Indebted To The Mafia King: Chapters 1–5

Eleni

“Baba, I have to leave for class in half an hour,” I say as I clear paper plates and cups off one of the high-top tables in the back of The Greek Corner. “I need to change.”

My dad huffs a sigh and shoves up from his chair behind the counter. “Yes, chryso mou, I know. But your mama was supposed to be done taking inventory by now to handle customers. Can’t you wait a little?”

I bite back a frown and nod. He’s been looking more and more tired since we lost Christos a couple years back. I love the night classes I’ve been taking at the community college a few blocks over, but I’m not going to force my baba to wait tables just so I’m not late. I dump the trash into the garbage can in the back.

The bell over the door jingles, and I turn with my customer service smile already plastered on, then freeze.

Frank Lombardi, the broad, sneering mobster who’s held my family under his thumb since they came to America, saunters in with a few of his guys. My skin goes cold.

“Georgie!” Frank smacks the top of the counter, and I watch my dad bite down a scowl. He’s always preferred his given name, Gregorio, but he tolerates customers who call him Greg. Frank has only ever called him Georgie. “Got the place all to yourself tonight?”

“No, I—” Baba stops mid-sentence.

I flinch as I realize his mistake. Like one creature, Frank and his men turn to me.

“Oh, I should’ve known little Ellie would be here.” Frank oozes past the rows of packaged goods to where I stand by the garbage can. “You look good in an apron, baby girl.”

I smooth the polyester black half-apron around my waist and smile.

“And even better when you smile,” one of his men calls.

“Bet you’d look best of all in nothin’ but the apron.” The third one smirks.

My face burns, and I start to turn away, but I catch Baba’s eye. As always, when Frank comes in, his dark gaze fills with pain. He hates seeing them treat me like this, but he can’t stop them. Not without consequences. And as humiliating as it is to be treated like a piece of meat, I’ll do anything to keep my family from facing those consequences.

As I turn, one of them smacks my butt. I can’t help it. I squeal loudly.

“You got a screamer here, Georgie,” Frank calls over his shoulder. “But with her tits pressed up to her chin like that and her ass wagging, I bet you already know that. I bet she’s been entertaining the neighborhood for a while now.”

Tears prick at my eyes, and I hurry away into the shelves of the bodega half of the store before Baba can see how much Frank’s words hurt. I know how people look at me. I got Mama’s height, which is to say, none at all, but the body of the women on Baba’s side. Even in my high-necked T-shirt, a sports bra, and loose pants, men always comment on my curves. Frank Lombardi and his men are just the only ones who have the lack of respect to try to touch me where my dad can see.

Frank swaggers back over to the counter, places his order, and receives sandwiches for each of his men.

“Great little place you got here, Georgie.” He taps on the counter. “Be a shame if something happened to it.”

His guys laugh like hyenas as they finally leave. I exhale and step out of the shelves.

“I’m so sorry.” Baba stretches his hands across the counter for mine.

I smile and step forward to take them. His right hand is powerful and thickly calloused from years of working all the different kitchen tools needed to produce the authentic gyros that keep The Greek Corner afloat. His left hand…. I swallow. Back when I was in high school, Baba missed a payment. Frank said he would be kind, since it was Baba’s first. Instead of taking the restaurant, he’d only take three of Baba’s fingers. I grab both his hands and squeeze. The awkward pinch of just his thumb and forefinger feels like home after all these years.

“I know, Baba,” I say. “You can’t do anything about them.”

He glances at the door then leans in. “It’s worse than usual, chryso mou. He just increased the protection rate, and I don’t know if we have it.”

I pale and look at the calendar over his shoulder. This Sunday is circled in red. Only five days to make the money, or we find out what happens when Frank Lombardi isn’t feeling so nice.

