Fucking Leo Conti just hit end on our conversation without letting me get another word out, and I had plenty to say.
“Are you working, or are you going to chitchat all day?” Angelo asks, scaring the living hell out of me.
“Jesus,” I mutter, grabbing my chest. “I’m coming.”
Angelo stares at me. He knows something’s up. I just hope he doesn’t find out who I’ve been seeing because I know he’d have something to say about it. He hates my father’s business as much as I do.
I jam my phone into my back pocket and walk toward the bar, brushing against his shoulder as I pass by.
I’m busy pulling down the new bottles for tonight’s service when my mom pushes through the front door, carrying an old bicycle frame in her arms with the biggest smile on her face.
“Look at this beauty.” She lifts the rusty heap higher when she approaches us.
“It’s… It’s…” I don’t know what to say to her. I know she wants to hear how wonderful the hunk of junk is, but I just can’t seem to find the right words. It’s a rusty mess, but to her, it’s a work of art.
“It’s great, Ma,” Angelo says quickly, saving me before I utter something I know I’ll regret.
Her smile grows larger as she rests the frame on the floor. “I know exactly what I’m going to make, too.”
My mother has become interested in reclamation art or, as I call it, junk. When my father was sent away to prison, Ma needed to find a hobby to pass the time, and why she didn’t pick up crocheting or knitting, I’ll never understand.
Instead, she takes what other people throw out and repurposes it to create a “work of art”—her words, not mine—that no one ever wants to buy.
I feign interest because well…she’s my mom, and I can’t be disrespectful. “What?” I ask, but I don’t really care to know the answer.
She holds the frame with one hand and takes a step back, staring at the rusting disaster. “Picture this.” She waves her hand between the frame and herself. “I’m going to use this as the base for a coffee table. Maybe I’ll use glass for the tabletop. Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”
“Sounds great, Ma,” Angelo says, always the one to kiss my mother’s ass.
“Ass-kisser,” I mouth, rolling my eyes so only he can see.
“Daphne wants it for her living room,” he tells her with a shitty smirk. “She’s been talking about getting a new coffee table for a long time.”
My mom starts to clap, excited at the thought of me finally displaying a piece of her work in my place. “It’s serendipity,” she chirps.
With my back still to my mother, I glare at Angelo and flip him off. “I’ll get you back,” I mutter quietly before turning to face my mother. “I’d love to have it, Ma, but I hate glass. Can you at least make the top metal or wood?”
Part of me is hoping I’ll kill her vision and she’ll decide to keep the table for herself, but I should’ve known that wasn’t my mother’s way.
“Sure, honey. Anything you want.” She’s so happy I almost feel guilty that I want a solid top to hide the fact that there will be a piece of junk holding the entire thing up. “I’m going to go out back and start working on it.” She grabs the bike frame, and before either of us can say another word, she scurries toward the hallway to her “art studio” in an abandoned garage behind the bar.
“That’s going to look amazing in your place, Daph.” Angelo laughs.
“You’re an asshole!” I yell as he walks toward the other end of the bar, avoiding the dagger I’m pretending to throw his way.
9
Leo
I’m walkingthrough the lobby on my way to see Daphne when I spot my father sitting at the hotel bar, sipping on a glass ofbrandy. He never comes here. Not unless he wants something.
We’ve always had an agreement. He keeps his business out of my hotels, and I try to ignore the fact that he’s a criminal.
“Hey, Pop,” I say, motioning to the bartender to pour me a drink because I have a feeling I’m going to need it. “What brings you here tonight?”
“I heard you were in the old neighborhood the other night.” He swishes the brandy around the inside of the glass, beating around the bush instead of coming right out and asking me what he really wants to know.
That’s my father’s way.
