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“That’s my sister’s Persian rug. That your 80-inch TV? Can you afford that, or does it belong to Gina?”
“What?” I ask.
“Must be my sister’s property.” Gabriella addresses one of the men in moving gear. “You know what, anything looks like it didn’t come from a dollar store, bring it. Now, back to you, Sir Loser.”
“Ms. Galloway.” I place my hands on my head.
“Gabriella. At least you could have remembered my name. I guess Gina wasn’t that important to you. She shared how she’s grown to care for your mother, your niece. Knew them all by name.”
“Gabriella, tell your sister to unblock her phone so I can explain a few things to her.Please.”
“No. You had cum shooting from that disgusting toddler in your pants like it was fucking Dom Perigon on New Year’s. If I have my way, you won’t see her in a hundred years.”
Gabriella steps closer to me, chin tilted high. Gina harps about the double standard. Women not treated the same in the workplace. With Gabriella’s shoulder’s squared, I grind my teeth. “Assets are the most important thing in the world to you, I see. Take it all. Lock up when you leave.”Bitch.
I grab my coat, strolling out of my apartment and out of the building. As I stalk toward my truck, frigid cold burns against my fingers. In a blur, I’m parked outside Galloway Enterprises, knuckles white from clutching the steering wheel. My cold glare sweeps past the street corner, where Gina finally gave me half a fucking chance.
“I fucked up so bad.” I attempt to focus.What happened last night after I drank from the water bottle?
With that thought in mind, Galloway Enterprise is behind me as I drive away. A half-hour later, I’m walking at the construction site, need to ask Carlos to his face, when the foreman calls me over.
I ask, “Yes?”
“You’re fired,” the foreman says.
“Whaddaya mean, fired?”
“As inhitthe unemployment line, Morelli.” He sighs as I laugh.
“This a joke?”
“No. The decision came from the boss.”
“You told him I called in, today! Tor and Bart call in more than this. What the fuck, it’s Christmas!”
He places his hands on his hips, looking down, then looks up at me. “Dude, I’m sorry. Don’t kill the messenger.”
Though I want to speak with Carlos in person, I stroll toward my truck. I’m liable to choke him to death right about now. I turn around and ask, “Carlos here?”
“Not today.”
I’m pulling out my phone, headed back through the zone. I dial the owner of the company. “Mr. Brown, Santino here, there must be some sort of mistake.”
“No mistake. One of my golfing buddies told me you were dealing drugs.”
“Dealing what?” My hand curls into a fist around my cell phone.
“Drugs, Santino.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Be that as it may, the reason my business is doing so well is because of Mr. Gal—”
“Galloway,” I groan.
“You got it. Good luck finding a new position—you won’t want to use me as a reference, either . . . Merry Christmas.”
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