***

I scurry into the back of the class, thankfully only ten minutes late. Professor Calhoun catches my eye and frowns, but he doesn’t point me out to the rest of the class. I know he just wants me to do well. I want to do well. I pull out my laptop and peer at the slideshow on the board. We’re still on advanced HTML, which is fantastic, because learning HTML for The Greek Corner’s website was what interested me in computer science in the first place. I’ve barely missed anything.

“Okay, you absolutely can’t tell anyone this, but I heard the craziest thing about this club called Piacere out on Staten Island,” the brunette in front of me whispers to the redhead next to her.

I frown. I can barely hear Professor Calhoun. Just as I’m about to shush them, the brunette continues, “They’re doing a virginity auction. Apparently, some girls get thousands of dollars just to give their virginity away to some sleazeball willing to pay for it.”

The redhead gasps. My heart drops into my toes. A virginity auction. Between how much time I spend helping at The Greek Corner and how much time I spend with Mama and Baba since Christos disappeared two years ago, I haven’t dated anyone since middle school, and I’m not a one-night stand type of girl. I would need a real connection to feel safe.

“You’re joking, right?” the redhead asked.

The brunette shook her head. “Nope. I met a girl who did it last year. It’s like an annual thing, and the next one’s on Saturday.”

Baba has five days to make the money Frank needs. Saturday is four days away. Three fingers and my older brother is enough to lose. I scribble down every detail the girls whisper to each other and start mentally shuffling through my closet for something that might be appropriate to wear to a virginity auction.

Eleni

I scoot out of the way of Mr. and Mrs. Behrakis as they leave after their usual Wednesday lunch. Both members of the elderly couple smile at me, and I head for their table to pick up their usual generous tip. I haven’t told Mama or Baba about the virginity auction. I know they’d stop me, but I want to contribute to this family too.

The bell over the door tinkles, and I turn. My breath catches. The man stepping inside looks like something out of a movie. His warm, tanned skin stretches taut over sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. His black suit is crisp and perfectly tailored over an equally black shirt and tie. The only element of him that doesn’t seem like it was mathematically designed for perfection is his curly hair, which tumbles just a little bit into his night-dark eyes. He looks around as if trying to find something, and his gaze lands on me. His smile is soft and a little cocky, exposing perfect white teeth. Without a word, he sits at the counter attached to the front window.

Mama appears out of nowhere and grabs my arm. “I have something I have to show you in the kitchen.”

“But we have a custom—” I squeak as Mama drags me away.

As soon as the door swings shut between us and the main restaurant, she releases me. “Do you know who that is?”

I shake my head.

“That’s Dante Cattaneo, the boss of the Staten Island Saints.” She pushes strands of graying hair out of her eyes and meets my gaze. “And he is not supposed to be here.”

“Why not?” I peer through the tiny window in the swing door at the beautiful man, Dante. He’s looking around again.

Baba steps away from the grill. “Because the Lombardis and the Staten Island Saints have been at war for years. Both of you, upstairs, now.”

Mama takes my hand and starts to lead me away, but I pull out of her grasp. Dante doesn’t look anything like Frank and the brutes he brings in. I trust my parents in everything, but I think they might be overreacting.

“Please, zouzouni.” Mama looks at me with blue eyes so much like my own starting to fill with tears.

“If he’s trying to cause trouble, won’t it be less trouble if I just serve him?” I ask.

Baba frowns. Mama wrings her hands. Without an answer, I pull my order pad out of the pocket of my apron and march out to meet this Dante.

“Hi and welcome to The Greek Corner,” I say. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ve heard this place is famous for its gyros. Would you recommend them?” He smiles up at me, and my heart skips a beat.

“Um.” My face heats. I’ve never spoken to a man this handsome. “I don’t think I’m a fair person to ask.”

He twists to look at me. “Why’s that?”

Stupid, stupid Eleni. “I’m the owner’s daughter. That makes me a little biased.”

