by Sam Mariano
For me, Easter was a vacation. For Carly, it was a trial she barely survived. I got to laze around in bed with Laurel, exchanging meaningless stories and orgasms, but Carly had to fight with all her might just to keep from sinking. Mateo was firing missiles at her life, and Vince was struggling to stay away from Mia’s siren call. Not that Mia had any idea she was doing anything to tempt him, of course. She merely existed, and that was enough. Mia doesn’t understand or have control over her powers, but damn, that woman really does pull people in. She nearly pulled Laurel in last night, and I didn’t think I had to worry about that. Mia likes me. She’s on my side (as long as I’m on her husband’s side, anyway). She just can’t help herself. People crave acceptance, even when they fuck up, and Mia wants to give it to them. Somehow she still hasn’t figured out how seductive that is to those of us who fuck up the most.
She’s only trying to be nice, but it’s damned inconvenient for the people who want to keep what she lures away with her endless well of love. Though I guess it would have been kind of funny if Mia had stolen my girl. I would have had to laugh. Her husband already yanked one from me years ago, so he would’ve found that pretty damn amusing, too.
Back to the task at hand, I focus on Carly. She still hasn’t spoken, so I go on. “This doesn’t have to be a disaster, Carly. Laurel can be happy here. I’ll take good care of her. You and I don’t have to be enemies, either. I’m willing to put all this behind us and start over if you are.”
Carly shakes her head, looking down instead of at me. “You have ruined my little sister’s life, and you’re willing to put it all behind us and start fresh. You Morellis really are a noble bunch, aren’t you?” she replies, scathingly.
“Look, I’m being nice,” I tell her, showing my hands in a gesture of innocence. “I don’t have to be. You have no power here. Sure, you could tell your sister you don’t approve and make this even harder on her than it already is, but that only hurts Laurel. It’s not going to faze me. I’m still going to keep her here; my life with Laurel will go on completely without a hitch. If you want to hurt your sister, by all means, react poorly tomorrow. It will piss me off and I will ruin your life as payback, but hey, if that’s what you need to do, knock yourself out. It won’t change a damn thing.”
“I didn’t think I could hate anyone more than Mateo for dragging you into my sister’s path to begin with, but I was wrong. You’ve topped my list.”
Clasping my chest theatrically, I tell her, “You’re breaking my heart here, Vivian.”
“I hope someone murders you. And not in a badass way, no blazing glory, something really lame, like… they inject some kind of slow-acting poison into your veins, and you drop dead surfing for porn on the toilet.”
Smiling, I tell her, “I don’t have to surf for porn; I can just go to my bedroom and look at your naked sister stretched prettily across my bed.”
Grimacing, she says, “So much hatred. An immeasurable quantity of hatred.”
Glancing out my front windshield, I tell Carly, “As much fun as this is, I have to hang up now. I just wanted to prepare you, give you time to work up a convincing performance. Laurel has enough to deal with right now and she doesn’t need to add your disapproval to the list.”
“What about school? Have you even considered what you’re going to do to her life, Rafe?”
“Of course I have. She’s having my child; what would you have me do about it?”
Shaking her head and lifting her well-shaped eyebrows, Carly says, “Not this.”
I could spend the next ten minutes repeating myself, but that wouldn’t do any good. Nothing I say will convince Carly this is a good idea, so I don’t waste time trying. “Talk to you tomorrow, Carly.”
I disconnect the call before she can say anything more, then tuck my phone away in my pocket and glance up at the exterior of the building I’ve parked in front of. I’ve spent far more time at this club in the past week than I would ordinarily spend anywhere connected to Cassandra Carmichael, but what’s one more visit? Grabbing the silver gift box, I exit the car and stride into the club Edmund Carmichael owns.
Upon seeing me, a flicker of confusion crosses the face of the first employee who recognizes me. I’d rather not be here longer than I must, so I stride up to her at the bar.
“Do you have a pen?”
