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“I’ve heard whispers.” Whispers are never good. “About your dad.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“What kind of whispers?” He sighs.
“Nothing concrete.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder then at me. I stare back, waiting for him to finish. He brings his hand up to rake through his hair, a tick he’s had since he was a kid, but stops before he ruins his meticulous style. He sighs. “Talk of Johnny Vitale coming into town recently. I can’t confirm anything, though.”
My stomach falls to the floor.
Johnny Vitale, right hand to Carmello Carluccio of the Carluccio crime family, in theory, has no reason ever to come down to Ocean View other than to enjoy a weekend with the family at the shore.
But a simple, early summer vacation wouldn’t be cause for whispers. Whispers of him down this way are bad fucking whispers.
“Why would he be down here?” I say, my voice lower, eyes scanning the bakery the same way Sam’s did minutes ago.
“I don’t know, Lola. Could be anything. Could be nothing. But the council just struck down a contract for Carluccio Disposal last month.” Acid churns in my throat, creeping up slowly. “And your dad fought with the council to get us to approve it.” Shit, fuck, goddammit. This is bad. This isso fucking bad.
“He’s done with that,” I say, but even I can feel the uncertainty in my words. Is he? Is he ever done with it?
A year ago, when I told my dad I wasdone,he agreed. He agreed he was done too, that things had gone too far, and that he’d change.
A year of no calls.
A year of no whispers.
A year of peace.
Was I just naïve?
“I haven’t heard of anything in a year.” I feel sick. Sam looks at me, face going into recovery mode. He knows. He knows what happened when I had the sit down with Dad.
“I’m done, Dad.”
I thought that had been a wake-up call for him, the same way it was for me. After all these years, when I finally sat him down and had that intervention I should have held years ago, I thought he would have seen the error of his ways.
Now I’m wondering if maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. If maybe it was just a reason to keep things quieter. To keep me out of it.
What use was I anymore, anyway?
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Lola. Seriously. I haven’t heard much of anything other than that contract being denied.”
“Much of?” For a politician, Sam is a shitty liar. I’ll never know if it’s because I’ve known him my entire life and I can read him better than I can read myself, or if maybe he really is a shitty liar and his honesty sells him to the people, but he’s never been able to keep anything from me.
“Nothing big, I swear.” My eyes scan the bakery again, keeping an eye out for listening ears.
“Sam—” His phone rings on the countertop, and I feel the vibration running through to my wrists. It feels like a bell, signaling our time is up.
“Shit, I gotta take this, Lola. Seriously, don’t stress. It’s nothing. I just wanted to see if you’d heard anything. But I gotta go.” He grabs the bag I made him, filled with baked goods for his office, even though he’ll probably hoard them and skip lunch and dinner, eating baked goods instead of a real meal. “Thanks for this. I love you. Proud of you. We’ll do dinner soon.” I smile, but it’s weak, partly because he’s leaving when I already feel like I never see him, and partly because a rock has taken root in my gut.
“Love you too.” He backs up, a new customer coming up behind him as he does, but he pauses.
“She’d be proud, Lol,” he says, tipping his head to the smiling photo of my mother I have behind the counter, the namesake of the bakery.
I smile a weak, watery smile,
“Go, before I cry and someone gets a photo.” He returns the smile, winking as he walks out, putting the phone to his ear.
