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The new me is a badass.
Okay, so I’m still working on making that last part believable.
But a year ago, that first time Johnny came to me personally instead of to my dad, it was my wake-up call.
For years I’d been telling myself it would get better. That grieving looked different for everyone, and my mom hadn’t asked me for much. I could do it. I could make this sacrifice.
But something happens when a mobster calls you and tells you your father told them you’d settle debts on his behalf.
Something snaps.
And no matter what I promised my mother or if she told me to keep the family settled and Lilah safe, I knew deep in my bones she wouldn’t want that kind of life for me.
There was a reason she didn’t opt for it for herself when she was offered, after all.
“Not bad, Lola. Nice place you’ve got here.” I smile a tight, strained smile.
“Thanks. What can I get you?” I ask, reaching for the wax paper I use to grab treats from the bakery case.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe he wants a muffin. Maybe he just got hungry on his way to go hassle some other poor soul and stopped into my little shop . . .
“I’m here to get those rainbow cookies we talked about.” My stomach drops.
I don’t have rainbow cookies.
I also am sure that he does not wantrainbow cookies.
“I don’t have that kind of . . . cookie. You know that.”
“Talked to your dad. He said you did.” I feel sick.
When I told my dad tohandle thisand didn’t hear back, my dumbass assumed he had, in fact, handled this.
It seems he did not.
“My dad is wrong.” My arms cross my chest, not in a power move to prove a point, but because I need that barrier. The way his eyes are on me and his lips are turned up in a smile . . . It has every alarm blaring.
“He said you’d say that. But he also said your bakery was . . . more than capable.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Right now, I don’t have that.” I hate this game, but more so, I just want him out of here. “Can I get you something else in the meantime? Brownie? Chocolate chip cookie? Sprinkle cookie?” All I want is himgone.He looks me over, and I think he sees it. His eyes move around the full bakery and he nods.
“I’ll take a chocolate chip.” He smiles a shit-eating grin like there’s some hidden meaning behind that as well, but I don’t care. I move to the case, grabbing cookies and tossing a few into the bag, not checking to see how many, not making sure they don’t crumble. I don’t care. I want him out. Rolling the top of the bag down, I reach out, trying to hand them over.
“On the house.” He moves, grabbing my wrist.
The grip isn’t just firm.
It’s a bruising grip, pain shooting through my arm with the action, and he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he leans in.
“You gotta figure this out,bellissima. You don’t want me here again.”
I should tell him off.
I should draw attention to him.
