Marissa
Even though he told me state champion, I was unprepared for how incredible Gio plays. His fingers dance over the keys playing an incredible classical song I’ve heard in movies. Or elevators.
I stand behind him, admiring the ease with which he holds himself, how he looks over at me and winks, like he knows I’m blown away and thinks it’s funny.
“What song is this?”
“Solfeggietto in C. It sounds more impressive than it is,” he tells me. “It’s actually just scales.”
I laugh incredulously. “No, it’s pretty impressive.”
But I’m getting itchy. If I stay much longer, Gio’s going to think we’re having sex. I’ve already sat down over wine and dinner with him-which I know was probably a mistake. I wish I didn’t find him so damn irresistible.
As if Gio picks up on my tension, the moment he finishes the song, he gets up. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Or just to the train station. I can take the L home.”
“The fuck you are.”
I roll my eyes, but I knew he was going to say it, and I can’t deny the little flame of warmth it ignites. My dark hero. Obsessed with my safety.
I go to the kitchen to clean up.
“Leave them,” he orders. “I’ll clean up this time.”
“Spaciente,” I say. Sorry. “A chef never leaves her kitchen in disorder. It’s the cardinal rule.”
Gio’s eyes are warm on me as he leans in the doorway and just watches me move around. I’m lightning fast-every chef is. There’s no place for slow in a kitchen.
“I’d help, but I’m afraid to get in your way,” Gio observes.
“You would,” I confirm, starting the dishwasher and corking the wine. I wipe down the countertops and wash and dry my hands. “Let’s go.”
“Seven minutes, twenty-eight seconds,” Gio says, looking at his phone. “Impressive.”
“I know,” I say with a cocky smile. My prowess in the kitchen is one thing I don’t worry about.
I gather my things and we head downstairs, Gio taking the handcart and crate from me and pulling it himself. “What’s your favorite thing about cooking?” Gio asks in the elevator on the way down.
“My favorite thing?” I almost don’t want to tell him. Don’t want him to feel like he’s doing me a second favor here. But he is. “It’s the menu creation. So I enjoy this job.”
“This job.” he repeats with a nod, like he’s reminding himself he’s a job to me, not anything more. “Couldn’t you do more of that at Milano’s?”
I shrug. “Milano’s is a cafe. Pastries and coffee. Some deli foods. It’s not a gourmet sit-down restaurant.”
The elevator doors open and we emerge in the underground parking area. Gio moves closer to me, as if to shield my body with his as we make our way to his SUV.
“Couldn’t it be? I’m just thinking- you already have your own place. Why are you working for another chef when you could be doing it for yourself?”
I shake my head. It’s not like I haven’t dreamed of having my own restaurant. But it would be a nice restaurant. Not some washed up cafe in Cicero. “We don’t get the kind of clientele it takes to support the kind of restaurant I’d want.”
“What kind is that?”
Jesus, this guy is relentless. And these aren’t personal questions, but to me they are. They’re at the very essence of all my hopes and dreams. And every one of them bares another bit of my soul.
“Fine dining. Like Michelangelo’s.”
He loads the handcart in the trunk, then holds the door open for me. “And you love everything else about Michelangelo’s?” he asks when he gets in. “Like you’d rather that were your full-time job?”
I snort. “It is my full-time job. Milano’s is my home life. But yeah. Honestly? Sometimes I wish the shooting had…” I stop because it’s too wicked to even say out loud.
“Closed the place down?” he finishes.
I exhale and drop my forehead into my fingers. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m a terrible granddaughter.”
Gio’s quiet for a long time, letting me stew in my shame. “I know a shit-ton about being conscripted into a family business,” he says gruffly.
I jerk my head up and look over. It never occurred to me that Gio might not enjoy his business. All I see is the power and money. Maybe he has no taste for the violence. Well, crap-he got shot in the gut for it, didn’t he? Almost died?
“I’ll bet you do,” I say softly. I clear my throat. “Anyway, yeah, I’d rather just work at Michelangelo’s. Except without my direct boss, because he’s disgusting.”
I sense Gio’s body come alert, even though I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything, yet he somehow seems to know. “Disgusting how?” he asks sharply.
Tingles run over my skin. I can’t decide if I’m excited or nervous about the threat I hear in his voice. The fact that I know his protectiveness is still aimed firmly at me.
No, this is a problem.
This man is dangerous. Like breaking-legs dangerous. Shooting kneecaps. Busting ribs. I may hate working with Arnie, but I’m not going to send a mafia hitman after him.
Well, I don’t know if Gio’s a hitman, but he easily could be.
“Never mind.” My voice sounds scratchy.
Gio cuts his gaze from the road to me. “What’s his name?” His tone is deadly.
I shake my head. “I’m not telling.”
Gio’s lip curls and he looks downright scary. “The fuck, Marissa?”
My heart’s beating fast, like I’m the one in danger and not my asshole handsy boss. “I don’t trust you, Gio.”
He flinches and the color drains from his face, along with the anger. “Huh,” is all he says.
I want to say more-to say it better so he’s not offended, although this whole thing is crazy. Since when do I need to be so worried about hurting the feelings of one of the heads of the most powerful crime family in the country?
