“God forbid.”
“Right?” Sam sighs, no doubt thinking she won the war. “You have no idea how nuts it’s been. Aunt Marion’s working off a new budget. She wants to install a dime lock on the bathroom stalls.”
“Lawd have mercy.” I picture octogenarians putting their canes aside and sliding under the door.
“Don’t worry. There’s not going to be any BLM riots.”
“Black Lives Matter?”
“No, Blue-haired Ladies Matter. Me, Mia, and Rose talked her out of it. Buh-bye. Talk later.” She hangs up real fast but I am not letting this issue drop so easily.
I ring her cousin’s number and he picks up right away. “Yo.”
“Joseph, I hear my wife is doing some research for you.” I keep my voice pleasant even though I’d like to wring his damn neck.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s for a high school buddy of mine. He was delivering a package and it was stolen right under his nose. But don’t worry. Sammy’s not doing anyt’ing involving guns or goons. She’s simply going to search a few videos to see if she spots any funny business. I signed a contract and everyt’ing. It’s all legit.”
“You do anything to get her hurt…” My threat trails because I’m not sure what I would do.
“Hey, she’s like a sister to me. We’re totally fine. Chill.” His adamant tone does nothing to convince me. Damn, I need to get home and fix this shit.
After we hang up, I go for a run and all the while, the niggling feeling of wrongness gets worse.
Chapter 6
Sam
As predicted, my cousin in Italy is furious because I implicated her in the Bensonhurst pregnancy scandal.
Me: Sorry.
Josi: My mom thinks I’m a virgin. Fix it or I will.
Sighing deeply, I stand, stretch, and answer my doorbell app. On my phone screen, Rose stands on the sidewalk, hands on her hips. “Open up.”
“Is Saint Mia with you?” My hand hovers over the little black button on the metal intercom plate while she leans into the wide-angle lens, her nose taking up the whole view.
“Let. Me. In.”
“Fine.” I press on the buzzer and wait at the top landing where delightful aromas of coffee, vanilla and almond waft from the café next door.
Rose sees me eyeing the glass door and starts back down. “You want a cappuccino?”
“No, no. I shouldn’t.”
Squealing, her high heels click up the stairs, and she folds me into an embrace. “Oh my God. You are, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure. Shhh. Come in.” I lead her past the kitchen-slash-client area and into my open living room.
Catrina yowls, jumps off the couch, and zooms up the spiral iron steps. Head between the railing, she gives us the evil eye, and races back down with a toy mouse to set it at Rose’s feet.
“Meow-urph.”
“Hi sweetie.” Squatting, she scratches the sharking cat’s chin, and stands.
“Okay, spill it.” Rose uses heroldest cousintone, the one that cannot be denied.
“Hey, I missed a couple periods, happens all the time.” Pleased how I was able to avoid her question while telling the truth, I plop on the sofa.
