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Mrs. Jones sucks in a sharp breath, tears streaming down her face. I can’t tell if she’s grateful or fearful or a healthy combination of both.
“Oh, Mr. Costello! Thank you so much! I swear I’ll get the money this time, just you wait and see!”
I reach into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and pull out a business card. Flipping it over, I quickly jot down a phone number. “I also want you to call this woman. Tell her I sent you for a job. She needs a housekeeper, someone to help her with menial tasks and maybe prepare a meal every now and then.”
Mrs. Jones examines the card and the name I wrote along with the number. “Isabella Costello—”
“My mother,” I grumble under my breath. “I’ll see to it that she pays you fairly. It beats a grocery clerk job at minimum wage.”
A fragile smile graces Mrs. Jones’ dreary face. “Thank you,” she says earnestly. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. In fact, this conversation never happened, got it?”
Mrs. Jones nods quickly, getting up from her chair in a hurry. She mumbles something that sounds an awful lot likeoh, what a sweet boy, though I don’t think the term is very becoming of a forty-one-year-old man.
Elio steps in a few minutes later, looking pleased as punch. He leans against the door frame to Lorenzo’s office, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“What?” I snap, leaning back in my chair.
“Your ever-bleeding heart.”
I grab the heavy metal stapler off the desk and chuck it at him. Elio dodges out of the way, and the stapler smacks against the hallway wall behind him. Elio simply laughs. He knows if I really wanted to hurt him, I would.
“You look like shit,” he says gently, his smile slipping into something a tad more sympathetic. “Why don’t you close up shop for today?”
“Can’t. Someone’s got to run Lorenzo’s districts while he’s out.”
“I could take over for a bit.”
I give him a pointed look. I trust Elio with my life. While I’m Lorenzo’s right-hand man, Elio is mine. When the going gets tough, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he has my back.
Like right now, for instance, even though I want him to piss right off.
“Go home, Dom,” he says. “Take it easy.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“I’mfine.”
“Do you still have nightmares about it?”
I clench my jaw and glare at him. “Choose your next words carefully.”
“You should be home with your mother,” he continues, ignoring me. “She’s still shaken up over Tommaso’s death and—”
I shoot out of my chair, take three long strides to close the gap between us, grab Elio by the shirt lapels, and slam him up against the nearest wall. “Keep my brother’s name out of your fucking mouth.”
I haven’t spoken about Tommaso in over a month. I can’t afford to. The moment I eventhinkabout him and what happened that day, I’ll unravel—something I simply won’t allow myself to do. I don’t have time to mourn. Too many people are counting on me, too many people relying on my clear orders and unwavering judgment. Why Elio insists on needling me, I’ll never know. Probably watching too muchDr. Philor something.
Elio doesn’t fight back. “That’s okay, boss. Take it out on me if you have to. That’s what I’m here for.”
I huff, releasing him with a hard shove. “Who’s the asshole with a bleeding heart now?”
He calmly smooths the wrinkles my grip left on his shirt. “Seriously, Dom. Go home. I got the weekly reports from the other laundering houses. I can crunch the numbers and report to the higher ups for you.”
“Did Milo submit his reports?”
