Page 69 of Forgotten Sacrifice

I smile; check for Luna.

Using a key, Vince unlocks the door, and I follow him inside.

“Your office feels smaller,” I decide, taking in the room where my own flesh and blood offered to trade me like a commodity.

“Same size it’s always been,” he says. “I bought you a regulation chess board so you can practice when I have to work.” He motions to the coffee table.

“Thanks.” I place the cookies down as I set up the pieces on the new board.

“I need to hit the floor.” Pulling out a headset from his desk, he puts it on. “Stay here, and I’ll be back later to check on you.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” I wonder.

“Private bath.” He points to the door in the corner.

“If you’ll recall, I’ve been to the social club,” I point out.

“So?”

“Sowhy do I have to hide back here? Is it because you don’t want another man playing with your shiny new toy?” I goad him.

“Sophie doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about,” he says dismissively.

“Really?” I say skeptically. “She seemed pretty well-versed in Vincenzo.”

Vince sighs heavily. “Luna, I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

I cross my arms. “Notmybullshit; your girlfriend’s.”

“Sophie was never my girlfriend,” he corrects me, and for some weird reason, that makes me feel better.

“Because you don’t want to settle down?” I repeat what the housekeeper let slip.

Vince pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”

I examine my nails. “It’s a skill.”

“Stay.” He points at me.

“Ruff. Ruff.” I hold my hands up like dog paws.

He shakes his head as he walks out, locking the door behind him.

I give it a few minutes before strolling to his desk. Oh my God, the man has a word of the day calendar.

Loquacious.Adjective. Extremely talkative.

Vince may be a wordsmith, but loquacious he is not.

Next to the calendar is his name plate.

Vincenzo Rossi

General Manager

I roll my eyes. General manager of my life, according to him.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, I find pencils, paperclips, and other office supplies. A pencil-pushing mobster. It might be easy to believe if I hadn’t watched Vince put a bullet in my dad’s head. I can’t say I’m sorry Vince did it, but if he expects a thank you from me, he’ll be disappointed. Sure, things have improved since Vince barreled his way into my life, but trading up from a poverty prison to a middle class cage is still confinement.