“Mr. Citrione!” says the bouncer. He take the velvet rope and hooks it in front of the line while he leads us inside. “Come this way. I’ll make sure they get a table ready for you.”
When we step inside, the host sees Vince and claps his hands to two busboys. He jerks his head and mouths something to them. They rush off and return a few seconds later with a table. It’s like watching a disturbed anthill as the busboys swarm to move the table to the front of the stage. We’re led through the crowded restaurant toward the stage where a woman wearing a sparkling dress sings in a husky voice. By the time we reach the table, it’s covered by a table cloth, adorned with a dim candle, and set with silverware, plates, and a basket of warm bread rolls.
Vince pulls out my chair and helps me to sit.
I feel like an idiot because I can’t stop smiling. Guys don’t treat girls like this anymore. They definitely don’t treat me like this.
“Thanks for coming,” he says once we’re seated.
I raise my eyebrows. “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
His grin is predatory. “That’s the idea.”
“Is this how you operate? You dazzle women with luxury and hope they’ll get into bed with you at the end of the night?”
He looks down, folding his napkin, suddenly less sure. “Actually, no. I normally have a policy. I don’t buy things for women. I’ll pay for dinner, but I don’t do gifts.”
“So…” I say, not sure how to respond.
His confidence returns. “So you’re special. To me.”
I blush and smile like an idiot. It’s probably a line, something he says to every girl he takes out, but that knowledge might as well be a drop of water in a campfire.
Comfortable conversation flows between us while we order and wait for our entrees to arrive. I know the food must be expensive, because there are no prices listed on the menu. I also couldn’t understand half of what the menu items were, so Vince ordered for me. He also orders us a bottle of wine. I’ve never been much of a wine drinker, but if all wine tasted like this, I would be. It’s sweet, delicate, and has a pleasant aftertaste that makes me want to keep sipping, even after I have a pleasant buzz.
My meal is a handmade plate of ravioli in a mushroom basil cream sauce. The filling is a mixture of lobster and crab. Vince ordered himself a lasagna, which he insists I try. Both dishes are incredible, and by the time I’m done, I’ve eaten as much of Vince’s as I have of mine. Between the wine, the gentle flame of the candle, the soft, husky voice of the singer, and Vince’s sparkling eyes across the table, I feel happy and content for the first time in what feels like forever.
Before dessert arrives, a woman in a green dress with a plunging neckline that flaunts her huge breasts approaches our table. She puts both hands on the table and leans forward. Judging by the way her eyelids drop and she sloppily smiles, she’s more than a little drunk. “Vincent,” she says, leaning so far forward that I’m sure her tits are going to pop out of her dress at any second.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I watch her oogle him. He folds his napkin and glares up at her.
“Maria,” he says coldly.
“So is this tramp the reason you dropped off the face of the Earth? You just fuck me and forget me?” she turns to me, making a face like she’s giving me some motherly advice. “Listen, hun. He’s no good. He’ll do the same to you. Just walk away before he does.”
“Are you finished?” asks Vince. His hands are on the table and balled into tight fists.
“I’m just getting started,” she says.
“No,” says Vince. “You’re making a scene and you’re embarrassing yourself. You need to leave.”
One of the restaurant employees notices and signals to the security, who quickly walk over to her and take her by the arms.
“Let me the fuck go!” she screams.
They begin pulling her away from the table. One mutters, “Our apologies, Mr. Citrione.”
Maria kicks like a wild animal until her dress bunches up around her waist and she’s flashing half the restaurant with her black panties. “He’s a fucking mobster!” she screams. “Asshole!”
A door closes and her voice is cut off suddenly, but the damage has been done. The whole restaurant is staring at us and the singer on stage has stopped singing. She motions to the band and picks up where she left off. When people see the dark fury in Vince’s face, they stop staring and resume their conversations. Finally, it’s just me and him, sitting there in an uncomfortable silence.
I fold my napkin and drop it on the table. “I think I’d like to go home,” I say.
“Yeah. Sure,” says Vince, wiping his mouth and standing. He grabs my arm a little too hard and pulls me behind him as we leave.
