“I’m a fuck-up, Santino. There's a reason for you to tell me so. I miss Mina. I want to be a better dad for Antonia. My baby girl showed me all the stuff she wanted for her birthday.”
At the pressure in my head, I grimace. “You should know everything on that list. Your daughter isn’t one of those kids who watches commercials and begs for this or that. She’s not impulsive, Big Tony, she’s special. How will Toni understand that every daughter is a princess if you can’t carry yourself like a king, huh?”
“San—”
“That was rhetorical! All’s I’m saying is, be a fucking role model for your kid!”
A few beats pass. “Are you gonna bail me out or not, Santino?!”
“I have trash to take out.” I press the off button and toss the cell phone. It clatters across the table and onto the natural, scuffed-up wooden floors. I’m bristling mad. Sure, he won’t understand the innuendo. He’s the fucking trash. In another hour or two, I’ll persuade myself not to reach out to the people in my family waiting to slit his throat.
With my veins still boiling, I get up to grab the phone. Tony doesn’t deserve to live.
I could send Cecco a “trash can” emoji at this very second, and Big Tony’s life would cease to exist in the near future. Or I could kill the little shit myself!
As the pot shakes from boiling, there’s a knock at the door. Intense heat burns my palm as I touch the handle.
“Fuck!” Teeth gritting, I continue with the foolish antics. The contents splash into the sink as I head to the door.
I yank the door open. At the sight of Gina Galloway, the anger thundering through me vanishes. My little princess. The alluring black socialite isn’t the definition of put together today. Her usually curly hair is soggy against her flawless brown skin. Face void of makeup, I can remember her taking my dick in her mouth the other morning. She has striking, mocha-colored plush lips.
The trench coat she’s wearing is wet and weighing down on her curves. And still, she’s so gorgeous. All the muscles in my body are dead, save for one. One’s barking like a dog, rising in expectancy.
I don’t need to be gorgeous today. I need dependability. “Gina, come in, you're soaking wet.”
She glances at my hand. “Oh, baby, did you hurt—”
“I’ll handle it like everything else.” Shit! That came out a little too harsh. I hold my stiff palm near my chest and soften my approach. “I’m glad you could make it, Bella.”
When I gesture with my left hand, Gina’s rooted at the welcome mat. “Santino, you doubted I’d drop by?”
“Let’s not . . . Okay . . . How long ago did you say you’d get here?” I work my blistered fingers into a fist then flex them. “Gina, I’m sorry.”
“Hmmm, I see. I’m Gina when you’re Santa, and we’re engaging in some really good shit talk. Or I’m Gina when you sound very, very good telling me to fall to my knees or suck your dick just like that.”
“Bella, I’m sorry.”
She sniffs. “No!”
“Okay!” I growl. “Maybe I didn’t think you’d come. Okay? Half the time, I’m bracing myself for your usual reply.”
“That I have to work late,” she murmurs, shifting the satchel on the other arm. “Santino, we’re perfect for each other . . . when fucking is involved. Is this just sex?”
20
Gina
Minutes ago, the rain had felt as if it were ascending from the ground. I’d already discarded my umbrella by the time Santino opened the door to his apartment. Though I’m still freezing, I cast off personal comfort and shock washes over my face.
“Santino, you had me believing this was serious. I was determined to get on your level. So, are you an amazing actor, and I’m a heartless bitch? I’m here for a fuck?” I clear my throat. “Obviously not today. But is that what you think of me?”
“No, Gina.”
I hold up a hand. “I have a knack for busting balls—sex is rarely included. Albeit, the second I tasted your lips, I coveted the idea of us as just sex. Needed to designate you to a box that I could take out or put away. Needed to be in control. But you were a drug to me.”
I note the slight shift in his jaw muscles. I desperately hope the gesture is a tell that my statement about ‘just sex’ rubbed him all wrong.