by Alexa Hart
A familiar voice jarred me out of my musings. I could hear Felicity Howard – my closest friend and Winston Elementary Private School’s sole kindergarten teacher – calling out across the hall in her classroom gently but firmly, “Tyler, when I said to stop playing with Jordan’s shoe, I did not mean to start playing with your own.” She sounded a mixture of exhausted and amused, and I smiled a little picturing the scene.
Sometimes the maturity level difference between her students and my ever-so-much-older first grade students seemed vast. As I gratefully thought this, James O’Connor fell out of his desk and landed flat on his face in a failed attempt to retrieve a dropped crayon.
Maybe the difference wasn’t so fucking vast.
“James, are you alright?” I was on my feet and helping him up while his classmates snickered shamelessly. He met my gaze with a cheerful “I’m fine, Miss Greene!” and a dripping, bloody nose. I cringed inwardly. I didn’t mind blood or James’ clumsiness, but Mrs. O’Connor was a straight up steel-cold bitch when she thought anyone had in some way failed her child (and thereby failed her). You didn’t fail people like Mrs. O’Connor. You didn’t fail any of the wealthy parents of Winston Elementary’s elite student body. It was an unwritten job requirement with well understood consequences.
James, easy-going and unaffected as ever, had Kleenex up each nostril and a sweet smile on his face by the time the 3:14 closing announcements crackled across the intercom. There was not a day in my memory that the ancient school secretary, Mrs. Bonaparte (Felicity called her simply “The Hag”), had ever missed the opportunity to let her shrill voice be the last thing the students heard before their anticipated release.
“Students of Winston Elementary, let me remind you that this weekend holds Trick-or-Treat night for most of you. Safety should be of utmost importance when you are out and about the neighborhoods. Always walk with a friend. Wear bright colors. Have your parents check your candy before you eat any of it. Always remember that you are representing Winston Elementary and should be on your very best behavior. Have a good weekend.”
I rolled my eyes, wondering what the statistics were for small children who actually waited until their parents examined each and every piece of their loot before indulging in their nightly steal. Those numbers had to be staggeringly low; but maybe not quite as low as the percentage of parents who gave a shit to check the candy in the first place. Bonaparte was probably reading straight off a piece of paper that had been printed out in the fucking seventies.
“Tyler! Shoes on!” Felicity’s voice echoed through the hallway with much less good humor than it had a mere three minutes before. I giggled, as did some of my students, and then proceeded to form the neat line of children for the end-of-day parent pick-up procedure.
The split second the bell rang, the kids were moving rapidly out the door and instantly became the multiple hall monitors’ responsibility. It was a swift lifting of weight off all of the teachers’ shoulders and had a magical, if somewhat militant, quality to it.
“Bye, Miss Greene!” In twenty plus little voices as backpacks and giddy, uniform clad children whisked out the door with the inexplicable, never-ending exuberance of innocent youth. I tried to give them all one good look over as they exited, and today especially focused on James. His bloody nose plugs had been discarded and his face looked as cheerful and fresh as ever.
Thank God, I thought, returning his vigorous hug and mentally replaying the footage of the last time I had upset Mrs. O’Connor. I had no desire to ever repeat that encounter. Her own husband had seemed scared of her at our “meeting”, which was more or less an extended speech about her expectations for any teacher involved in the care of her “dear James” - and how I had not met them. That had been over James swallowing and very briefly almost choking on a piece of bubblegum that he was not allowed to have in the classroom to begin with.
I had developed quite a good eye for spotting moving jaws amongst my kids since that incident. Bubblegum might as well have been cocaine in my opinion, because it would most definitely be treated as such were I to “fail” again and let such contraband infiltrate my classroom. I had earned an official warning for it from Principal Sanders, and we were only allowed three warnings per school year before being fired became a very viable option.
I still had seven months to go.