We ride back to my place in silence, and I can’t quite pinpoint why I’m so upset. I knew he had been with other women. I knew he had probably fucked more women than I’d like to know. Was it just seeing one of them in person that made me so mad? I don’t know why I feel so betrayed, but I do. Maybe I’m just afraid that will be me one day, chasing him around while he coldly has me removed from his sight.
“How long were you seeing her?” I ask when he stops the car outside my apartment.
“Maria? Fuck. I don’t know. She was nothing. Just a favor to one of my cousins who was trying to set me up with her.”
“Was fucking her part of the favor?”
He turns to me, glaring. “You knew who I was when you let me fuck you. I didn’t see you complaining before.”
I purse my lips, eyes threatening to fill with tears. I refuse to let him see me cry over him. I shake my head slowly. “You really are an asshole,” I say, getting out of the car and slamming the door on him. Part of me expects him to come after me, to refuse to let me leave like that, but he doesn’t.
I take a deep breath and step out of my car. It’s a game night and I’ve got to be on camera in thirty minutes. I can’t stop thinking about last night. I wish I just knew how to feel. If I knew for absolute certain that I never wanted to see him again, that would be easy. If I knew I wanted to be with him, that would be easy, but I’m somewhere in between hating him and loving him.
I shake my head as my heels click in the parking garage. I’m in the lower level of the garage reserved for press, and all the other members of the media had the good sense to get here earlier. It’s just me, and my footsteps are loud enough to make me cringe. Why do I have to wear heels to be on camera when it never shows anything below my waist? Hell, I could wear sweatpants and slippers as long as my top looks nice.
I’m about to walk through the gate that leads from the parking garage to the stadium when my cell buzzes in my purse. I swear under my breath. Phone calls are never good anymore. It’s either someone reminding me I have a bill that needs to be paid or telling me I owe money for something new. That, or it’s my dad begging for more cash. I check the screen. Incoming call from Jerry Washington.
What?
I pick up the phone, half-confused and half-annoyed. I only have his number because he insisted on putting it in at the Christmas party. He never called me, though.
“Hello?” I say.
“Aubriella, it’s Jerry.”
“Okay?”
“I just wanted to tell you up-front before you see it for yourself. I have a buddy in the tech department and he passed along an absolutely stellar piece you wrote about some criminal activities going on with Ronnie White. Didn’t know you had it in you, Aubriella. He said you trashed it though, so I figured what the hell? She won’t mind if I take it for myself if she threw the thing away. So I published it this evening under my name.”
My blood turns to ice. I could fucking kill him. I grip the phone until my fingertips turn white. “You did what?” My words come out slow and steady.
“Easy, babe. If you threw a prime rib in the garbage, you couldn’t blame a dog for finding it and eating it.”
I stop walking so I can focus on fuming. If he w
as here right now I swear I would punch him. I’ve never punched someone, but it seems like the only way to vent all the anger. He has no idea what this means. He’s a slimebag and a complete jackass, but I don’t want him to get hurt over this, and Vince’s people will probably come after him. They might even think I put him up to it and come for me, too. It frustrates me that I’m most worried about Vince thinking I lied to him, not because I’m afraid he’ll hurt me--even if there is that--but because I don’t want him to think I broke his trust. I don’t know where he and I are after last night anymore, but the idea of him thinking I betrayed him still stings.
“This is completely different. Those are my words. That’s my ass on the line because of what I saw.”
He laughs in an infuriatingly dismissive way. “Babe--”
“Call me babe one more fucking time and you’ll regret it.” Jesus. I’m pissed, but I’ve never talked to someone like that before. It felt good. Really good. Vince is really rubbing off on me, in all the wrong ways.
“Relaaax. It wasn’t even the entire article. I mean, you’ve got the end somewhere though, right? I need it. I posted it as a sort of teaser for the next online issue of SportsCast Tuesdays. Readers will be waiting for the big reveal. Who is the secret mobster, you know, that kind of shit. I just need a name. I’ll have my people take care of the rest. I’ll even send you a bottle of wine to celebrate when it goes live.”
