By the determined set of Aniello’s face, I could tell he wasn’t going to give in on this, and I wasn’t backing down.
“I have to use the restroom,” I said. “Honestly.”
I needed a moment to take a breath. To get my thoughts and feelings together. To relieve my bladder of all the red wine.
He walked me there and waited for me to come out. The stage was empty when we returned to the table, just the instruments set up in the glow of the blue light, though soft music played over the speakers. Chatter had risen, but it was almost like a buzzing. The place was still recovering from the experience of listening to Simone sing.
Quentin smiled as we approached the table, and so did Simone, who was sitting on his lap. Her smile was as warm as her voice.
“Hey, baby girl.” She opened her arms for me, and we hugged. She kissed my cheek before she whispered in my ear, “It’s so good to see you again.”
I smiled at her, but I knew it was weak. I wanted to reply with, “It’s so good to see you, too,” but how could I? I couldn’t remember her, or this club, so I settled on, “It was so good to hear your voice.” To let her know how much I meant it, I touched my heart.
She squeezed my hand before Aniello kissed her on the cheek, then pulled out my seat again.
Conversation continued as though this was an every-weekend thing. Maybe it was. I had no fucking clue.
Simone was perceptive. She kept looking between Aniello and me, like she could sense something was wrong. He hadn’t said a word, keeping his eyes on the stage again, his jaw tense. I said nothing either, not sure what to say. I was saving all my words for him.
Sharon, though, kept glancing at him as she took sips of her wine. It seemed like she was waiting for him to look at her, so they could share a “look.”
She turned to look at me. Quentin had just asked me if I was skeptical of happily ever afters in this life. I guess I must have made a face after he said Simone wanted to redo their kitchen.
Every man at the table was a head of something criminal in the life they led. And the conversation seemed so normal, so domesticated, and maybe my perception was a little warped, but…an organization wanted to immure me and burn my lover alive because we’d fallen in love, so…
All the pieces were not clicking for me.
Was this some ploy to get me to remember? Or was this just separating business from pleasure as usual?
“Why do you ask?” I said, wishing I had more red wine. Even though I was burning on the inside from all the pent-up emotions and questions yearning to be set free, I still felt like I needed a little more.
Even though I knew he would never hurt me, Aniello Assanti was intimidating. I couldn’t even tell what he was thinking, and I usually could. But if this was going to work, I refused to live in fear of him like the rest of the world.
I had to be different.
This, between us, had to be different, or it couldn’t work. I wasn’t his worker. I was the woman he said he loved.
“Call it a hunch.” Quentin took a drink before he placed a kiss on Simone’s back. She shivered and squeezed his hand. The rings on her third finger glinted, as shiny as the dress she wore. “You ever heard of Dean O’Banion?”
“The florist!” Abe said, lifting his glass, even though no one else toasted him. Catherine slapped at his leg and grinned.
Sharon rolled her eyes and took another drink.
Aniello said nothing, his face forward, so still that it almost seemed like he was sleeping. He wasn’t.
“Can’t say that I have,” I said.
“He was a mobster back in the day. Irish. His main rivals were Johnny Torrio and Al Capone during the 1920s. Bootlegging wars and all of that.” He waved a hand. “You know what he did to relax?”
I looked around the table, but no one gave me a clue. Then I remembered what Abe had said.
“Flowers,” I said. “He was a florist?”
“He owned a floral shop, yeah,” Abe said. “And that’s how Capone finally killed him. He put in a bogus order, and they ambushed him. They caught him slipping.”
“Not the point,” Quentin said.
“Tell us what the point is, baby,” Simone said. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
