Chapter 21

21

Zara

C reed, thankfully, comes home earlier than usual around lunchtime. And he’s holding a package, the box that’s been sitting unopened in the foyer.

“Hi,” I say in greeting, unable to help my smile. When I see the man now, it’s an automatic response. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that he’s worked his way down to only three orgasms remaining of the twenty-seven he said I was owed.

“Hey. I bought this for you when we were in the Hamptons and forgot about it,” he says as he pulls out a knife from his pocket and slices open the tape. The box isn’t very big, just about three inches thick and the size of a sheet of paper.

“You bought something for me…and left it sitting unopened on the table for nearly a week?” I accept the opened box from him without getting up from my seat on the sofa.

“Sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind. ”

The worry lines between his brow have been obvious, but I don’t ask him what he’s worried about. His brother just died, and he killed an ally’s son and married me in a matter of days.

Instead, I open the flaps of the box to see what’s inside.

It’s a…digital photo frame?

“I thought I could upload the photos from your phone to the frame so you could still see them.”

“Oh.”

He bought the frame so I could look at my pictures, which is sweet, but he did it because he still doesn’t trust me with my phone.

In fact, every day when he leaves the penthouse, he has two guards stay here with me at the door. They may not leer at me from the sofa like Lorenzo, but I know that they’re there, ensuring that I don’t leave and reminding me that I’m really just a prisoner who gets to enjoy lots of oral sex.

“Thank you,” I add, since it’s a sweet gift. Sort of.

“I wish I could trust you. You know that right?” Creed sits next to me on the sofa.

“And I don’t blame you,” I admit. “I do appreciate the gift and your help with Eugene tonight.”

“I’ll start transferring the photos over now.” He lifts the frame box from my lap and opens it. When he removes my cell phone from his pocket, he remarks, “You have a lot of photos on your phone.”

“Yeah, it’s sort of a hobby.”

“A hobby?”

“I’ve always loved capturing life through the lens, even if the lens is my shitty little phone’s camera.”

“I like the photos. They’re good shots, capturing the essence of city life.”

“Thanks,” I say, since that’s the way I’d describe the images as well. “I actually came to the city because I thought I had a shot at modeling.”

“Really?” Creed looks up at me.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” I tease him.

“No, I mean, you’re gorgeous. I can see you on the runway or on a giant perfume ad in Times Square.”

Laughing, I tell him, “You are so full of shit.”

“I’m serious. Why did you give up modeling?”

“I ended up in some campaigns that I didn’t feel completely comfortable with and decided the industry wasn’t for me. Oh, and I got pregnant.”

“Right. Well, I wish it had worked out for you, but I’m glad I don’t have to share you with an audience.” Creed gives me a small smile that quickly disappears before he returns to working on the frame.

I don’t say much to him the rest of the afternoon until he leaves to meet Eugene in Queens, too lost in the memories of those first few years in the city. I regret them. In fact, Oriana is the only reason that I’m glad I came to the city seven years ago.

Well, Oriana and now, Creed.

I’m so glad I met the mobster, despite the shitty circumstances. I just wish he felt the same.

Creed

I’ve been waiting in the alley behind the discount store for about ten minutes when an ancient blue Cutlass comes squealing. Last week he was in a different vehicle, but I have a feeling it’s the same boy. I stay hidden in the shadows until the car stops just beside the store’s back door.

The familiar-looking scrawny kid that’s nearly my height climbs from the driver side with a ski mask covering his face, leaving the vehicle running. He goes to the door and lifts his fist to pound on it.

“She doesn’t work here anymore.” My voice startles the kid. He whips around to face me while pulling out the gun tucked into his rear waistband of his baggy jeans. “And if you’re smart, you’ll throw that damn thing away before you end up with a three-and-a-half-year mandatory prison sentence.”

“Aw fuck,” he mutters, then turns back around and reaches for the car’s door handle.