“Ah.” He nods. “See, I think that makes you the perfect person to ask. I’d recommend my nona’s lasagna over any other in the world, but that’s because it always tastes like Sunday afternoons in her kitchen. She’d be bent over the marinara pot, stirring to the rhythm of the records she brought from the Old Country.” He leans against the counter, and I can almost see the scene he’s describing in the pitch black of his eyes. “If I asked anyone else, I bet they’ll tell me it’s a damn good gyro, but what does it taste like to you?”

“Late nights after we close the shop,” I say before I can overthink. “But when I was younger, staying up until closing was a special treat. Mama would scrape together enough fixings for everyone to have one last gyro, and Baba would tell the story of how they almost missed their boat to America because Mama insisted on one last gyro, and Christos would bring down this boardgame he found at a flea market with half the pieces missing and make up new rules every time.”

“And what would you do?” Dante’s voice is dark and silky like expensive chocolate in commercials.

“I would laugh,” I say quietly. There hasn’t been much laughter around here since Christos disappeared.

“That settles it.” He leans back, shattering the bubble of memory around us. “I’ll have a gyro. And a black coffee.”

I stumble back a step and write down his order. When I return to the kitchen, Mama and Baba are both standing at the door, clearly listening.

“What?” I say as I walk in.

“Well?” Mama demands. “What did he say? Was he angry?”

“He was…” Nothing like a boss. He’s too young, maybe just over thirty, and far too smooth. He can’t possibly be in the same line of work as Frank Lombardi. “Nice. And he wants a gyro.”

Baba steps over to the grill. “Nice doesn’t mean anything, chryso mou. I’ve heard things about Dante.”

I lean against the counter behind him. “What kind of things?”

He shakes his head. “I hear them from Lombardi’s men, so I don’t know if you can trust them.”

“Baba,” I groan. “You can’t announce that you’ve heard mysterious things and then clam up!”

Mama offers me a small smile. “She’s right, Gregorio. You’re being a little mean.”

“I’m being responsible. Someone in this family has to be.” He shakes his head and seasons the lamb sizzling on the grill in front of him. “I’ve heard there is a turf war brewing between him and Lombardi. I didn’t want to say anything because, if it’s true, I want both of you to go home to Parikia.”

My stomach flips. “Parikia? Back to Greece?”

Mama’s smile disappears. “Is it really that serious?”

Baba adds onions and tomatoes to the sizzling meat and stirs. “It might be, Maria. And I’m not willing to take that chance.”

His unspoken “again” hangs in the air between us. Two years ago, my older brother Christos disappeared. We haven’t heard from him since, and no one has found his body. After six months of waiting, we buried an empty casket. Baba wants to send me to Parikia, a seaside town I know only through stories, because he’s afraid the same thing will happen to me.

Mama nods, and I look out the little window at Dante. A man like him wouldn’t start a turf war dangerous enough to displace my family and destroy the dreams my parents had when they came to this country. It must be Lombardi’s fault. And if it’s Lombardi’s fault, maybe the money I’ll get from the virginity auction will distract him. Mama and Baba may be willing to give up on America for my safety, but I’m not ready to stop fighting yet.

Eleni

I scuttle down the sidewalk after class on Friday night. Professor Whitmore was in rare form, actually seeming to be interested in what people had to say when they raised their hands, but I spent most of the class thinking about my plans for the night. I have to sneak out. I’ve never snuck out before, but I’ve seen movies. My bedroom window lets out onto the fire escape, and I’m certain I can get down from there.

I shove my hands in my pockets. The closer I get to the auction, the more ridiculous it seems. Am I really going to sneak out to Staten Island to sell my virginity? Am I really willing to give that to someone who’s willing to buy it?

The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I whip around. A couple makes out on a stoop nearby. An older man with a bottle clasped in a brown paper bag shoos away pigeons collecting in front of him. A few homeless people sleep on benches and blankets. No one seems to be looking at me.

