Chapter 7
Wheels
I’ve never acted so unprofessional in my life. She drives me fucking crazy. Who the hell goes out on a blind date knowing they’ve got a bullseye on their back? No one, not even the pampered niece of a notorious gangster, would interrupt a meeting on the dark web and not expect consequences. She needs to understand. She’s not invincible.
Shit. I lower the steps, race upstairs, and open Suds’ closet. No doubt, Rose’s date will take her to a bougie joint in Manhattan. I’ll need to dress the part, so I choose black jeans, a white button-down shirt and a retro, skinny tie.
The attic apartment has no view of the street, but I have access to security cams. Within minutes, a red Lamborghini, costing more than I make in a year, pulls to the curb. A lanky man slicks back his hair, strides to the door, and greets Rose with a kiss to both cheeks.
My chest squeezes my lungs and tightens more when his fucking hand rests on her ass as he leads her to his sex-mobile and opens her door. After, he holds her hand, watching as her dress rides up her thighs. She tugs down on the hem but it’s too late. Any red-blooded male would be thinking what I’m thinking, and his cock is probably just as hard.
Fuck.Why do women play with fire?
I call Jasonelle, recite the mystery date’s plate number, and ask, “Who is he?”
“Rocco Padovesi.” Today, the meme has short brown hair, a natural look, and no glasses.
I begrudgingly acknowledge I may be sexist because for a moment, I thought she seemed less intelligent. “Does this man have a criminal record?”
She pops up a rap sheet and I grumble.What the fuck? I can’t read Italian.“Can you please translate?”
“You do not need to be polite. I do not take offense.” She reads off crimes ranging from petty theft to attempted murder.
“Why isn’t this guy in jail?”
“I do not know. Would you like me to research further?”
“No. The question was rhetorical.”
“Do you like my hair?”
“I guess so.” To be honest, I liked the first look better.
“Your tone sounds insincere. Are you trying to be nice?”
“Ah, no. Listen. I’m kind of in a hurry. Can you find out where this Padovesi booked a dinner reservation tonight? I’m guessing it’s someplace expensive in Manhattan. He probably put it on a credit card.”
Within seconds, a restaurant on Eighth Avenue, near Fifty-Seventh pops up on my Google maps, ready for me to hit the drive button.
“I’d like to see the menu, please.” I’m beginning to better understand Dr. Jones’ reasoning for creating this app. It’s true. I do respond to the female version of Jason differently than the male.
While reading the prices, I moan. Holy Bill Gates, I’ll need to charge my meal to my corporate card and hope Slate will find a way to expense it.
Soon, I’m dressed and ready to pick up my date. I like Jeannie, and our sex has always been satisfying, albeit somewhat boring. However, at the thought of a tumble in bed, my one-eyed-wonder-weasel doesn’t twitch.
Dong-dude, you had no problem getting up for my client. Are you out of your ever-loving dickhead? We’re not doing Suds’ wife’s cousin. Not now. Not ever.
He refuses to back down. Whatever.
I call Jeannie and let her know traffic is backed up and ask if she’d mind meeting me there. When I share the joint’s famous name, she has no problem saying yes.
With logistics handled, I race uptown, park in the closest lot, and enter the restaurant. It doesn’t take me long to spot Rose’s red dress under the neon exit sign in the back.
While I wait to be seated, a suited sommelier swirls burgundy liquid in a goblet and delivers it to Padovesi with an outstretched pinky. Mr. Richy-Rich sips, smiles, and nods, and the play continues as wine is poured for the woman.
Rose lifts her smokey lids and her plump lips part. Will she sleep with the guy to lower her rent? God, I hope not, but I have no idea. How well do I know her?
My fist clenches as I search for the maître d’ who soon arrives and looks down his nose at my outfit. “Would you like to be seated,monsieur?”