The woman hesitates, then nods and reaches beneath the bar. Handing me a black pen, she asks, “Are you here to see Cassandra?”
“No. There’s a waitress that works here—college-aged, auburn hair, kinda flighty, not very good at her job, but nice. Do you know the one I’m talking about?”
The bartender nods. “That’s Marlena.”
“Perfect.” I uncap the pen and jot down the name on the card attached to the box. Putting the cap back on the pen, I drop it on the bar and push the box across the surface. “Can you see that she gets this, please?”
The bartender eyes me warily, drawing the box closer as it a bomb might be inside. “Sure, I guess so.”
I draw out my wallet and hand the woman a crisp twenty dollar bill. “For your trouble.”
8
Laurel
The casino floor is packed full of felt-covered tables and smiling people clamoring to give Rafe their money. I guess they don’t think of it that way, but standing up here on the raised platform, having a basic understanding of the statistical reality of gambling, I watch the pretty waitresses handing out champagne, and I know she’s inviting all these people to have a good time so they will bet—and lose—more money. Only in Vegas can you laugh and smile while you’re being taken for all you’ve got.
“Is it fun?” I ask mildly, looking over at the handsome devil beside me.
His hand slides around my waist and he tugs me close. “Is what fun? Gambling? Sure, to some degree.”
My smile widens. “No, robbing people and having them thank you for it.”
Flashing me a knowing grin, he says, “What are you talking about? This is all on the up-and-up. Aside from the restaurant, this is as straight as my business gets.”
“Mm hmm,” I murmur, unconvinced.
“These people are looking to have fun. I give them a place to do it,” he continues.
“Bunch of suckers,” I reply.
“Stand here five more minutes and I’ll make enough to buy you a few more books. Still think they’re suckers?”
I rock my head from side to side, considering. “Well, yes. But at least I’m doing a better job spending their money than they are.”
“That’s the spirit,” he tells me.
“How are the schools around here?”
Rafe frowns, like he must have misheard me. “What?”
“I was thinking, as much as I love my surprise, and as happy as beautiful books make me, what if next time we put that $13,000 to better use? I’d like to talk to the teachers in our school district, particularly the STEM teachers, and see what kind of projects they need funding for. Could I make that my present wishlist instead?”
Still a little blankly, he asks, “You want me to give money to teachers?”
“I’m not asking you to hand over cash directly. I’d like to get a feel for what kinds of materials they need for their classrooms, then we could buy things for them. Investing in our schools is investing in our little one’s future,” I tell him, placing a hand on my stomach. “I used to do bake sales and help out with raffles when I was in junior high and high school because we could never afford the equipment to do the really cool stuff. If you’re going to throw money around anyway, why not use it to invest in better equipment so that when the time comes and our baby goes there, they’ll be better equipped to work out this little Price-Morelli brain? Plus, it will benefit plenty of other kids, too. Fueling little brains is always a good idea.”
Rafe shakes his head, surveying the floor. “Life with you is gonna be fun, isn’t it?”
Smiling faintly, I poke him in the side. “Once more, with feeling.”
After Rafe shows me around his casino, he takes me out to a quiet dinner, just the two of us. The red, leather booth we sit in is another rounded one, so even though I think it’s gross when couples sit on the same side, there are no sides, and I end up right next to Rafe instead of across from him.
I get the impression he is probably one of those gross couples even if there is the option of not sitting close, because the man cannot stop touching. If he’s not brushing my hand or my thigh or my hip, he’s touching my arm or my shoulder or my face. I remember over Easter weekend I loved that, so I don’t know why it’s bothering me now.
Well, I guess I do. Every time he touches me, it makes me think of the inescapable inevitability of going home with him tonight. Since “I’m not ready” worked so poorly last night when we were in Chicago, I have to assume it’s going to be even less effective now that I’m on his turf. Every touch of his hand feels like pressure instead of affection, even if he doesn’t mean it that way.
And I really don’t think he means it that way. The problem is with me, not him. He’s behaving normally for someone trying to jumpstart a new relationship, but I’m still trying to keep a safe distance.
