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I feel as if the floor is dropping out from under me, as if I might be sick.Eighty percent.I’d be better off not taking on Dante as a client at all, considering the nights that tattooing him will take me away from the shop. The only saving grace is that if he continues to be happy with my work, he’ll refer me to others. I just have to hope Rico doesn’t keep extorting me with those referrals, too.
And you get to see Dante again.That little nagging voice in my head can’t keep from reminding me of that—that there are reasons beyond professional opportunities and money to want to go back…as ill-advised as that might be.
I’m also not entirely sure I can survive the embarrassment of seeing him again at all, after that accidental phone call. But it looks as if I’m not going to be given a choice.
“So that’s it?” I look at Rico, wondering if I’m really understanding this correctly. “You’re giving me Dante. You’re going to have me take over working on his—”
“I’m notgivingyou anything,” Rico hisses. His gaze is black and angry as a rattler’s. “I wastoldhow things are going to be. And now I’m passing that on to you. You do Dante’s work. You do a fuckinggoodjob, the best you’ve ever done. Don’t give him a single reason to so much asthinkill of this shop, or me, or anyone associated with it. And every night you come in here after a session with him, eighty percent of that fee and half the tip better be handed over to me in cash. Don’t even think about shorting me. I know what the fees are, and you might think you can get away with fudging the tip, but I’ll find out. One way or another, I guaran-damn-tee you I will.” He laughs, and the crooked smile on his face looks ghoulish, combined with the nose plaster and the bruises. “Don’t cheat me, Emma. You’ll regret it if you do.”
I nod wordlessly. I can’t say anything. The cold fear spreading through me prevents it, combined with an anger that makes me want to get in my Chevelle and storm up to Dante’s penthouse, just so I can ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.
This is what happens when you associate with a mob boss. His ways of handling problems are not normal.
Nothing about this is normal.
“Are we understood?” Rico looks at me. “Say it out loud, Em.”
“Don’t call me that,” I choke out. The last thing I want to hear from him right now is the nickname that my dad and my closest friends call me. A nickname that feels sweet and intimate. “But yes. We’re understood.”
“He tipped you that first night, didn’t he?” Rico looks at me expectantly. “I’ll be generous and say I’ll only take half of that, instead of all of it, like I should. After all, he was still my client then.”
I want to punch him in his already bruised face. It feels like being kicked when I’m already down, and I’m so tired of feeling like that. Every day seems to have brought some new thing to endure ever since my dad died. Now Rico is showing his truest colors, and it’s making it all so much worse.
“I don’t have it on me,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “I’ll have to bring it in tomorrow.”
Rico looks as if he wants to argue. But even he’s smart enough to know I’m not lying—no one carries that kind of cash around them in the city—not if they live here, anyway. “I’ll take it out of what you bring in tonight,” he says finally. “If there’s a balance after your fees and tips, you can give the rest to me the next night you work.”
I nod, swallowing back the angry bile in my throat. I don’t want to have to pretend to begratefulfor this, but he’s not giving me much of a choice.
“Alright. We’re good, then. Text Campano and set up a session—I don’t want him thinking that you’re holding out on him.” Rico turns away, leaving without another word, as if this were just some ordinary shop meeting.
The moment he walks out, my knees buckle. I sink into the nearest chair, grabbing for my phone with shaky fingers. I text Dante before I can stop myself, feeling as if I might be on the verge of bursting into tears.
Just got to work. Saw/talked to Rico. What the hell????
I set my phone down, my hands trembling. I knew I should have turned around and left Dante’s penthouse the moment he said his name. I should never have given him the opportunity to see what kind of work I could do. I should never have involved myself in any of this.
But I’m in it now. And beneath the fear, anger, and anxiety, I feel a flicker of anticipation warming the pit of my stomach.
My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up.
Rico told you that you work for me now?
My stomach knots. The abruptness of the message, the vagueness of it, reminds me that I really don’t know this man. That just because he has an appreciation for art and talked to me about my interests for an evening doesn’t mean he’s someone that I can or should feel safe with.
That he’s barely more than a stranger to me.
He told me that I’m taking over tattooing you, yes. But we need to talk, Dante.
I consider typing more, but this isn’t a conversation I can fathom having over text. It’s not one I really want to have face to face, either—but I’m not getting out of this, so we might as well hash it out in person.
Strange how something I wanted so much twenty-four hours ago now seems like something I’d be better off running from.
Let’s set up the next session. We can talk then. Tomorrow night?
I swallow hard. I’ll have to reschedule a client, but just now, the draw of not having to see Rico tomorrow—and potentially bring him more money—is worth the shitty feeling of having to push a client back. And it’s clear that Dante and I need to talk face-to-face.
Fine.But we talk first.
