“Hey, shoe girl, we’ve got customers.” The manager is a guy named Dave. He’s bald, in his fifties, pale skin and lots of dark hair on his arms. He’s not in the Famiglia, but he’s well aware of who owns the place. I doubt he knows who I am—otherwise, he wouldn’t call me shoe girl—but whatever. I choose not to tell him that messing with me could get him killed and take the minor abuse.
It’s part of having a job, right?
Gavino cackles as I roll my eyes at him and get to work.
I take shoes, spray them with cleaner—disgusting antiseptic stuff that smells like radioactive lemons—and wonder if maybe I should’ve just stayed at home and lounged by the pool with Elise.
But that seems even worse, and it’s somewhat heartening to think that Elise would never, ever, ever be caught dead in a bowling alley, much less working there, much less wearing a black button-down shirt and black pants like a caterer.
That work isn’t bad once I get the hang of it, and despite calling me shoe girl, Dave isn’t so bad. He explains the tag system, how to clean and sterilize, how to use the register, and a few other minor things, and I’m up and running. I stay as busy as I can to keep from noticing Nico’s constant gaze.
But that doesn’t last long. A couple hours into my shift, as the late afternoon slips to night and the alley gets busier, he appears at the counter.
He seems out of place in a freaking bowling alley. All my brother’s men do—black suits, lots of tattoos, way too dangerous looking. That doesn’t deter the customers at least.
“Shoe girl,” Nico says, grinning.
I glare death at him and hold up the cleaner spray can. “Say that again and I swear to god I’ll blind you with this stuff.”
“I need a size twelve, please.”
“No, you don’t.”
His eyebrows raise. “Isn’t it your job to get me some bowling shoes?”
“You’re not bowling.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nico, seriously.”
Casso appears at his side and throws an arm across his shoulders. I catch a quick grimace from Nico and wonder what the hell that’s about.
“He’s not kidding, dear sister. How’s your first shift?”
“It’s going okay.” I frown at the pair of them. “You’re really bowling?”
“Clients want to bowl and we’re not above rolling a few for the cause.” Casso laughs and shakes Nico, who only stares at me like he’s about to climb over the counter and pin me against the shoe rack.
That or blow his own brains out. It’s really hard to tell with him sometimes.
“Size twelve,” Nico says. “Please and thank you, shoe girl.”
“And eleven for me.” Casso sighs and turns around. “These fucking guys are stupidly good at smuggling stolen shit across the border, but I really hate bowling.”
The three clients come over and give me their sizes. They speak decent English, though it’s a little rough. They’re from somewhere in Mexico and are related to a cartel or something like that—I’m not really sure what the deal is exactly—but Casso and Nico want to establish better business relations with them so deals will go down smoother in the future.
Which means they have to bowl.
I swap out the shoes and they get to it. Between helping customers, I pretend to clean the shoes while watching Nico. He rolls the ball with a vicious motion that sends it hurtling down toward the pins. There’s no accuracy with him—it’s either straight down the middle for a strike or right into the gutter.
At least the cartel guys seem to be having a good time.
“Shoe girl,” Dave says, glaring. “Customers.”
I sigh and get to it.
Nico watches me from the bar. He’s sipping a whiskey and not speaking to anyone. Gavino abandoned the alley a while back, the cartel guys left after a couple games, and Casso wasn’t far behind them.
I expected Nico to disappear as well, but he stayed behind. Probably to sit at the bar and picture all the different ways he can torture me.
Why am I stupid enough to put my future in the hands of that man? It’s like shoving my face in a lion’s mouth and kindly asking him not to chomp down.
He’s going to bite my freaking head off. It’s just in his nature.
“Good work tonight, kid.” Dave shoves some cash into my hands.
“What’s this?”
“Your pay. Boss said he wants it under the table.” Dave shrugs and glances at Nico. “Not like it matters to me. That money comes from them, anyways. I figure we might as well skip the middle man.”
“Right, sure. Uh, thanks.”
“Have a good night, shoe girl.” He grins at me and goes back to closing up.
Maybe he does know who I am and doesn’t care. Dave’s a ballsy bastard.
I smile to myself and head around the counter. As soon as I step out, Nico’s up and coming toward me. I shove the money into my pocket and resist the urge to pelt him with bowling shoes.