.
And now that plan is ruined.
I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. I try not to cry but it’s hard when it feels like my life is over. All this hard work, all this planning, it’s gone now because I made a stupid mistake and some crazy mafia bastard walked in on me going through Malcolm’s files. I keep thinking about that guy, about his handsome face and mocking smile, and the way he pulled me into his lap without hesitation and kissed me like he really meant it.
God, what a kiss. I’ve never been touched like that before—not even close. He did it like he wanted me and couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Like he was overcome with desire, and I was the object of his impossible need.
And for one incredible, heady moment, his hand between my legs, his lips against mine, I felt better than I’ve ever felt in my miserable life.
I shudder at the thought.
Gavino Bruno is everything I hate. He’s just like Malcolm Strafford: womanizer, criminal, violent thug, self-righteous asshole. Everyone in my world knows who the Bruno family are, and everyone seems to know Gavino in particular. While most of the Bruno family stays in their big old mansion compound and runs their organization from behind their big walls, Gavino’s been out on the streets all these years.
Like Malcolm said, he’s earned a reputation.
I stare at the light bending through my wine glass. I want to give up and crawl into a hole and stay there until I die of thirst, but even though I’m at my lowest, with no possibility I can see of getting anywhere near Malcolm ever again, I still can’t bring myself to quit.
I hate him too much to let that fire go out. It’s a brutal inferno, raging in my stomach.
A shadow appears on my left. Someone takes the stool and leans forward on the bar. I don’t pay them any attention. I’m too lost in my own self-loathing and self-pitying, and I don’t notice the person staring at me until he clears his throat and leans closer.
“What’s good in this place?”
I start and look up, and Gavino’s sitting there with a little smile on his lips.
I nearly scream.
His grin gets larger as he studies me. I’m wearing a tank top and jean shorts, and I feel practically naked when his gaze slides along my arms, along my collarbone, to my throat and lips. He’s thinking about that kiss—I see it on his face.
“You’re not going to pull my hair again, are you?” I glare at him and clutch my wine glass.
“Only if you ask nicely.”
“Asshole. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, Jeanie Gray. You weren’t easy to track down, you know.”