I rub my neck under my loose ponytail of brown curls. Despite that, I can still feel someone watching me. Or, I think I can. But it doesn’t feel like the chills I get when Frank and his men watch me in the restaurant. I still have goose bumps, and it’s a little unnerving to be watched no matter what, but it’s more like…when Mama used to stand in the door until I’d crossed the street for the bus before school. Like someone is watching over me, rather than just watching. A strange warmth takes up residence in my chest, and I hurry the rest of the way home.

When I arrive, the restaurant lights are already off. My stomach flips. Sometimes Mama and Baba close up early when I have class, but almost never on Fridays. There’s too much money to be made off drunk people stumbling in, starving and willing to buy anything you so much as mention. I open the door slowly. Nothing seems out of place. The register is closed up properly, and all the cook surfaces are turned off. But something is definitely wrong.

I creep up the stairs to our apartment on the second floor of the building. The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear voices within. My stomach jumps like I missed a step. Someone’s in our house! But then, the voices resolve into Mama and Baba.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Gregorio,” Mama says in a soft voice I know means she’s trying to make sure I don’t surprise them in the middle of the conversation.

I hesitate in the middle of the steps. Usually, when my parents keep things from me, they have a good reason. But they were wrong about Dante. He was very polite the whole time I served him, tipped well, and hasn’t come back since. And sometimes, they still treat me like the youngest daughter, the little treasure they have to protect from the world. If something bad enough to make them close the shop on a Friday night happened, I deserve to know. I sneak up the final few stairs and peer into the crack of the door.

Mama leans over Baba, blocking my view of him. On the counter next to her sits our first aid kit.

“What was I supposed to do, astéri mou?” Baba asked. “Let him have what he wants? Is that why we came to America, to sell our daughter?”

I press my hand to my mouth to smother my gasp. Sell me? That has to mean Frank was here, and he wanted something terrible.

“No, of course not. I only mean you shouldn’t have aggravated him so.” Mama steps aside to grab ice from the freezer, and I see Baba for the first time.

My stomach drops. Bruises litter his olive skin, and a dark line of dried blood seeps from a cut on his cheek. Mama’s already cleaned the cut on his forehead and closed it with a few spidering black stitches. He looks like he’s been in a fight with a brick wall. Or Frank Lombardi, a man with as much grace and tact as one. A deep, fiery emotion starts to build in my gut, one I’m not very familiar with. As Mama applies ice to a few of Baba’s bruises and he winces, the emotion becomes clear.

Anger. I am furious that anyone thought they could touch my family. I clench my jaw and turn to go back down the stairs and pretend like I’ve just come in now. I need to get to the virginity auction in time to keep this from ever happening again.

“I didn’t mean to aggravate him,” Baba said. “I thought he was joking, at first. Our Eleni, marry his Luca? I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine a man who thinks children are things to be sold off like brood mares.” He spits. “There’s no choice, Maria. You and Eleni will go to Parikia.”

Luca Lombardi, a man only separated from his father by twenty years of pickling in his own noxious evil. He hadn’t been in the restaurant in a while, but I didn’t remember a time he’d been in and not tried to touch me. My anger burned brighter. Frank should’ve never put Baba in that position. My dad would do anything to keep harm from coming to me. Now, I had to do the same for him.

“I’m not leaving you alone, Gregorio—”

I tiptoe down a couple stairs, then stomp back up them. “Mama? Baba? Everything okay?”

By the time I swing the door open, the medical supplies have disappeared from the counter, and Baba has disappeared with them. Mama stands alone in the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel I know held ice to Baba’s forehead mere seconds ago.

“Ah, zouzouni.” She smiles tiredly. “We didn’t mean to scare you. We just got tired and decided to close up early tonight. Your baba’s already gone to sleep.”

I nod and try to smile like I believe her. I’ve never lied to my mom before. I’ve never seen her look so tired before, either.

“You should get some sleep too,” I say softly as I cross the room to her and hold my hand out for the dish towel. “I’ll clean up here.”

