AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Atlas looks tempted but shakes his head. "You need to eat."
"I had breakfast." My stomach chooses that moment to snarl loudly.
I guess my body doesn't count a single croissant eaten a few hours before as adequate sustenance.
He takes my hand and tugs me out of my office. "And now you're going to have lunch."
Once we're in his SUV, he asks me where I want to eat. "You know the area better than I do."
"There's a family-owned Italian restaurant a few minutes away. Let me call and see if they have a table." Listening to him talk and text in Greek with his family last night triggered a hunger for the familiar.
He thinks my brother is dead, but Rocco survived the war with the Irish and the bratva. When I'm overwhelmed, or sometimes really tired, I consider calling him. I let myself imagine that his love for his sister will be bigger than his loyalty to the don.
But that's a pipe dream.
If I want to keep Lenny safe and happy where he is, if I want to avoid another mafia marriage, Rocco and my parents have to continue to believe that I'm dead.
Does that hurt? Yes.
But the alternative would hurt even more. Or that's what I tell myself. Honestly, if Lenny's welfare wasn't part of the equation, there are times I would pack it in and return to Detroit. To my family.
The lunch rush is pretty much over, and the small Italian restaurant has an open table. I give them my name and ask them to hold it for us.
Over lunch, Atlas asks my opinion of the different businesses in the area. And he listens with rapt attention when I give it.
For a woman raised to accept the very traditional role of first mafia daughter and then wife, his interest in my thoughts and opinions is heady stuff.
"Are you and your brothers really considering opening a strip club near that bar we went to last night?" I ask Atlas, making no effort to hide my disapproval of the idea.
He gets a strange look in his eyes I can't quite decipher. "It might be a strategic move."
"I'm not so sure about that." Those thugs last night sounded Russian.
Which in and of itself is not concerning. There are over 40,000 Russian, Ukranian and other immigrants from the Baltic states in the Portland Metro. Many came to Portland to escape religious and other types of persecution.
I considered starting Nuovi Inizi in the Dobro Pozhalovat, a predominately Baltic neighborhood in East Portland, before ultimately deciding on my current location in Portland's west suburbs.
Before making the decision, I did my research on Portland's large Baltic community. There was no bratva presence when I did it.
What is concerning is that the men from last night had familiar tattoos. Ones like those the bratva that killed my husband and father-in-law wear proudly.
"There are places in and around the city that would be more profitable." Not to mention safer. "Besides, if you're working all the way over there, when will I see you?"
He keeps saying this thing between us isn't temporary. Well, if it's not, then him working across the city and with more than a couple of suburbs between us isn't going to be conducive to seeing each other.
"Running the club won't be my job."
"I thought you were doing this with your brothers."
"And cousins," he corrects while topping off my wine glass. "We each have our roles to play. Mine isn't management."
"What do you do?"
"Facilitate."
I'm not sure what that means, but no doubt he and his family have a system.
"You've been spending so much time with me, I'm not sure how you are facilitating anything."
