“Actually, yes. I have to get going. I’m sorry. This was nice.”
“Nice? Really?”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“No.”
He pushes out from the booth and stands. I forget sometimes how tall he is. I feel small as he starts to walk away.
“Hold on,” I say quickly and push myself to my feet. “The offer you made. About getting Gem a driver. Was that for real?”
He narrows his eyes. “Absolutely.”
“I pick the company.”
“Whatever makes you comfortable. I’ll be back tomorrow night. Give me the details then.”
“Fine.” He starts to leave. “Thank you,” I say very reluctantly.
He doesn’t answer. Only walks out into the night.
I sink back down into the booth, feeling deeply conflicted.
Stellan’s handsome. I can’t pretend like I’m not very, very attracted to him. But the guy’s trying to blackmail me and that’s really not great.
Accepting that ride for Gem is probably a terrible idea.
But I can dirty myself for her. I’ve been doing it for years now. What’s it matter if I burn my final shred of dignity? If it means making Gem’s life easier, I’ll do it.
And I know where that logic leads. The obvious conclusion to my problem. I just don’t want to take that leap. Something keeps holding me back.
A very, very bad feeling.
Like if I take the plunge, I’ll never come up for air again.
STELLAN
My tires crunch over gravel as I pull into a parking lot out in West Philly. It’s not our most popular location, but there are a few vehicles tucked into the dark corners. Frankie’s car is right next to the attendant’s little hut, and Frankie himself is crouched out front, smoking a cigarette.
He stands when I walk over. Frankie’s a few years older, with a square face, craggy chin, and built like a brick house. We’ve known each other a long time, and there are few people I trust more than him in this world.
“You call anyone else?” I ask, peering over his shoulder at the hut. The front’s plastered with peeling, faded signs advertising day and overnight rates. Mostly tourists and Drexel visitors stay here. Nobody else wants to fork over the obscene amount of money it costs.
“Only you.” Frankie takes a drag before dropping the butt and stomping it out. “It’s a fucking mess.”
I step past him and peer through the door.
The attendant was a young guy. Black, skinny, no older than twenty at most. I try to recall his name but can’t come up with anything.
He stinks like sweat and shit.
Blood pools around his body, sticky and dark in the low light. His chest is a mess of stab wounds, his hands twisted to the side, his face bruised and battered like he took a nasty beating.
“Anyone see what happened?”
Frankie grunts a negative. “I can pull the cameras, but you know they don’t work half the time.”
“Grab the footage.” Anger rolls through me. The idea that someone would come onto one of my family’s lots and kill one of my people is like blasphemy. We’re the fucking Corsettis. Nobody hurts our people. Not even the most twisted and pathetic junkie is stupid enough to stab one of our own.
