"I have some of it, Art. Quite a bit of it, in fact," he went on, tapping fat fingers on the tabletop. "I can get the rest within a week. Two tops."
"In two weeks, you would owe me for next month," my father reminded him.
"Yeah, but you know me. I'm always good for it. Have I let you down yet?"
To be fair, that was true. The money eventually always got scrounged up. If it hadn't, Leon would have been dead years ago. My father was just sick of the runaround. It was always a problem, always late.
I had a sneaking suspicion the only reason it was ever paid in full at all was due to Giana finding a way to swing it. And with her in our possession, Leon had no fucking idea how she had managed it all those years.
What a poor fucking excuse for a man.
It would work out for everyone involved if I just put a bullet in him. Then Giana could be freed, and she and I could put our deal into motion. Then my father would never have reason to look at her again.
Win/win.
Except, I was pretty sure there was a part of my father that got off on Leon's ass-kissing, his desperate desire to be an associate of the family's. It made him feel bigger, since the community as whole knew what a dick he was.
Arturo Costa didn't have the respect the old dons did, back when they always protected their neighborhoods and made sure their people were taken care of. Back then, there was loyalty and admiration from the community. They kept their eyes cast down when they saw something illegal, and they kept their mouths shut when the cops came around.
That wasn't the kind of empire my father had.
The neighbors feared him, wanted him out of their nice neighborhood, wanted his leering guards with their ass-pinching fingers off the stoop and sidewalks.
So he had to get his adoration elsewhere.
From small men like Leon Lastra.
"Boss," one of my father's guards said, stepping into the room.
"Can't you see we're busy here?" my father shot back, reaching into his jacket, producing a gun, placing it down on the table—a silent threat, one that Leon didn't outwardly react to. For all I knew, my father pulled a gun on him often.
"It's Paulie. Says you wanted to see him."
My father had forgotten all about it. That truth was plain on his face, at least to me, someone used to a lifetime of his half-truths or full lies.
"Yeah, yeah. But tell him he has to be quick," my father said, rising to his feet.
The guard left for a moment, and then there was another figure moving into the room. Freakishly tall and thin to the point of gauntness, Paulie's suits hung off of him like a scarecrow's in a field
My father had stacked his books full of questionable characters. There was none I disliked as much as Paulie—a man with a strangely monotone voice and shifty eyes.
He worked as a debt collector, had likely graced Leon's door more times than he could count over the years.
His stare was on my father as he moved in the room, seemingly ignoring us all.
I thought nothing of it until Paulie reached into his pocket, his port-wine birth-marked hand producing a fat envelope he passed to my father.
But right in that second, everything about the air in the room shifted.
And it all radiated from the woman sitting at my side.
She'd been stiff before, but she was brittle now. One touch would splinter her.
My gaze lifted, curious, finding her focused on Paulie's hand, her lips parted, her eyes round, her breathing ragged.
Most worrisome of all, though?
She was shaking.
Hard enough that her teeth were clacking together.
This was a woman who had been kidnapped, who had been chased across state lines, then caught , bound, and dragged back.
She'd never shown me fear like this.
She always showed me fire.
Spirit.
Beside me now, she was shrinking into herself, becoming small right before my eyes. It was right then that I realized how little I knew about her connection to the family, about her interactions with major players.
Had Paulie been sent to threaten her? To press her for the money owed?
It wouldn't surprise me. Paulie didn't give a shit who he had to lean on to get the money he was owed. Even if that meant scaring small women.
Still, the reaction seemed over the top for her, this woman who had given even my father a little lip.
There was a short, whispered conversation between Paulie and my father before Paulie turned, seeming to notice everyone gathered around for the first time.
His gaze went right to Giana. And those shifty eyes warmed. His lips curved into some semblance of a smirk.
Yes, clearly some sort of history. Bad on her side, pleasant to Paulie.