Stepping out of the shadows and into the glow from the car’s headlights, I tell him, “Wait a second, Eugene. Zara sent me. She’ll be pissed if I let you leave empty-handed.”

The boy pauses. “Zara sent you? Are you a cop? I don’t know what she told you —”

“Do I look like a fucking cop?” I gesture with both hands toward my custom suit, letting him also see that I’m not armed.

“Guess not.”

“I’m Creed Ferraro.”

With another swear, he scurries into the driver seat as if to leave. So, I take a seat on the hood. “Get out of the damn car. Either you’re a wannabe gangster or you’re a pussy. What’s it going to be, Eugene?”

After a long moment, he opens the squeaky car door and steps back out.

“What do you want from me? Did you hurt Zara?”

“No, I haven’t and wouldn’t hurt Zara. But she is staying with me now. And she sent me to give you the envelope full of cash in my suit pocket. I’ll give it to you if you put your gun on the hood.”

“How much money?” he asks curiously .

“You’ll find out after you give up the gun.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “It’s not loaded anyway. Can’t afford bullets.” He places the weapon down on the hood near the windshield wipers, as far away from where I’m sitting as possible.

Standing up to face him again, the boy tenses as if he’s about to take off on foot. I reach into my jacket to retrieve the envelope and hear his exhale of relief when I offer it to him. He snatches it from my fingers and immediately starts thumbing through the bills.

“Holy shit! How much is this?”

“Ten grand. And it’s just the start. You can keep that cash with no strings attached. If you want more, you’ll get that much in cash every week in exchange for agreeing to work for me.”

His fingers tighten around the envelope. He looks up at me through the eyeholes of his mask. “I don’t get it. What’s the catch?”

“The catch is that you do what I say, stop pretending to rob stores, and keep your mouth shut about my business.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. There will be risks involved in the work, but you’ll also have my protection. What’s your last name, Eugene?”

He only hesitates for a moment. “Gallo. It’s Eugene Gallo, sir.”

“Gallo? Your family have any Italian in your blood.”

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Find out. If so, in eight years, if you’ve proven yourself to be loyal, then you can move up the ranks, become one of my men.”

“But…why me?”

“Because Zara says you’re a good kid, doing what you need to do to raise your sisters. And if you keep doing that shit on your own, one day, probably not too far in the future, you’re going to get caught, thrown in prison for life, and never see them again.”

“Is that a threat?”

Chuckling, I tell him, “No, kid. It’s a fact. Not everyone is as amenable to being robbed as my wife.”

“Your wife is Zara?!” I shouldn’t have let that shit slip like that. But I can’t seem to help myself. I want everyone in the fucking world to know who my wife is, even though it’s too risky to announce.

“That’s your first test, Eugene Gallo. Nobody knows Zara and I are married, except three people who, without a doubt, would take a bullet for me. If anyone else finds out, I’ll know it was you, and I won’t be happy.”

“Fuck, man. Who would I tell?”

“I don’t know. Who would you tell?”

“Nobody,” he replies. “I don’t talk to anyone.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you when I have a job for you.”

“I…um…I don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t have a phone?” I say in surprise.

“No, sir.”

Jesus. I should’ve realized that if the boy was fake robbing a discount store, then he doesn’t have the money to pay for a phone and monthly plan. It’s a good reminder not everyone is as lucky as I am. I guess I have my wife to thank for that reminder as well.

“Buy yourself a phone with that ten grand, even if it’s the cheap, pay by the minute kind, then call this number and tell him you’re our new errand boy,” I say as I pull out my wallet and hand him one of Lorenzo’s business cards.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Thank you, sir. Tell Zara…tell her I appreciate her help.”

“I will. Stay out of trouble,” I warn the kid. “You’re no good to me if your ass is in prison.”

“Yes, sir.”

And for some reason, I know not only will this kid be an indispensable employee to me, because he’s desperate to keep a roof over his sisters’ heads and food in their bellies, but I also think he’s got the kind of grit that will make him one hell of a man someday.