The Woman in the Trunk - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,6
couldn't get us out of the bottomless void my father had trapped our family in when I was a little girl.
So I needed a little distance, a little room for some calm and patience to burrow back in. Then I could go back, keep plugging away at my five-year plan to fix this situation. If I could just keep my freaking father from making it any worse in the process.
Lofty goals, with his track record, but I was going to do my best.
We had to fix it.
Or he was going to get himself killed.
And possibly me in the process.
My life might not have been worth much at this point, but it was mine. And I would be damned if I'd let my father's stupid business decisions take it away from me.
In my back pocket, my phone buzzed six times in a row. Texts. Likely frantic ones from Liane who was having a heart attack over something or another at work. I ignored it, trying to remember that I promised myself a weekend away. But on the eighth buzz, I set my soup down, reaching for it, scrolling through the texts.
Liane had been working at the family business since the beginning of time. I was pretty sure she was my grandfather's first hire when he'd opened shop. She was high-strung and prone to getting overwhelmed easily and overreacting to the most minor of problems. But she had become a sort of face of the business, always stationed at the register bright and early every morning, knowing more customers by name than I did.
Apparently, the shipment I'd ordered in earlier the week had come in. With a third of the items I had ordered missing. Liane, bless her sweet heart, was convinced there was simply some glitch, some misunderstanding as to why we were getting one-fifth the flour I knew we needed, half of the butter, nearly none of the fruit.
I, unfortunately, was just jaded enough to know the truth.
My father had gone behind me and edited the order, cutting corners that couldn't afford to be trimmed.
This was why I never left town, damnit.
On a sigh, I dialed my father, feeling my pulse pounding in my temples and throat. This man was going to give me a heart attack at the ripe old age of twenty-two.
"I'm busy right now, Gigi."
"Not too busy for this," I told him, reminding myself not to grit my teeth. "Why did you screw with the supply order? We needed everything I ordered."
"Berries are expensive. We need to cut back."
"Berries are necessary," I insisted, closing my eyes, willing myself not to cry out of sheer frustration. "We have that order for the wedding this week, Daddy. Remember? They ordered strawberries and blueberries and freaking goji berries. We have to have them."
"Yeah, well," he said, trying to buy time, knowing he was wrong, but not wanting to admit it. "I will send someone out to the store."
"It will cost twice as much at the store! That's why we order wholesale. Jesus Christ. This is not rocket science, Daddy. You need to stop screwing around with the orders. I know what I am doing." I had, after all, been doing it since I was sixteen years old, since he proved wholly incapable of doing it himself.
"Yeah? If you know what you're doing, why are we just barely scraping by every month?"
His voice was raised, that notorious temper rearing its ugly head.
He had the worst combination of traits. Complete ineptitude blended with too much pride to ever admit he didn't know what he was doing. And then a sprinkling of denial, a heaping tablespoon of anger, and a nice dollop of entitlement to top it all off.
If it weren't for my grandfather and his legacy, I would have walked away as soon as I was legally able to do so. But I had made my grandpa a promise on his death bed. I would take care of the bakery. I would make sure it continued on. It would be around for my children, my children's children.
Nerves frazzled, I was beyond taking a deep breath and letting his accusations go. The whiskey and the sleepless nights were wearing me too thin.
"I think we both know why we are just barely scraping by every month, Daddy. And it has nothing to do with how successful the bakery is, and everything to do with those friends of yours in the mafia."
"Watch your mouth, Giana," my father snapped, voice rough.