Page 4 of Filthy Little Games
2
Zara
“Hey, sexy.”
“I’m busy,” I reply from where I’m kneeling on the dirty, rock-hard floor in my ratty jean shorts. I don’t bother to look up, because I unfortunately recognize the entitled bastard’s voice. Praying he’ll take the hint and go away, I continue restocking the discount store’s shelves with four-packs of cheap toilet paper without pausing.
Nothing good ever comes from an unexpected visit from Izaiah Rovina, the oldest son of Emilio Rovina, mob boss of Brooklyn. Which is exactly why I live and work in Queens.
From the corner of my eye, I can make out the filthy rich jerk’s wrinkled, charcoal designer suit and his black silk tie loose at the neck as he comes closer. His messy appearance was my first red flag that he was nothing but a spoiled, self-destructive, insensitive jerk who loves heroin almost as much as he loves himself.
When his knees are nearly touching my face, he leans a shoulder against the shelves, as if he’s too wasted or lazy to hold himself up. He jerks on one of the auburn curls that’s fallen from my messy bun. “So, you don’t want to go to the zoo with Oriana tomorrow morning?”
My head falls forward, chin touching my chest to free my hair from his grimy fingers. We both know I want to see her and that I’d do anything to spend an entire morning with my daughter. And I do mean absolutely anything.
The Rovina family is one of the richest and most powerful in New York City. Three years ago, the sons of bitches ripped my newborn daughter from my arms when she was only a day old, knowing I could never afford an attorney to fight against their legion of lawyers for custody. I don’t even know which of their dozens of properties they’re keeping her at, but I’m sure she’s locked up behind towering walls and dozens of security guards, safeguarded like Fort Knox.
And their sole reason for taking my daughter from me, refusing to let me spend a minute of unsupervised time with her, is because they deemed me unfit to be a mother. One failed drug test, even though I’ve been clean since the day I found out I was pregnant.
So, while the Rovinas can spend millions of dollars of their blood money spoiling my little girl, it willneveradd up to my love for her. Love that I’ve felt since the moment the damn stick turned blue.
Inhaling a deep breath, I get to my feet and finally face the asshole. The first thing I notice is that Izaiah’s glassy brown eyes are more bloodshot than normal, and his suit hangs a little looser than usual from his lanky frame. “I wish I could go to the zoo tomorrow, but…I can’t.” I hate turning down the offer. Taking time off from work is not a luxury I can afford at the moment. “I have to open tomorrow, and I’ll be here until closing.”
Izaiah stabs his fingers through his short brown hair as if he’s growing impatient. “Then how about Sunday?”
Blaring sirens accompanied by red and blue lights start flashing in my head. They’re so bright and loud, I can barely think over them. “Why are you being so damn…accommodating today?” I ask the prick.
“Because I need you to do me a favor. An urgent one.”
I release the breath I was holding. Thank god. I can do urgent favors all damn day. That’s a million times better than having to perform sexual favors in exchange for supervised visitation with my daughter. In the past three years, I’ve done more of those “favors” than I care to recall.
“I’m off Sunday morning until one.”
“Deal,” Izaiah quickly agrees. While I wish I could spend the entire day with Oriana, I’ll take whatever I can get.
“What do you need me to do?”
The mobster straightens up and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sagging pants. “I just need you to deliver a message to the manager of a nightclub.”
Deliver a message? That’s it? This is sounding almost too good to be true.
“What’s the message?”
He glances over his shoulder to make sure there’s no one else in the store. “You need to tell Jasper Burch that his boss, Ferraro, has a bullseye on his head, and there’s a sniper coming for him who won’t miss.”
“Oh.”
The name Ferraro is ominous enough that I second-guess agreeing to this favor. Everyone in the city knows that there are five mafia families, one controlling each borough, and that Creed Ferraro is the boss who keeps the other four in line.
If someone wants him dead…well, they obviously have a death wish. The man’s nickname isAccabadore,theangel of death.WhileI’ve never seen him in person, I’ve seen pictures on social media of him glowering at cameras, looking as if he’s plotting the death of the photographers for daring to annoy him. There’s no denying that the mobster is devastatingly handsome, but getting too close to him would be hazardous to one’s health.
“So, the message is like a warning? One to keep Ferraro safe from a potential sniper?”
“Something like that.”
The only reason I don’t bail on this favor is because I long to spend time at the zoo with Oriana on Sunday. She’s growing up way too fast. My worst fear is that soon she’ll be old enough for the Rovinas to fill her head with lies about me not wanting to be a part of her life. Besides, I don’t see what harm could come from giving the mobster a heads-up that could save his life.
“You’ll need to deliver the message in person. Tonight. And I want you to text me with updates.”