Addicted to Santino - Amarie Avant Page 0,45

fine.” I grin, searching for the sanity I lost when entering the office. Seriously, I’ve gotta get a hand on Christmas. This year will be different, I tell myself.

My father peeks into the room. “You’re three hours late—”

“I was—”

“Conference room three. Now.”

“Why?”

“I just gave Steven a chance. He choked. You’re up.”

Baffled, I stare at him. “But for what, Dad? I’m not prepared for—?”

“Gina, if this is your calling, what’s there to be prepared for? I would be remiss to admit that Geraldine could learn two terms about a new company and purchase their souls.”

“Can I even get a name of the—”

“Turner.”

Alright, that was about as informative as a company branding faucet water. I inquire, “Why’s this Turner business failing?”

“Because you have yet to give them the appropriate advice. It’s an upstate New York bed and breakfast—”

“Awe, a B&B like the one Avery opened?”

“Yes, sweetheart, like your cousin, Avery. However, it lacks a real brand. It’s a cheap company, which is why I didn’t bother you. But Steven made us look bad. Handle it.”

I groan. Dad only concerns himself with large corporations. Sounds like Turner’s is a family-operated B&B, indicating that he’s liable to tell the owners to jump ship. Following after my father, I ask, “Did Steven at least visit the company site, discuss their issues, and how we could assist?”

“Get in there.”

Over my shoulder, I toss lingering defiance from the holiday, “Sounds like no, then.”

My attempts crash and burn as Dad continues to walk away.

Inside, a man with short crop hair is seated with his back facing me. His shoulders fill out a suit rather nicely for a company that my dad had hardly any interest in assisting.

He turns around, to display an all-white smile and handsome dark features.

“Hello, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes, but probably not the Mr. Turner you’re versed on.”

I’m not versed at all.

“My father passed . . .”

“My condolences,” I sigh.

Turner replies, “He suffered a very long time. I’m an attorney, and I’d like to save my father’s business on behalf of my mother.”

With an extended hand, I offer him a seat. “Please.”

29

Santino

I say, “Stare con le mani in mano,” to Big Tony this morning. Before he can inquire as to what it means, I hang up. The word-for-word English translation is, “to hold your hand in your own hand.” The phrase addresses a lazy bastard like him who sits idle on their hands, letting everyone else do all the work. But that’s how the Galloway’s see Zane, which is exactly how they see me.

The current construction site is across the way from a jewelry store. As I get out of the truck, the morning sun reflects on an engagement ring; a flawless little number I must have for Gina Galloway. Let’s be honest, there’s nothing small about the ring. It shone like a round marble.

I pull the hard hat over my head and walk off-site with resolve. Tory and Carlos are already hard at work. I’d called in early, same as Gina. We both used the same line.

The foreman cocks a brow. “It’s a good thing you didn’t have to spend the entire day at the dentist.”

I’ll just meet her tonight. Since today's December first, Gina had a harebrained idea to move some of her stuff last night. I tilt my head to the side, stretching my neck, like I’m ready to work hard. When he walks away, I stop adjusting the gear around my waist and gesture to Carlos.

He shoves the facial shield away. “Me or him?”

“You, fucking idiot.”

Carlos asks, “What can I do for you, Mr. Morelli?”

“Very formal.” I attach the gloves to my hands, slapping at the Velcro.

“Santino, we’re not cool anymore.”

I’m too old to give a damn about being cool with anybody that’s not my family. “I need a few gigs.” I calculate the cost in my head for the amount of the shiny marble on display across the street. “Preferably, on-location gigs.”

“Santino, you’re telling me that after blowing me off for months—half the fucking summer and fall—you want to come back. And not just as some monkey act on the stage or even the main event on said stage. You want to be sent to clients who pay premium prices?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Santino, my friend.” He beams, patting my shoulder. Then his tune changes. “That’s not how these things go.”

What less than criminal acts can I complete for my family . . .

Carlos asks, “Did the princess leave the frog?”

I arch a brow.

“It’s an old Disney movie my kids once watched on