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“—We aren’t drowning— “
He cuts me off, giving me a look full of disdain. “You can cut the shit, Rose. I know how hard you work. I know how much you kill yourself day in and day out. I know. I hate seeing it. I hate seeing Mom and Dad sitting on their asses and expecting you to do all the work. I see it, Rosie. I see how tired you are, and I didn’t know what to do. I just…I took action.”
I embrace him in a tight hug, holding him close. One hand is on the back of his head and the other is in the middle of his back. He’s taller than me, so it’s awkward, but it’s how I’ve always hugged him since he was little.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, giving him a good squeeze before letting him go. “I know you meant well and while I appreciate your effort, this wasn’t the way to go about it.” I take the gem from his hand again and shove it into my pocket. “I’m going to find the guy that did that to your face.” I grip his chin and turn him into the light, scowling when I notice that his cheek is swelling. “No one touches you. How dare they. You’re nineteen years old. Anyone who puts their hand on a teenager is sick. They need to pick on someone their own size.”
He smirks, wincing when the cut on his lip opens again from the movement. “Like you?”
I point a finger at him. “I might be small, but my attitude is well above six—maybe even seven-feet tall.”
“Definitely,” he agrees. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I knew I fucked up when I took it. I had a split thought of thinking ‘this could change everything’ and I ran with it. Literally. Ran.” He frowns. “We probably won’t be safe here. I bet they know it was me.”
“You aren’t safe here. I’m fine,” I reassure him. “They might not know anything. We shouldn’t overthink, but like I said, I’ll take care of it. Okay?”
He nods, then he squints his eyes to the floor when he notices the flour. “What did the flour do to you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I wave his question away when he laughs, but it’s the guy that hurt my brother who is about to have the same issue these bags of flour had.
We might be broke, but damn it, we are good people, and no one takes advantage of that.
Chapter Two
Ari
An annoyed sigh escapes me while I listen to Frankie make another excuse about why he can’t pay me this month. This is where I’m different than Carmine. I have the tendency to give a little leeway to the people I like and I really like Frankie. He’s good people. He means well. He’s only trying to keep his Italian restaurant alive.
I don’t blame him. It’s a great place to eat. One of my favorites. His Nona is sweet and makes everything by hand, which is another reason why I’ve gone easy on him. Nona holds a special place in my heart. Maybe it’s because I never knew my grandparents and she reminds me of the grandmother I wish I would have had.
But even my kindness has limits.
I do not like being taken advantage of.
The restaurant is closed on Sundays so they can prepare for the week, so I came in to settle the business we have with one another.
I’m at the table, swirling the pasta around my fork. They have the best pasta in the city. I hate to know this will be the last time I eat here.
“Mr. Milazzo—” Frankie begins, voice trembling out of fear.
I hold up my finger to silence him, enjoying the last of my lunch. When I’m done, I push the plate aside and wipe my mouth, then take a swig of the wine that pairs perfectly with my meal.
I lean back in the booth, the soft cushion giving against my shoulders. I fold my hands on the table and gesture for Gianni.
He places a long, silver knife in front of me, and I give him a nod.
“Frankie,” I begin with a sigh. “I like you.” I give him an honest, big smile. “I do. You’re a good guy. You work hard. I like a hard worker.”
“Th-Thank you, Mr. Milazzo.” His eyes never leave the knife I have in front of me. Sweat beads on his forehead, the sheen glistening under the lights. “I like you too. You’ve been good to my family.”
I take the knife in my hand and tap the tip into the table, leaving small dots. “I have been, which is why I’m here, because Frankie—” I lean forward, “—you haven’t been good to me.” My voice deepens with aggravation. “You’ve taken advantage of me.”
“No, no. Mr. Milazzo. I can explain.”
Before he can say another word, I snag the knife and stab his hand, locking him against the table.
He shouts in agony, trying to lift his hand free, but Gianni presses the handle down so Frankie can’t move.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he cries, blood dripping down the silver blade and onto the table. “I’ll do whatever you want. Things haven’t been good here. I’ve been trying to get you your money, Mr. Milazzo. I promise.”