I take a long breath and force myself to save the tirade of insults and curse words that are coming to mind. None of that is going to do any good. I don’t want his death on my hands, so I do my best to stay calm. “Jerry. The reason I deleted that article was for my own safety. The people I saw are not the kind of people who want their name in news articles. When they see your name on that, there is no way they are going to let you make it to next Tuesday to publish the rest. They are probably going to come after me, too.”
He makes a sound like a train whistle. “All aboard the paranoid express. Sheesh. Look, I’ve got to be on the air in a little so I’ll let you think it over, but don’t take longer than a day or two. I really need that name or I’ll look like a complete ass.”
He hangs up the phone. I stare at it in disbelief for a few seconds before noticing a shadow move at the far end of the parking garage. I glance toward it and quicken my pace. Shit. Is someone following me? Now I really am being paranoid. I walk as fast as I can to the exit of the parking garage and give the rent-a-cop a nervous smile as I pass. He tilts his head and sips his coffee, not looking away from the small TV in his glass box.
I rush through the parking lot, whipping my head toward every sound, even if it’s just tailgaters laughing or a car door slamming as some fans get a head-start on the crowds. When I look over my shoulder, it’s impossible to know who could be following me. It could be any of them, or none of them. My heart is racing out of my chest and it feels like my stomach is doing somersaults. Calm down. You’re just being paranoid. But am I? Vincent already said he was keeping tabs on me, but he also said he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Then again, that was before Jerry fucking Washington published the article. Maybe he changed his mind. Vince probably heard about the article getting published before I did. He probably had time to send someone after me.
I nearly scream when my phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it free and see “Dad”. I never ignore his calls for fear that it’s something serious for once, but it’s too much right now. I ignore the call and keep my eyes forward, flashing my media badge to take the short-path through the tunnels that lead to the field. I feel myself relax a little now. If someone was following me, the chances of them having the clearance to get through to the field are low. Not impossible though. I look over my shoulder again and see no one has followed me through the gate. It makes me feel a little better, but I can’t help wishing Vince was here. Even if it’s him I’m afraid of, I want to feel the solid strength of his body beside me.
The Jets and the Jacksonville Jaguars are already on the field, scattered around and warming up. Players don’t typically do interviews at this point, so most members of the media are just checking equipment and going over their notes or making touch-ups to their makeup. I see the SportsCast commentary crew in one of the press boxes a few rows up from the field. Sometimes I think that wouldn’t be such a bad job. At least their opinions are considered important. They’re not just a pretty face to state the obvious. When I first got the job, I was flattered to be counted among the women pretty enough to fill the role. Everywhere I looked, I saw beautiful women working as field-correspondents, even though I never thought of myself as anywhere near that pretty. Now it just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like I’m some pointless dose of sex-appeal to keep drooling sports-fans tuned in.
I notice Aria’s golden hair near the end zone. She sees me right as I see her, and she hurries over to me. There’s something wrong. I can tell by how quickly she’s moving, and the way her eyes look swollen and red as she gets closer. She doesn’t stop moving toward me though and rams into me, wrapping her arms tight around me and sobbing against my shoulder.
“Hey. You’re okay, sweetie. What’s going on?” I ask.
She sniffs. I’m a bad friend for hoping she’s not smearing her makeup on my blue Chanel knockoff jacket. It only cost me $45 in a bargain bin and it’s my favorite top. It has cute, oversized buttons and deep black-hemmed pockets, cuffs, and neckline. At least, it was my favorite piece of clothing before Vince bought me the Prada dress last night. It still feels unreal when I think about it, and I can’t quite believe that the night ended like it did.
“It’s Ronnie,” she says. “You seemed like you had so much going on so I didn’t want to worry you. I thought he was just blowing me off until I got here. His coaches are going crazy trying to figure out where he is. No one has heard from him since yesterday. He’s gone.”
