Because the Grassis weren’t just a family.
They were a mafia organization.
Sure, you could make an argument (and my mind tried) that just because someone was related to the mob didn’t mean they were also involved.
But, well, each time I tried to tell myself that he wasn’t in the mafia, a memory surfaced. Things that made a lot more sense with that context. Keeping his identity secret. Having so much cash on hand all the time. Burner phones. Knowledge of cameras.
There was so much about him that I tried to shove into a rich businessman slot, but he never quite fit.
A calm, confident, experienced mafia capo, though?
Yeah, he fit in there perfectly.
So, I was officially involved with an organized crime family.
Yeah, I’d been doing something… kind of illegal before. But now? Now it was fully criminal.
I really, really needed not to get caught.
Not by Frank.
But also… not by the law either.
My heart was skittering around in my chest as I checked my door lock before stripping out of my sweats and pulling on the green dress I’d been dreaming about for months.
I glanced at my burner phone, double-checked the sounds, then shoved it into its hidden pocket at my side. It felt weighty and bulky against my arm, but when I lifted my arms and moved around in the mirror, I couldn’t see it.
With that, I made sure the flashlight and door lock were well hidden inside my sweats that I shoved in my bag, then went on stage to sing to a crowd of strangers who had no idea my stomach was twisting itself into tight circles by the moment.
“Monroe!” Frank called when I finished my last set.
Just like that, all the knots wrapped themselves into a tight ball that lodged itself at the back of my throat.
“Frank,” I croaked, then coughed to try to cover the awkward sound.
“You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“No. I just need to get my after-shift tea to soothe my vocal cords.”
To that, he nodded.
“This is a new dress.”
“It is,” I said, unable to stop myself from running my hand down the front, still a little awed that I actually had it on my body.
“Who gave it to you?” he asked, eyes going stormy.
“Gave it to me?” I asked, my belly seizing.
Did he know?
Could he know?
“Was it Eric again?”
“Oh! No! No, I treated myself,” I said, waving off his comment like it was silly. “I was a little worried that if we had a bunch of repeat guests, they might not like that I’m always in the same couple of dresses.”
“I’ve had that worry myself,” he agreed.
