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Gennero
“Take one more bite.” I hold the fork to her lips, her eyes softer than when we started, but still there’s trepidation.
One step at a time.
“Then, I’m done?” She locks her jaw, hands in her lap where I told her to keep them as she sits at the long rustic table in the large commercial kitchen off the ballroom where the party took place yesterday.
It’s already been cleaned and scrubbed by the cleaning company. The stainless-steel gleaming and the floor polished.
When we got done in the dressing room, she was so fucking pale, her stomach growling like a grizzly and she refused to eat at any of the restaurants because she can’t bear to have strangers watch her eat.
I tracked down Lucy at the nail place and gave her the bad news that we were heading back home. Carina’s well-being trumps a manicure and mulled wine. I had a few hours before I had to meet with Alfredo but getting that unpleasantry out of the way was still on my mind.
Lucy was fine with leaving. Her nails and toes were done, she said she had some work to do anyway and wanted me to be sure Carina was distracted because she felt like she was getting suspicious about her disappearing into the workshop the other day.
That all worked fine, because I was taking this monster inside of my little girl for a ride and I needed privacy.
“Baby, I told you, you are no longer responsible for your food choices. That’s all on me. If I have to feed you for the rest of your life, I’ll do it, but I won’t stand by one more fucking second and watch you hurt yourself and hate yourself. You’re fucking beautiful. If you weigh three hundred pounds as long as you’re happy and healthy, I’ll still think you’re beautiful. I’ll still want to fuck that tight miracle between your legs until you’re drooling and feel lobotomized. So, please, for the love of all things Christmas, take the bite.”
Her soft pink lips open and I guide the fork into her mouth, my heart warming when she lets out a soft moan as I withdraw the utensil and she starts chewing.
“Good girl.” I pet the back of her hair. “I’m so proud of you. So, so proud.”
We continue the process until she’s eaten half of a chicken breast and some buttered broccoli, each bite taking less convincing until her cheeks turn pink and the light returns to her golden eyes.
“I think that’s enough.” I stop before she starts to protest because part of this is her understanding that I’m not here to harm her, physically, emotionally or otherwise, but this demon inside her needs to understand there’s a new sheriff in town. “You did so good, baby.”
“Thank you, Papa. I feel okay. A little full.”
“That’s good. A little full is good. Now,” I push away the plate and take her face in my hands. “Give me a kiss. I have to go take care of some things in the workshop. Couple investment calls. Nothing big, you should go do something fun with Leonardo. Or read, take a bath.”
“Can we do…” She smiles and I don’t give a shit about what I need to take care of. I just want to sit here and watch her smile. “Can we do it again? Like, you know. Playroom or wherever, I just, I just want you all the time now.”
God, this girl. She makes me immortal. “Yes, baby. We will be doing ‘it’ again and so much more. But let me go handle my business, then we will find some time for us. Promise.”
I brush her lips with mine as my phone buzzes in my pocket and I know who it is.
My mood darkens as I leave her sitting in the kitchen, spearing another bite of the chicken herself as I head down the stairs toward my workshop.
* * *
This fucking guy.
“I want you to reconsider my offer.” Alfredo picks imaginary lint off his suit jacket, shrugging with his shoulders and also the corners of his mouth. “My boy Sully, he is a good boy. Solid. Dependable.”
“He’s twenty-five years old,” I point out, keeping my voice level for the sake of Christmas hospitality. “Hardly a boy.”
“And your granddaughter is eighteen, a grown woman. This is the way things have always been done, Don Sabato. Tradition. They are a good match. Our families run operations in neighboring parts of New York and Chicago, we join forces, we will rule the city.”
“I don’t give a fuck about tradition,” I say with a growl. “I’ve given you my answer. Carina is not for sale. Not to you, not to anyone.”
The ‘Don’ is sailing dangerously close to a fucking beating.
“There’s no need for hostility,” he says. “We’re old friends. We can discuss business without it becoming a war. Not like these young punks coming up now. With their guns and their drugs. All shoot-em-up now and ask the questions later.”
As he saysshoot-em-up,Don Pugliesi makes finger guns with both his hands and fires them at an imaginary intruder to the workshop.
Then he shakes his head, a dramatic disappointed sigh escaping his lips.