She says all of this into my shoulder, so I don’t have to worry about hiding the guilt that’s all over my face. Vince. What did he do? It’s one thing to know he’s a bad person and that he probably does bad things. The reality of it all is hitting me hard now. Why did I think I could just sideline that for a good time? Was the way he made me feel really worth getting tied up with someone so dark?
I push her back by the shoulders and look into her eyes. I’d be an even worse friend if I didn’t tell her what I know, so I sit her down on an unoccupied bench and spend the next five minutes telling her everything, including my shameful encounters. I can tell she wants to ask more about the sex by the glint in her eyes, but her worry over Ronnie keeps her quiet. By the time I’m done, her face is white and she covers it with her hands, releasing a fresh wave of sobs.
“He’s dead,” she sniffs.
“No,” I say. “No. Vince doesn’t seem like that kind of guy.” I feel guilty talking about him like I know him, like he’s my boyfriend or something. After all, he’s the guy who probably left Ronnie lying bloodied in a dark alley somewhere. “He would have just done enough damage to send a message. If he killed Ronnie, there’d be no way he could get the money back.”
Aria gives me a look that cuts me deep, like she’s seeing the real me for the first time. “How can you be so logical about this? He could be dead.”
I sigh, searching for the right words. “I’m not being logical or writing it off like it’s no big deal. It’s terrible. I hate that I got involved with someone who would do something like this. I just...I wanted you to know that I think Ronnie’s okay.”
“You’re talking about him like you are still involved with him.”
I open my mouth to speak but can’t find the right words. “I-Just. I don’t-”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I never asked for any of this. I can’t just walk away from him. It’s not safe.” There’s some truth to what I say, but in reality, my hesitation to break things off with him once and for all has nothing to do with fear of what he would do to me. I’m in too deep, whether I want to admit it or not. “Be
sides, my best chance of finding out what happened to Ronnie is talking to him.”
Aria scowls at me and nods her head savagely. “Yeah. Thanks for that. I’ll just go home then and have a great night’s sleep because your psycho boyfriend probably didn’t kill Ronnie.”
She turns and storms off. I would go after her, but a quick glance at my phone tells me I’m on camera in five minutes. I can’t afford to risk my job. Too many bills. Too many problems. I guess she has a right to be mad at me. Wouldn’t I be pissed at myself in her shoes? Still, it doesn’t help take away the sting.
I’m about to run over to Eric and try to get on the air before I get fired for missing my cue, but a burly man in a suit steps in front of me. It’s like bumping into a semi-truck, and I nearly fall over. A passing Jets player catches me by the shoulders, barely looking as he stands me upright and then continues toward the field.
I look up into the man’s dark, Italian features. He has stubble and an arching brow, but there’s only cruelty in the expression he wears. He’s a complete stranger, but the way he looks at me says he knows me.
“S’cuse me,” he says in a deep voice, but he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t look away.
I get an immediate overdose of creeper vibes and try to back away, but he steps toward me.
I open my mouth, but he silences me with a sausage-like finger. “You can call for help, and I’ll have to walk away. But I’ll come back, and I’ll come when you’re alone and somewhere no one will hear you scream.”
I swallow hard. It takes everything in me not to scream. “What do you want?” I ask, voice shaking a little.
“I’m just here to make sure you understand that we’ll shove a big fat cock in that mouth of yours if you can’t keep it shut about what you saw. But you wouldn’t mind that, would you?” He leers at me. “Hell, if you behave I’ll even let you have it up the ass after.”
I clench my fists, feeling tears well in my eyes. I try to hold them back but I’ve never felt so violated. Here I am, surrounded by tens of thousands of people, only feet away from NFL players, coaches, officials, even Eric, who's still fiddling with his camera, and this pig is able to walk up to me and say things like that? The worst part is I know I can’t do anything. He’s right. If I draw attention to him, he could just walk away. He’s not breaking any laws by talking to me. It would be my word against his, and who knows when he’ll come back for me. Was he the one I saw in the parking garage? I feel a chill thinking of how much danger I would have been in if he had stopped me there, alone.
His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Citrione Crime Family) Page 8
