Smile?
Pretend I don’t notice?
No.
"Chill," Gio whispers without even looking at me. Chill. CHILL.
In this literal dungeon of testosterone and blades.
He leads me to a back room, smaller but quieter. He moves through the room with his head high. I stay close, don’t talk, don’t look anyone in the eye.
Then he slows. Two guys stand near the far end, leaning on a wall, both smoking. One has his shirt half unbuttoned, the other wears rings on almost every finger.
Gio grins when he sees them. They dap him up fast.
"Look who finally showed up," one of them says. "And he brought a souvenir."
Right. It’s time for greetings and introductions. Do I know how to do this? Absolutely not.
Do I know how to properly shake hands with a billionaire?
Yes.
A politician?
Unfortunately yes.
A hotel investor?
Obviously.
But this? These street-level guys? First time in my life. Do I do the polite handshake thing? Do they even do handshakes here, or is this the kind of crowd that greets you by punching your chest like gorillas?
Gio turns toward me with that damn smirk. "You remember them?"
I look at the two guys. Nothing clicks. I shake my head. They look at each other, then at me.
"Elio," the one on the left says.
"Luigi," the other adds, taking a slow drag.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
My brain throws me straight back into every stupid memory I begged myself to forget. Suddenly I’m nine again, sitting in that shitty school cafeteria while they laugh at the way I eat, the way I hold my pencil, the way I talk, the way I look at people.
Every time they made me feel small. Every time I swallowed it because I didn’t know how else to survive.
I shouldn’t care. I’m grown. I’ve changed.
But it feels like there’s a kid inside me pounding on the walls, yellingdon’t let them see you shake.
"Ravioli."
"Little Rava, the golden boy."
Sneers. Shoves. And always, somewhere in the background, Gio. Laughing with them. Not stopping it.
Never stopping it.
