That prolonged eye contact of his, still studying me with a calm concern about the tears drying on my cheeks, was enough to make me wish I had skipped this period altogether. He smelled good, looked good, and was actively listening and watching me as if I wasn’t dressed like I rolled out of bed.
Dean shook his head. “Boring. Dealing with greedy dicks. Recording the entire thing for your dad.” There was a smile in his eyes as he nodded his chin at me. “Tell me about your day.”
“Boring,” I smiled. “Dealing with greedy dicks — in property. Reporting back to my mom. It’s a whole family affair we have going on, huh?”
His smile broadened and dimpled his cheek. “Like a regular mob affiliation.”
“You can do anythin’, but never go against the family,” I said with my best Marlon Brando impersonation, adding hand gestures, a frown, and a pouted bottom lip that made Dean laugh. I continued the butchered impersonation as I picked up the box of cannoli. “Let’s eat.”
Chapter 16
Dean
A photocopier rattled and clicked to a steady rhythm somewhere nearby, and out in the corridor, a New Yorker in cuffs, accent thicker than mine, was voicing his opinions about his arrest as they led him to a holding cell. There was a musty smell of coffee throughout the office, and a low hum of casual office chatter filled the room.
I sat in the plastic seats across from Mark’s office with my back to the window as an October wind howled against the glass.
And to my left, the eyes of two men bore into the side of my face.
Detectives Paul Crowley and Dante Riccardo. The former was a beer-bellied, arrogant mouth breather with a bobble-head of some old baseball player sitting on his desk.
Dante Riccardo looked new to the job, but not naïve to the career. He was younger, maybe mid-thirties, and had a near-constant smirk on his face.
I ground my jaw as the watching continued, but kept my eyes forward.
It was the nicotine cravings making me like this. Simply the cravings—
“You know,” Crowley finally croaked after a few more seconds of studying the side of my face. “I think he was the kid who stole my police car.”
I pretended I didn’t hear him as I crossed my arms. My past run-ins with the cops were a blur of running through back streets or climbing walls. I was either too hungover too concussed, or too pissed off at the time to remember those moments as anything significant.
“Yeah, he was probably seventeen. Was in for car theft and took my keys right out from under my nose.” Crowley scoffed. “Came from a broken home too.”
Don’t react.I repeated the two words over and over in my mind, jaw tight as I exhaled.
“Careful,” Riccardo said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “I think he hears you.”
“He can’t do anything now anyway. Look at where he is,” Crowley said.
From my peripheral I could see he had leaned forward in his seat to speak directly to me.
“Did daddy beat you around a little? Is that why you acted out? If he was my kid, it would’ve been straight to military school.”
“Maybe ease up a bit, Crowley,” Riccardo chuckled, talking sense.
“He can’t touch us, Riccardo. Wouldn’t dare try.” Crowley’s confidence in himself had begun a subtle roaring in my head. “I bet he got your mother too—”
I straightened in my seat and dragged my eyes to Crowley. The nicotine gum hadn’t worked, the patches were pointless, I didn’t have any of my lollipops, and this fucker was giving me every reason to slam his head through a window. But I was alsosurrounded by cops. One misstep and I would be in deeper shit than I already was.
“You wanna hit me, don’t you?” A smug little curve appeared on Crowley’s mouth.
“Nah.” I straightened out my legs and stood, keeping my eyes on Mark’s office door before I approached the detective’s desk.
Crowley’s smile wavered and faded once I stopped in front of him. He leaned back in his chair as if that would create more space between us. But he was cornered between his desk, Riccardo’s desk, and a wall. Nowhere to go.
“You’re not really worth my time, detective.” I casually picked up the bobblehead baseball figure on his desk, looked it over, and then put it down again. Only to pick up the stapler beside it. I turned it over in my hand, weighing it while Crowley and Riccardo watched me carefully.
“Go back to your seat, Moretto,” Riccardo drawled, clicking a pen.