After a delicious dinner and a “shared” tiramisu for dessert (I ate most of it, while he took three bites), we’re off to some club Rafe apparently favors. I’m not much of a club person. Personally, I would prefer to go home, kick off these kitten heels, peel off this clingy dress, and watch some TV before bed. Instead, I’m ushered around a line of prettied-up people waiting to get in, through a back entrance, and into the loud, colorful, beating heart of the club. A huge man in a leather jacket greets Rafe and shakes his hand, then turns and starts pushing his way through the throng of people.
Rafe grabs my hand so I don’t get lost in the shuffle, while I murmur apologies to the people glancing back at us as we move past them. These people have probably waited in line for hours being pushed aside so we can walk right in and sail past them. It makes me feel a little like an asshole, but Rafe seems accustomed to stepping right over people.
To my relief, the roped-off area we are led to has a much smaller concentration of people. There are rounded booths over here, but each one is sectioned off to give an illusion of privacy
I hope to find our booth empty, but prepare myself for Sin to be there. The booth we stop in front of is not empty, but I don’t recognize the couple already seated there.
Before we take our seats, Rafe keeps one hand securely placed on my hip and uses the other to gesture to the table. “Laurel, this is my cousin Gio and his wife, Lydia.”
The man isn’t entirely what I’ve come to expect of a Morelli. He’s handsome enough, I suppose, but not Sin or Rafe-level handsome. There’s a hard look to him—not the way Sin looks hard and mean, but cooler, more calculation in his gaze. His eyes are blue—another deviation. All of the Morelli men of my acquaintance have dark eyes. He doesn’t smile when he sees me. Instead, he appraises me like a new piece Rafe picked up. From the look on his face, I get the impression Gio thinks he overpaid.
When his mouth opens, he offers up a hollow, “Hey, how ya doin’?”
I look to his wife for more warmth, but her smile seems superficial, too.
I decide right away they don’t approve. Lydia’s gaze drops to my abdomen, and I think I know why. Since these are Rafe’s relatives and they don’t know me from Adam, they probably think I’m some conniving bitch who got knocked up on purpose to trap him.
Injecting a little more warmth into my tone to make up for their misread of the situation, I smile and say, “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve only met Rafe’s Chicago family so far.”
Gio rolls his eyes, apparently unimpressed.
Leaning in to explain, Rafe says, “We haven’t been on good terms for very long. It’s gonna take a little longer for the rest of the Vegas family to warm up to them.”
“Oh. Right.” I remember Sin saying something about that, but it’s still disappointing. I like Rafe’s Chicago family far more than I like these two people so far, and these are the ones I’ll have to socialize with if I stay here.
Normally, Rafe urges me to scoot in, but tonight he slides in first and lets me sit on the end. Since I already feel like leaving, I appreciate at least feeling less trapped. If I need to slide out to go to the bathroom—or pretend to go to the bathroom, just to escape the present company—I can do so without a whole production.
Rafe and Gio talk for a couple minutes while Lydia smiles silently. I look around for a waiter. I wish I could have a drink tonight; that would probably make this more pleasant.
Since everyone is ignoring me anyway, I pull out my cell phone. Carly hasn’t texted or called me at all since this morning, and even though I can’t say much to her, it’s making me worry. Canceling my flight home today was too obvious. I’m sure I have aroused her suspicions at this point. I hope she isn’t trying to poke around on her own; she’ll probably get herself into trouble.
On a whim, I close that message and open the one below it—Mia Morelli. She gave me her number, telling me I needed a “mob wife” friend and to call or text her anytime. I told her I’m not a mob wife, but she just patted my hand like I don’t know what I’m talking about and started filling her suitcase with baby clothes to send home with me.
I type out, “MW update: not a hit with the Vegas Morelli family.”
