Smoke (The Carelli Family Saga #1) - Eden Butler Page 0,19

no great plan to rejecting Mrs. C.’s gift. And I’d been as polite as possible. But, if I was going to stand on my own two feet one day, I’d have to start small—by refusing the countless gifts Smoke’s family gave to me and my son. Toys, clothes, purses, cash, jewelry, it was all very sweet, very generous, but it was too much.

Still, I wasn’t stupid, and I knew how crazy Mrs. C. was over my kid and I’d shamelessly used Mateo to smooth over any lingering hurt Mrs. C. might still feel, hoping spending time with him before Vi picked him up would put her in a good mood. She’d let me pass without an interrogation about why I’d refused her gifts, but I still spent most of my shift avoiding the kitchen when I could, sending my trainee Curtis in to grab the entrees while I made the drinks, just to keep our boss’s attention on him and not me.

It had worked, and the day had been a good one—nice tips, friendly customers. Everything seemed great, in fact. The summer was turning out to be good for us all and my mood was up.

Until that conference crowd ordered appetizers.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’ve got a hankering for an order of thighs. Long juicy ones.”

The guy was already drunk. I could make that out from the reek of beer coming off his breath as he leered at me. Curtis stood next to me and I hated that I felt more secure with him there, even though he was rail thin and awkward. He was tall and had a death glare that had the drunk asshole and his friends, quieting down.

“Welcome to Carelli’s, gentlemen. This afternoon’s specials are…”

“Focaccia bread and fresh mozzarella, please,” one man, likely the most sober of all the suit-wearing corporate types taking up the entire back of the restaurant, said. “And the strongest coffee you have. Start with this bastard.”

“You’re no fun, Baker,” the drunk asshole said, throwing down his menu to glare at Baker.

“We’re still on the clock, Phillips, and Reynolds will be here in fifteen minutes.” Baker straightened his tie and shot a look toward the door.

Curtis returned with two coffee pots, handing me one, and we both began to fill the mugs, starting with the one in front of Phillips as Baker passed two creamers toward the man. I pulled my pad out again, scribbling down the order as Baker continued.

“You better get as many coffees down your throat as you can. Reynolds sees you’re drunk, and he’ll send you back to Jersey. REN Cyper in Jersey is shipping, not tech. No fun in that shit.” The men around the table laughed, even Phillips who picked up the coffee and motioned for Curtis to pour him another one. When the guy called Baker glanced at me, his attention moving to the half-written order and my pen frozen over the pad, the smile on his full mouth shifted, then lowered. “Miss…”

“I’ll…” I blinked, shoving a warm, friendly smile on my face, hoping like hell these men bought the act. “I’ll get that order placed for you.”

REN Cyper. In the city? The tech department? And had that man said someone called Reynolds was coming in? It couldn’t be that Reynolds. There was no way.

It had been almost two years since John Reynolds had made that offer to me. I hadn’t even known about the baby then. Back then I was just Alejandro’s wife, stupidly believing that her husband had the flu, yet again, and that he was partying to network, that Reynolds needed him to explain the tech to garner more clients. Not that Alejandro was an addict. Not that he was going through withdrawals because he’d been without a fix for more than two days.

“I can help him,” Reynolds had admitted, laying Alejandro, who wasn’t nearly drunk enough to stave off his sickness, on the sofa. Reynolds taunted him. He leered at me. “But it’ll cost you.” He licked his lips, his gaze running over my body. “Come on, beautiful. You’ll love it.”

When the asshole pulled out a baggie and waved it in front of my husband, holding it just out of his reach, and Alejandro grabbed for it, it was then I realized what a mess he’d made of our lives.

“Get out,” I told the man, stepping away from him when he moved closer.

“Maggie…please,” Alejandro said, his voice thin, weak, like a fever had taken over him. I’d half-convinced myself that’s what happened. What he