She kisses my cheek and lets me take the towel. “You are too good to us. Tell me about your class tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, Mama.” I watch her trudge down the short hallway to her bedroom then look down at the dish towel. A little bit of bright red blood stains the blue-and-white checks, and that hot anger kindles in my belly. Never again. I clean up the kitchen, then head for my room. The virginity auction awaits.

Eleni

I push the hangers holding my every-day clothes to the side and stare at the few special-occasion dresses I’ve accumulated over the years. I can’t wear my prom dress. The long, glittering baby-pink dress with the lacy sleeves seemed perfect when I picked it out, but I’d stick out like a sore thumb on the ferry. I don’t really want to wear my birthday dress. It stops at my knees, so I might be able to hide it under a long coat, but I picked out the yellow polka-dotted dress because it looked so cheerful, and I don’t want to think of this virginity auction every time we go out to dinner for Mama’s, Baba’s, or my birthday. That leaves me with my funeral dress. I pull the black sheath from the closet and hold it up to my body. It is sleeveless, with just wide straps holding it up, and the skirt doesn’t flare nearly as much as my birthday dress. Every time I wear it to a funeral, I get a little nervous that people might think it’s too sexy because of the fitted top.

Perfect.

I slide the dress over my head then prop a little hand mirror up on my desk to do my hair and makeup. I want to seem sexy, but not too sexy, right? Because these men at a virginity auction probably want innocent girls. I swipe on a soft gold eyeshadow over my blue eyes, then apply one of my darker pink lipsticks. Good. The dusty lip really brings out my cupid’s bow…I think. I don’t tend to wear a lot of makeup. Most of the customers we get in The Greek Corner are locals I’ve known forever or commuters who wouldn’t care if I was wearing a mascot suit. And Frank.

That anger simmers back to life in my belly, and I pull my hair up into a bun quickly. A few curls tumble down to frame my face, and I cross my fingers that looks charming. I can’t sit around here any longer. It’s already after midnight, and I can’t spend another day watching my parents endure Frank Lombardi torture. I grab the kitten heels I usually pair with this dress, shove my phone and wallet into a small purse, yank on a jacket, and crawl out onto the fire escape. The night air is brisk, but it’s not cold enough to touch the fire inside me. I barely need my jacket as I stride down the city streets toward the subway station. All of my worries melt away. Maybe, after we get out from under Frank’s thumb, Mama, Baba, and I will all go back to Parikia.

No. We may have buried a coffin for Christos, but I don’t really believe he is dead. Not totally. And I wouldn’t leave New York City until I know that my brother is gone, not just lost.

The subway and ferry rides pass in a blink. I get a rideshare to the club address I pulled up on my phone before I left, and the sedan drops me off in front of a glittering club with the name Piacere written in twinkling lights on top. There’s a line out the door, but almost everyone in the line is a man. At the very front stands a muscular male in a black T-shirt with the word “staff” on the back. I take a deep breath and pray all the movies and TV I watched were right about how this works as I march up to the bouncer.

“Hi.” My voice sounds breathless to my own ears. “I’m here for the, um, auction?”

The bouncer looks me up and down. In case it’ll sell my story, I open my coat to show the dress underneath.

He snorts. “Yeah, that makes sense. Head inside. Ask for Carla.” He unclips a velvet rope over the door and waves me through.

Inside, loud, bass-heavy music thumps through hidden speakers loud enough to shake the floor under my feet. A long, deep red stage runs the middle of the room, studded with golden poles. A few beautiful women in little more than their underwear spin and twist on the poles, to the cheers and dollar bills of the men in the low tables around the stage. To one side, a dark wood bar occupies most of a wall. To the other, I see a packed dance floor and other, higher tables. I blink as my eyes adjust to the darkness then stumble toward the bar.

“I need to see Carla,” I say to the first bartender who makes eye contact with me.

He points me through a door, and I pray I don’t have to answer any more questions. This is already overwhelming.