I don’t. I shouldn’t. This man pretty much owns me, even though he hasn’t flexed that power much, he could. I shouldn’t have to worry about him getting butthurt when I don’t want him to throw someone in Lake Michigan with cement shoes for me.
Gio
My fist smashes through the drywall of my bedroom too easily. I squeeze my fingers into a fist, relishing the pain. At least I’m feeling something. First time in months. Although the self-disgust doesn’t exactly answer my question for why the fuck I’m living.
Cristo.
She doesn’t trust me. I guess she fucking shouldn’t. Because I want to kill that stronzo boss of hers. The one who’s done something disgusting to her.
And I know it’s something I’d wanna kill him for, because she wouldn’t tell me.
And fuck if my need to fix this for her, to exact a little justice, isn’t all-consuming. I smash my fist through the wall again. Two more times.
My knuckles bleed a little.
So she doesn’t want me to hurt the guy. That makes me a bad person, I guess.
Cazzo!
In my book, you don’t stand around and let a woman get molested by her boss and do nothing. And it’s happening to fucking Marissa, which makes me violent just thinking about it.
So what the fuck do I do?
What would a good guy do? A real hero?
A fucking hero would kill the stronzo.
Wouldn’t he?
I don’t know. Maybe my world view is just skewed so far toward violence I don’t know how to function in this world. Maybe that’s why I feel like a whale out of water since my shooting.
And then it occurs to me who does know how to function better within the lines of the law and societal norm.
I glance at the clock. It’s 3:00 a. m. Only 1:00 a. m. in Vegas. I pull out my phone and call my younger brother Nico. He owns a casino so he’s up late, even with-maybe especially with-a baby at home.
We’re not close. Not really. The five Tacone brothers fell into two groupings. The oldest three-me, Junior and Paolo, were one and the younger two-Nico and Stefano were another. We older brothers were expected to take over the family business. Our dad rode us hard and trained us to fit into his mold. Nico and Stefano had a little more leeway.
Which is maybe how they thought out of the box to expand business way beyond what the rest of us ever believed possible. And made it legal in the process.
Nico answers on the first ring. “Gio. What’s up?”
I don’t speak for a moment, because I don’t even know what I want. Whether or not it was a mistake to call.
“Gio?”
“I’m here, yeah. Wanted to run something by you.”
“Shoot.”
I pause again. “Say you found out a girl’s boss was getting handsy with her, but she’s a no-go on any violence. Like wouldn’t even tell you the guy’s name. What would you do?”
“You want revenge or you want to remove her from the situation?”
I inhale. Interesting separation. I had the two glommed together in my brain. “Cazzo. I guess I just want her comfortable. I could give up revenge if I knew he wasn’t anywhere near her.” Maybe.
“Easy then. Get him fired. Lean on the owner with cash or threats. If he’s the owner, you buy him out. Or get him shut down. Pay someone off to put him out of business. There’s a lot of options. Plus, it’s not full justice, but you can smile when you think of him unemployed.”
“Huh. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Fuck off.”
“That’s the thanks I get?”
“Grazie, fratello. That’s it.”
“I got more ideas. For stealthier vengeance-the kind she wouldn’t tie to you. Accidents, that kind of thing. If you need that, too.”
I crack my swollen knuckles. Do I need that?
Marissa’s reaction keeps replaying in my mind. I don’t trust you, Gio.
I don’t fucking like that.
“Nah, I’ll try to do it legitimately. Works well for you.”
“It does. A little bit of ruthlessness in legit business brings you right to the top. Who’s the girl?”
“Sta ‘zitto.” Shut up.
“Do I know her?”
“Yeah. It’s not a thing. I don’t know. Just a girl I want to protect.”
“You’re a good man, Gio.”
Am I? I seriously doubt it. Not when I couldn’t even come up with one idea that didn’t involve violence.
“I’m not. Give Nico Junior a kiss from me.”
“Will do. Buona notte.”
I end the call, grateful for what Nico reminded me of. I have more than my fists or guns. I have money. And that’s just as powerful-maybe more-than my ability to intimidate.
Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to buy Michelangelo’s, and I’ll fire every fucker Marissa wants me to. New life starts flickering in my cells. Something long dead in me-dead way before the shooting-awakens.
Gio Tacone, a restaurant owner. It’s damn close to the dreams I had for my adult life when I was a kid. Before my dad forever quashed them.
I used to picture myself owning a swanky 50s style lounge. The kind Sinatra would sing in, if he were still alive. I guess it would be a piano bar. Someplace I could reign, the Family man could convene, drink and do business, and my baby grand would gleam in the corner, ready for me to wander over, sit down and entertain. I guess I thought it would be the perfect melding of La Cosa Nostra and my love for piano. Like I could somehow put the two together in a positive way.
But of course, any career involving the piano-even a swanky Italian piano bar-was violently rejected by my father.
The more I picture it, the more it comes to life. Like what Nico’s built for himself only on a small, intimate scale. A swanky place of my own. Fine dining with a menu prepared by the new upstart talent Marissa Milano. A gleaming black baby grand back by the bar.
Hell, yeah.
This could definitely work.