Felicity and I referred to it as “The Bitch O’Connor Warning” in private. Felicity had been James’ teacher the previous year and had many colorful, descriptive phrases devoted entirely to Mrs. O’Connor. I couldn’t help but agree that the woman deserved every last one.
I felt a particularly tight squeeze around my middle and knew instantly little Gia Morano was the culprit. Her head full of dark curls pressed into my stomach with genuine seven-year-old affection, and she turned her beautiful little face up to mine with a wide, happy grin and shining chocolate-brown eyes. “I’m going as a panther this year, Miss Greene. My daddy said it might be hard to find a panther costume that didn’t look just like a regular ol’ black cat, but we fooound one and it’s the best costume everrr! Just like a real-life panther! Bye!”
She skipped out the door, and I felt a wave of tenderness flood my heart. Gia was one of the most precious little girls I had taught to date. Although my teaching career had only spanned exactly three years and counting, I had a gut feeling that you didn’t get a “Gia” in your classroom very often. She was delicate and endearing, intelligent beyond her tiny years, and my absolute favorite student. I would deny it to the staff as though my life depended on it (or more accurately, my career). However, I couldn’t even attempt to pretend it wasn’t true within my own private thoughts and emotions.
I sat at my desk and closed my eyes. But her father.
No one knew much about Mr. Morano. Felicity had been Gia’s teacher last year and had not met him even once. The girl’s elderly nanny had always dropped her off – complete with a personal driver and a jet-black Rolls Royce – and always picked her up. If Gia fell ill and needed to go home, the nanny came. If she had a dentist or doctor appointment midday, the nanny came. Even at parent teacher conferences, Gia’s father had not shown his face. Gia’s nanny appeared for him, to fulfill his duty by proxy. Oddly enough, Felicity had told me that at the meeting, the nanny had audio recorded the entire conversation – “with Miss Howard’s express consent”. Felicity had been given the distinct feeling that refusing was not an option, and had conceded without any protest.
The general impression given by such a request was that Mr. Morano cared very much about his daughter’s educational progression. The complete lack of his presence at the school or any of its functions suggested the opposite.
I wasn’t bothered by any of that so much as I was by the disturbing rumors surrounding Mr. Morano’s occupation. No one seemed to have any hard evidence to back up their claims, but it swirled around the staff in heated whispers that he was, in fact, involved somehow with the mafia. The rumors went deeper than that though. I had been made aware on more than one occasion that the deceased Mrs. Morano herself had fallen victim to a mafia related altercation. I knew the great liberties with which gossip was generally gifted, especially in this wealthy and slightly vicious community. That aside, Mrs. Morano was very much dead. If her husband’s involvement with crime had been the catalyst to that death, then wasn’t it fair to say Mr. Morano was somewhat to blame? The thought of this man’s activities endangering his wife to the point of her untimely passing haunted me ruthlessly every day when Gia came bubbling through the classroom door. She was so innocent, so friendly, and so perfect.
How could this man sleep at night? What kind of man would put his own family in such a perilous position?
This is why he doesn’t show his face here. He knows he is hated.
I felt unabashedly that he very much deserved to be.
“Coffee time?” Felicity’s head popped in my door. Her hair seemed to be escaping its clip on one side, and her expression was slightly more fraz
zled than ordinary; but she was still smiling.
“It’s definitely coffee time,” I agreed, returning the smile.
“Coffee time” was not exactly what it appeared to be amongst the two of us. Coffee most certainly was involved, but so were a few swift pours of Bailey’s Irish Crème, which Felicity kept locked up in her lower-left desk drawer. It was a tradition we had started in college and somehow managed to carry into the present day, although the indulgent aspect of the treat had been downscaled to appropriate, “job-holding-adult" deviancy levels. After a particularly trying day, “coffee time” was the reward for simply still being alive.
“Fuck yes, it is,” Felicity confirmed, gently plopping down two mugs of steaming brew on my desk and pulling up a chair. She glided into it seamlessly, showing the exact ratio of grace that I felt must balance out my general awkwardness.