Thankfully, the music is quieter in the back room he pointed me to, and Carla is easy to pick out from her crisp suit, clipboard, and the way nearly a dozen other girls around my age and a little younger mill around her. I walk up.

“I’m here for the auction,” I say. “My name is El—” I stop. I’m in a sex club. I probably shouldn’t use my real name.

Carla looks me up and down like the bouncer did, then presses a finger to her ear. “Last minute entry, looks to be early twenties, great body, no dress sense. Called El.”

I blush. “I’m sorry?”

She releases her ear. “Don’t worry, it’ll be cute. We’re starting in a couple minutes. Drop your coat, and I’ll send you out with everyone else. You’ll be after Marissa. Come back here when you hear that name. Watch until then.”

I nod and drape my coat over the arm of a low, leather couch. She ushers most of the girls back out to the front of the house, and I sit at one of the tables as the dancers leave the stage.

Watching the auction is sobering. The first girl, who I think is pretty, goes for a scant two thousand dollars. When the next girl comes out in a sexy dress, the jeers of the men around me grow almost deafening. Several of them chant for her to take it off, while others holler that she couldn’t possibly be a virgin, dressed like that. The girl eventually shimmies off the top of her dress to reveal her bra, and still only goes for twenty-five hundred dollars. I chew on my thumbnail. That’s not enough for Frank.

The next girl, a pretty blonde in a white dress that highlights her curves just a little, goes for nearly five thousand. Am I worth more than that? I have to be.

Carla grabs my arm. “El? I’m gonna need you to come with me.”

“What?” I lurch to my feet. “Am I being kicked out?”

The rest of the girls stare at me. I flush. I don’t even know what I did wrong, but I’ve just lost the last chance to save my family.

Carla drags me back through the door to the back rooms, but she leads me to a different room along the hall. I don’t even look where we’re going. I just stare at her face, trying to figure out what’s going on. She smiles apologetically, nudges me into a room, and closes the door between us. What’s happening? I don’t seem to be kicked out, but—

A familiar voice behind me says, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Eleni

I whirl. There, on an even softer looking leather couch, wearing another pitch-black suit, sits Dante. He smiles slightly as he swirls a glass of some dark liquor and looks me up and down.

“Um,” I say.

He stands and prowls closer. My heart hammers against my ribcage.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.

“What?” I blink. “I have the same right to be here that all those other girls do.”

Dante chuckles, low and teasing. I gulp.

“You actually don’t.” He circles around behind me. “Piacere is my club, and everyone knows the Calimeris family—including their charming daughter El—belongs to the Lombardis.”

The rage that ignited in me when I saw Baba in the kitchen flames back to life. “My family doesn’t belong to anyone. And I didn’t know this was your club. I don’t know anything about you.”

He circles back around so I can see him again and opens his arms wide. “I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”

I mean to ask him why I’m back here, what he wants from me. But I’ve never been good at confrontation. “What are you drinking?”

“Scotch. A particularly good one, if I do say so myself.” He holds the glass out to me. “Care for a sip?”

I’ve only ever had a few sips of my parents’ wine at dinner, and I can’t stand the taste of rotten grapes. But the way Dante looks at me, like he already knows I’ll refuse him, frustrates me. I grab the glass from his hand and knock back a sip.

I begin hacking as the liquor sears a path down my throat. I’m on fire. How was he drinking this and having a conversation?

When my coughing finally slows, I realize Dante is rubbing my back in small circles. His hand is warm and calming, but he’s a boss. I shove the glass at him and take a step away. “That’s the good stuff?”

“I guess it’s a little strong for the uninitiated.” He takes a sip and savors it. “If you ever get a taste for scotch, come back. I promise you’ll enjoy it more.”

“Come back?” I stare at him. “You can’t kick me out. I need to go back to the auction. I need the money.”

He sighs. “I can’t send you back. Someone already bought a night with you.”