It only takes her a minute to respond. “Lame! Vegas Morellis wouldn’t know a good addition to the family if one bit them in the face.” Before I can point out a good addition to the family probably wouldn’t be biting any faces, she sends another one. “How is Rafe treating you? Need me to kick his ass yet?”
Smiling faintly, I shake my head. “Rafe is good. He bought me books, so no complaints there. I’m trying to convince him to give all his money away to good causes.”
“I do that to Mateo ALL THE TIME,” she replies. “If he is to be believed (he’s not though) we are giving all our money away and should be living in a box right now.”
“That’s what they do all that work for, right?”
“Clearly,” she answers. “Why else?”
“Have you met their cousin Gio?” I ask her.
“I think I met him briefly at Ben’s funeral. Unless there are multiple Gios.”
“He doesn’t seem very nice,” I tell her. “His wife is looking at me like I have a lottery fetus in my womb. I don’t think we’re going to be besties anytime soon.”
“Whatever, screw them. For what it’s worth, I also hated the Vegas family members I met. Rafe is the only one I liked. Be glad you never had to meet Ben, he was a complete asshole.”
“That’s Vince’s dad, right?”
“Yeah. Vince never liked him either.”
I probably shouldn’t ask, but a glance over at Rafe tells me they’re still talking shop, so I snap up a sliver of unsupervised girl talk. “Did you meet Sin when you were here? He seemed to know who you were.”
“Did he work with Vince? Maybe he mentioned me. I never met a Sin when I was in Vegas, but it’s possible I met him here if he came for our wedding or Ben’s funeral. I don’t remember that name, but I might remember his face. Pic?”
“I doubt he came to your wedding, but he was at the funeral.”
I don’t know why, I just want to talk to someone else who knows him. He’s so much like a shadow, it’s like he doesn’t even exist. Like he isn’t even real.
Mia texts back, “Still thinking about him, huh?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, so that inevitability is on my mind.”
The sound of Rafe’s voice sends a jolt of guilt through me and I close my messages, glancing over at him as he asks, “Who are you texting?”
“Mia,” I answer, offering a smile before tucking my phone away. He’s paying attention now, so if she texts back and uses Sin’s name, he’ll see it. Obviously it’s no secret Sin is still on my mind, but I’d rather not rub it in his face.
He cocks a golden eyebrow in
surprise. “My Mia?”
I cock an eyebrow right back. “Your Mia?”
Now he rolls his eyes. “I meant, Mateo’s Mia. My family—you know what I meant. Wasn’t sure if you had a friend by that name, or…?”
“Well, I do now,” I tell him, with a hint of playful smugness. “Your Mia is going to be my mob wife friend. She assures me I need one.”
“Oh, does she?” he asks, snaking an arm around my shoulder and leaning in to kiss the shell of my ear in one smooth motion.
“Mm hmm,” I murmur. It actually feels nice, so I lean into it.
His hand creeps between my legs, caressing my thigh. “Someone to show you the ropes?”
My body responds as his hand creeps closer to the apex of my thighs, but I press his hand against my leg to stop him. “We’re in public,” I remind him.
“We are,” he agrees, but not before nibbling on my ear.
“And we have guests. Or, we are guests. Either way…”
“Hey, people pay for a show in Vegas; they get to sit here for free,” he reasons.
I smile, nudging him away with my shoulder. “Come on, I want them to like me. Right now you’re making me look cheap.”
That catches his attention and he pulls back to look at me. “How am I making you look cheap?”
“Maybe cheap is the wrong word. Common,” I amend.
His brow furrows. “Explain.”
Glancing at his cousin at his wife while they eavesdrop without even pretending otherwise, I hesitate. Looking back at Rafe, I bring a hand up to caress his cheek. “Can we talk about it later?”
Ignoring my placating gesture, Rafe says, “I’d like to talk about it now.”
This is so fucking awkward. With a barely audible sigh, I force myself to offer a pared down explanation. I keep my tone low, but I’m sure they’re still listening. “How many other women have sat here and been mauled by you in this booth? Dozens?”
