“I’ll take an Uber and get it for him. I really am sorry to keep calling you with all his requests, Jules.”
I took a deep breath in and let it out. It wasn’t Arlo’s fault. And the poor guy probably made minimum wage for dealing with his asshole boss all day long. “I’ll pick up his drink. There’s a Robeks on my way to the studio.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t guarantee I won’t add some laxatives so he’s stuck in the bathroom half the day, but yeah. I’m sure.”
“Thanks, Jules. I’ll text you his order. It’s sort of long.”
Of course it is…After I hung up, I brewed a cup of coffee and took a three-minute shower. I did not wash my hair. Looking in the half-fogged mirror, I gave myself a quick internal pep talk.Think on the bright side. Your day can’t get much worse than being woken up at five AM and having a spoiled actor’s breakfast order to fetch.
Unfortunately, the universe must’ve taken my attempt atmanifestinga better day as more of achallenge. Because when I climbed into my car at twenty minutes to six, my cell phone rang a second time. And the name on the screen this time was probably the only person I wanted to speak tolessat this hour than Bradley Wilson—my father.
I debated not picking it up, but the last time I’d avoided Dad for a half day, he’d sent one of his goons to my house to knock on my door. So I took yet another deep breath and told myself dealing with my father would be good practice for my meeting with Bradley—a primer in staying calm.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Glad I’m not having a heart attack, or I’d be dead waiting for you to answer the damn phone.”
I steadied myself. “I’m glad you’re not having a heart attack, too. What can I do for you?”
“For starters, you could move back to New York where you belong.”
I wasnotabout to have this conversation again. So I closed my eyes, counted to three, then opened them and shifted the car into drive. Pulling away from the curb, I attempted to redirect the bad start to our conversation. “How’s your sciatica? Feeling any better than last week?”
But Dad ignored my question. “I’m having some trouble at the pizzeria.”
Oh Jesus.This was going to be one ofthosecalls, the kind where I had to decipher what the heck we were talking about. My father really did own a pizzeria back in Mill Basin, but when he talked about trouble at thepizzeria, it was never really about a broken oven or a badbatch of dough. Gino’s Pizza was a front for the crooked Ginocassi family, one of the infamousfive families.
“The oven is running reallyhot,” he said. “So hot that I’m going to need to keep an eye on it. You know how it goes—too much heat andboom!The place can explode.”
I shook my head. Even the feds could figure out my father was telling me a war was heating up between him and his rivals. I was never sure how to respond to his cryptic messages, so I stuck with the oven storyline. “I’m sorry to hear that. You know me… I like my pizza better the second day, when it’s cold.”
“There’s also a sauce problem.”
I had absolutely no clue what that meant. “Oh?”
“Yeah. The competition really wants to get oursauce recipe. But you know my sauce means everything to me. I don’t even want anyone looking at my recipe, much less touching my sauce.”
Still clueless, I kept up the charade. “Umm… Yeah. You make good sauce, Dad.”
“I’m glad you agree. One of my men will be there today.”
“Your men? Where?”
“In LA, to protect the sauce.”
Oh no! I’m the sauce!“No, Dad. The sauce is good. No one knows the…” I was about to say no one knows the sauce’s last name—I’d stopped using Ginocassi and started using Grecco, my mother’s maiden name, when I’d moved out to California—but that sentence made no sense if someone was actually listening in on our call. “Dad, you don’t need to worry about the sauce. It’s very secure where it is. No one even knows where you keep the sauce recipe.”
“Juliette!” my father barked, and I instantly felt like I was seven years old instead of twenty-seven. He’d always had a way of silencing a room with a single stern word, and growing up, that word had often been my name. “You will not give me a hard time about this. I have enough going on to worry about.”
“But, Dad—”
“It’s not up for discussion.” He stopped with the cryptic talk. “You might call yourself by another name, but you will always be Juliette Ginocassi. And it’s my job to make sure you’re always safe.”
“But—”
“Enough!” I heard a loud bang and knew he’d just pounded his fist on the table. “It’s done.”