We were opposites in so many ways. Felicity had ebony hair, exotic hazel eyes, and gave the impression of having walked to wherever she was straight from her throne as an Egyptian queen. She had been turning heads since I met her freshman year. I, however, was blonde – yellow blonde – with stereotypical blue eyes and felt about as sexy as Rainbow Brite.
“Bad day, Fel?” I asked, grinning slightly at the memory of Tyler and his shoes.
“Ugh. Just a day, you know? Sometimes I really wonder how I ended up surrounded by a bajillion five-year-olds five days a week.” Felicity took a giant swig from her cup.
“Well,” I paused for dramatic effect, “I do seem to remember someone saying something about ‘Teaching kindergarten has to be the easiest career ever. They’re small, still cute, and you literally only have to be as smart as a first grader for the rest of your life.’” I looked at her, raising my eyebrows and trying not to laugh.
“Fair enough, Greene,” Felicity granted, rolling her eyes haughtily. “All I know is, I’m never having any.”
She had been telling me this since sometime mid-sophomore year. That was when she had experienced what she called her “sexual awakening” and had broken away from the very restrictive guidelines of the religion her parents had raised her in since birth. Felicity had started her journey into discovering every aspect of her sexual self then, and she continued the task to this very day. In layman’s terms, she slept with whomever she wanted whenever she wanted, with no intention of ever being in a committed, monogamous relationship.
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that once or twice,” I played, winking at her. I loved her, and it wouldn’t have mattered to me if she ended up alone in a house full of feral cats and miniature garden gnomes.
She sighed and listlessly picked up the stack of construction paper masterpiece drawings the kids had worked on today. “You know, you think it’s funny now, but when you’re stuck in some loveless marriage cursed with a bunch of hellions screaming at you all day and some boring dude who forgot you had a vagina about the same time his dick stopped working properly...” her tirade faded out and I waited, heavily amused now. Felicity didn’t smile though. She was holding one of the drawings and staring at it with a disbelieving scowl. “What in the actual fuck, Abby?”
“What?” I felt extremely alarmed without having the slightest idea why.
“THIS.” Felicity flipped the paper around so I could join her in her horror.
At first it was just a blur of stick figures and carefully drawn daisy-like flowers. Focusing in, I realized two of the stick figures – a male and female, judging from the hair – were on one side of the page and a stick figure with some sort of attempt at a black suit was on the other side, pointing what could only be a gun at the others. Then it hit me that the female had bright red streaks coming out of her stomach area and blue tear marks on her circle face.
The last detail I noticed was the adorably scrawled “Gia Morano” in purple crayon at the bottom right hand corner.
I felt my insides boiling with a hatred I was unaware I had possessed for Mr. Morano. That son of a bitch.
GRAB Marcello HERE
READ THE REST OF THE MOB DADDIES HERE
Mob Daddies Series
Marcello - Book 1
Kane - Book 2
Also by Alexa Hart
Hot Bosses Series
Boss Hottie (Hot Bosses Book 1)
Boss Naughty (Hot Bosses Book 2)
Boss Daddy (Hot Bosses Book 3) - Coming Soon
**ALL BOOKS WITHIN THE SERIIES CAN BE READ AS STAND-ALONES**
Want a FREEBIE? Sign up HERE and get FORBIDDEN FRUIT by Alexa Hart delivered straight to your inbox!
About the Author
Alexa Hart is an author, wife, mommy to two adorable fur babies and big-time hopeless romantic. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with her amazing husband (her very own real-life bad boy), growing gorgeous flowers in her garden and finding inspiration for her next book literally everywhere she looks. Love is all around us and it brings her so much joy to bring that love to life in each story she writes.
STAY UP TO DATE!
Join Alexa’s Insiders Only Newsletter and stay up to date with the hottest deals and new releases on Kindle! JOIN HERE
FIND ALL OF ALEXA’S BOOKS HERE!