Relief washes over me in cool waves. I don’t know why I didn’t have to get up on the stage like the other girls, but I’ve done it. I’ve done everything I can to save my family.

“For how much?” I ask.

He smiles. “How much do you think?”

That teasing smile again. I cross my arms. “More than five thousand.”

“You’re right about that.” Dante chuckles as he walks back to the couch and picks up an envelope laying on the arm. “Fifty grand for you to go home and spend the night with your family.”

My knees go weak, and I sink onto the couch. Fifty grand. That has to be enough to cover Frank, maybe even enough to get us ahead for next month. But…why would someone want me to just go home?

“You paid for me?” I say slowly.

He nods. His dark eyes burn into mine like he’s trying to communicate something.

Dante is a boss. No matter how smooth or handsome or young, he’s the same type of person as Frank Lombardi. If I take this money and leave, I’ll only be moving who owns my family.

“No,” I say. “I’ll owe you if I take that.”

He sips his scotch and sits on the other side of the couch. “Why?”

“I know better than to accept money from people like you.” I climb unsteadily to my feet. “There are always strings attached.”

“You’re a smart girl, but naïve.” He smiles at me. “If I wanted you to owe me, I’d say that. Consider this…a get-out-of-jail-free card. Take the money and go.”

His smile, his plush lips parting over his perfect teeth, starts to cloud my mind. But I can’t lose focus. Mama and Baba need me.

“I came here to auction off my virginity.” I smooth my hands down my dress. “I’ve made my peace with that. I won’t fall into a mafia boss’ debt instead.”

His dark eyes go somehow darker, liquid. “Then spend the night with me, if it’ll clear your conscience.”

The fiery anger I’ve been feeling all night drops lower, between my legs. I didn’t know what sort of man would buy me, but Dante is hardly the worst I imagined. This close, I can see the very beginnings of fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Smile lines. Baba said he was Frank Lombardi’s rival. That feels fitting, to get my family out from under Frank’s tyranny. We need this money.

I take the envelope from Dante. It’s heavy in my hands, all cash, certainly more money than I’ve ever held before. Maybe enough to get Frank to go away forever. I tuck it into my purse and turn back to Dante.

“Will you tell me what the money’s for?” He sets his glass on a side table.

“No.” I grab the zipper at the back of my dress and pull it down. My good funeral clothes puddle on the floor around my feet.

Dante stares at me with those burning eyes, and I fight not to blush. I knew what I was getting into. A man was always going to see me in my underwear, matching but plain gray because I didn’t have anything sexier. But somehow, with his gaze on me, it feels different. He stares like he’s looking through me, seeing underneath my skin. Before I can lose my nerve, I climb into his lap and press my mouth to his.

His lips mold to mine, soft and warm and tasting like the shred of flavor I actually got off the scotch. In his mouth, I don’t mind it nearly as much. He rolls his hips up into me, and I grab his shoulders for balance. His suit feels like the nice sweaters I can never buy in department stores. He grabs my hips, his hands hot but somehow gentle.

A noise I’ve never heard myself make before pours from my lips, something low and needy. I start to blush, but Dante pushes his tongue into my mouth. I always thought French kissing sounded awful, but he moves in a way that chases all those assumptions from my mind. He pulls another moan out of me and tangles his tongue with mine.

Distantly, I hear tinny music. He releases one of my hips and pulls away from the kiss to answer his phone.

“Cattaneo,” he says.

He listens for a long moment, then nods. “I’ll be there shortly.”

I stare at him. What?

“I’m sorry.” He pecks me on the cheek. “Business calls. Take the money, please.” He rolls his hips again, and I feel something hard between us. “Maybe I’ll just call in a favor someday.”

Gently, he dumps me off his lap and leaves the small room. I stare at the door for what feels like an hour, then finally pull my dress and coat on with shaking hands and leave. I got all the money I could’ve hoped for, and I didn’t even have to lose my virginity.

So why do I feel so disappointed?