Page 2 of A Treasure To Keep

“I’ll eat later, Mamma! I have to go!” I yell in passing while my heels pound on the hard floors. My hand is on the doorknob when Papa steps into view. Ugh! So close.

“Where are you going?” He’s always been the calm yet stern one. My mamma, by contrast, tends to yell and speak with her emotions.

“I have work, and I’m going out with Andrea after.” The last part, I say in a quiet mumble, when I attempt to open the door again. Papa puts his foot in front of it, blocking the door from budging even an inch. Mamma turns down the stove and slams down her spatula with a dramatic thud before spinning around. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her lips pursed. Another day, another disappointment in Mamma’s eyes. What’s new?

“I don’t understand why you have a job. You don’t need to work. Once you find a suitable man to be your husband, all you’ll need to do is keep house and give us nipoti.” All Mamma focuses on is grandchildren. When? With who? How many? Blah. Blah. Blah.

“Also, that Andrea boy is no good for you. You need a rich Italian boy, not some French guy you work with. You cannot have the lifestyle you’re used to with a job where you play dress up and need an Italian man with a good job to give you that. If you would give Giovanni another chance—” Oh hell no! I don’t let Papa finish that sentence before I cut him off.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. We all know why that won’t happen. I have a job because I love what I do. Also, technically, Andrea is Italian on his papa’s side; he just grew up in France with a French mamma. Besides, we both make good money for ourselves playing ‘dress up,’ as you call it. Not that it’s any of your business. Andrea has high-profile clients who regularly order custom-made clothes from him. Are you impressed yet, or should I keep going?”

I have a big attitude and an even bigger mouth. Part of me is worried that anytime I open my mouth, my parents will deem what I say as disrespectful. Then they’d go on some bullshit rant about if I had less of an attitude problem, my ex wouldn’thave betrayed me. I don’t believe that for a second. Instead, I’m ‘letting my eggs go to waste,’ as Mamma puts it. According to her, I should have had a baby by now. It’s a joke. I’m barely twenty-five.

“Oh, I’m sure. Who could these high-profile clients be?”

“All I can tell you is they work high up in the Leone family.” It’s technically not a lie.

Alessandro Leone and his nonno, Geno, control gambling throughout Pennsylvania. The Leone name popped up several years ago, quickly taking over gambling and debts throughout the state. I’m convinced it’ll be a cold day in Hell before you find someone in this state who doesn’t know that name.

My parent’s comments halt, giving me the perfect opportunity to race out of the house. Still fucking late for work.

My heels clack against the marble floor when I run late into the break room, praying that no one notices. I work at the most prestige clothing store in Philadelphia. It’s the perfect place to find New York City styling outside of Manhattan. With that comes a standard every employee here promises to uphold. And one of the top rules is to always be on time, if not early.

“You’re late, Eleanora,” Mr. Hansley calls from his office when I turn the corner to throw my things in my locker.

Fuck. Smile, El. Turn on the charm. “Hi, Mr. Hansley. I was making sure everything was perfect out front and had to change a mannequin wearing last season’s boots. You should thank me for stopping the disservice of the wrong season’s shoes out as an advertisement.”

“El, I don’t want to hear it. We know it’s not true. Also, Marco Cornado called for you.” Fucking. Marco.

I haven’t spoken to Marco since New Year’s Eve, a.k.a the only night we’ve ever gotten along. What the fuck could he want now? “He’s Andrea's client.”

“I don’t care if he’s Andrea’s client. Marco and his boss brought in a million dollars in revenue to the store last year. You will call him back and help him with whatever he needs. Shit, you will sit on his face if it keeps him happy.” If he ever knew.

“Whatever. Where’s Andrea?” If I have to call the man who annoys me to no end, I deserve to say hello to my love first.

“He’s with a client. Go call Mr. Cornado and do not disturb Andrea. Also, quit with the attitude, or I’ll fire you.”

I turn toward him, my blonde hair flipping over my shoulder as I place my hands on my hips. “You and I both know you won’t do that.”

“Go call Mr. Cornado.” My point exactly.

“That’s what I thought.” The only thing that could be worse than the conversation with my parents this morning is speaking with Marco. Despite the fact that Marco keeps ordering clothes from Andrea, he hasn’t heard anything from Marco since New Year’s Eve. Marco makes sure that Andrea gets his commission, yet when it’s time to pick up his clothes, he sends a lackey to pick them up instead. To make it crazier, Alessandro—his boss and best friend—doesn’t know why either.

I take my sweet ass time walking to the women’s section, wanting to push this call off for as long as possible. The only thing keeping me from stomping my feet is the last piece of self-control I have.

I groan as I type Marco’s phone number into my desk phone and hear it ring. Maybe if he doesn’t pick up, I won’t have to lie to my boss and can avoid talking with Marco. Unfortunately, his signature cocky voice comes through the phone.

“What’s up, tesoro?” Fucking. Marco. I can practically see him leaning back in his desk chair, feet up on his desk. Knowing him, I’m on speakerphone while he his hands behind his head and a dumb cocky smile on his face.

“Fuck off, Marco. And don’t call me that! I’m only calling you back because Mr. Hansley told me to.” Only Andrea can call me treasure.

“Wow, I’m impressed you can listen to someone.” I repeat myself. Fucking. Marco.

“You have about three seconds to spit out why you insisted I call you, or I will hang up.” My nails strum on the desk as I start internally counting.

One.

Two.