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No.
To see her.
The fuck was that about?
I wouldn’t even pretend to understand.
Granted, I loved women. I loved them in all shapes and sizes. I liked them sassy and sweet and everything in between.
When you were away for fifteen fucking years, you really learned to appreciate what you were missing.
So, yeah, when I got out, I dove face-first into some pussy before I even went to see my family, before I even grabbed a decent meal.
I’d been making up for lost time ever since.
But I never found myself thinking about any particular woman, wondering what she was up to, or if I would run into her again.
So why the fuck was I doing that with the random witness to a crime? Someone I barely knew. Someone who clearly wouldn’t have picked to be associated with me if she’d been given the choice.
I had no fucking idea.
But I wasn’t exactly someone who analyzed shit to death either, so I just rolled with it. Let the days pass me by.
There was one text two days in, a simple picture of the wound on her chest, taken so close it was almost out of focus.
Beneath it was one word: “Infected?”
“No.”
I hated texting.
All the young bloods always called me Old Man when I admitted to that. But I just couldn’t get used to the impersonal feeling to it. Or make my fingers seem to work right on the too-small keys.
I’d been told on more than one occasion from the women in the family that I had “terrible texting etiquette.”
Which was probably the reason I didn’t hear back from Whitney.
But that was what had me practically fucking itching to make my visit to Dolin’s as I stood in Lorenzo’s hallway, waiting for Emilio to bring me the cash.
My ass was half-tempted to offer to pay the hush money myself. The only thing holding me back was knowing the brows that would be raised at that, and the questions that might be asked.
“Did Cesare say that this woman works at Dolin’s?” Emilio asked as he came down the hallway with a brown paper bag all rolled up around the small wad of cash. Small bills. That was how we liked to operate.
“Yeah.”
“Christ. I think sexual harassment comes with your paycheck at that place.”
“Isn’t Tommy on the books?” I asked.
It was usually Brio who worked as the Family bagman, collecting the money that people owed to us from gambling or for protection, so I didn’t know everyone we collected from, but I was pretty sure we had more than a passing relationship with Dolin’s Diner.
“Yeah. We collect from him. He’s been late lately. Brio is almost done giving him slack,” he told me as I put the cash in my pocket.
“Can’t claim I’d be upset to see that fucker get a kneecap busted in,” I said, shrugging.
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Emilio agreed, giving me a smirk. “You’re here late,” he added.
“Yeah. The waitress only works the overnight shift,” I told him.
