Page 27 of Twisted Little Games (New York City Mafia #3)

Kirsten

T he morning with Tristan is no less passionate than the night before. I swear it’s like I can’t keep my hands off him. I want more of what only he can give me.

So, when he climbs out of bed and starts putting on a suit, I’m annoyed and disappointed. “I’ve got to head out and handle something real fast. Do you need anything before I go?” Tristan asks as slips on his suit jacket then checks his firearm.

“I…I want to get out of the apartment for a few hours,” I tell him because I don’t want to be left alone. “Can I come with you?”

“Really?” He scowls. “It’s not safe. And you’re not going to like what you see me do.”

“What are you going to do?” I question. “And I’ll be safe with you. Nobody knows I’m here except your cousins and the girls downstairs, right?”

Shaking his head, he says, “Fine. Come or don’t come, but I have to go.”

“Give me a minute to get dressed,” I huff. While I need to set up a meeting with Serafina — outside of the courthouse — I figure it can wait another day since nobody will expect me to be tagging along with Tristan.

Once I’m ready, dressed down in black yoga pants and a gray sweatshirt with my hair in a messy bun, we take his truck across town and find a parking spot in front of a cluster of Italian restaurants and delis. Even the pharmacy and dry cleaner have names like Giordono’s and Lombardi’s.

“Let me guess, these are all mob businesses?” I ask before he kills the engine.

“Creed owns some small businesses, but most of these are run by individuals who are not made men. They’re just associates.”

“Associates who have to pay you…what’s it called? Pizzo?”

“No, they chose to pay the pizzo,” Tristan replies.

“Because if they don’t, you’ll kill them?”

He stares at me in the passenger seat. “Do you seriously think so little of me, that I would kill someone over a few hundred dollars?”

“I thought that’s what the mob does.”

“The businesses pay up to keep themselves safe. It’s money for protection.

It’s sort of like insurance. When everyone who lives around here knows they’re protected by Creed, by the Ferraro family, then they think twice before they fuck with the businesses.

At least most of the time. Sometimes there are a few idiots who press their luck,” he explains.

“Now, are you coming inside, or do you want to wait in the truck?”

“I’ll come in,” I decide, even if I’m dressed down without makeup or my hair fixed perfectly.

With the mobster, those things don’t seem to matter.

In fact, I think he prefers when I’m a little messy.

The way he stared at my pants before we left his apartment makes me think he likes the tight fit on my ass more than my stuffy suits.

I follow Tristan into a cute, old-fashioned ice cream shop of all places, complete with checkered floors and red decor.

It’s gelato actually, which I should’ve guessed.

The front window glass is broken, shards scattered everywhere.

A pretty man with shoulder-length dark curls holds a broom inside, sweeping up.

His hands are shaking as he works, and his shoulders are hunched.

He looks upset before he even glances up and sees the mobster headed his way.

His eyes widen and then… he lets out a sigh of relief.

“Mr. Ferraro,” he says in greeting. “Thank you for coming so soon.”

“Do you have security footage of the asshole who did this?” Tristan asks.

The young man nods.

“Text it to me. How much did he take?”

“Almost four-grand,” the guy says. “My parents are going to fucking kill me when they find out I didn’t make the bank deposit last night.”

“They won’t find out. I’m going to go get your money back right now,” Tristan promises, which seems a bit too cocky. “You know the guy who did it?”

The man nods. “We went to high school together. My friend, Kelly, she works here part time and is dating him. His name is Reggie. Reggie Reynolds.”

“How did this Reggie know about the cash you had on hand? The girl told him?”

He nods again and swallows loud enough for us to hear. “I may have mentioned needing to make a bank run last night. Please, don’t hurt her, just him!”

“You got a thing for this girl or something?” Tristan asks, and the guy’s nose wrinkles in disgust.

“God, no. I’m gay.”

“Oh. Right. Well, this girl is trouble. She’s going to have to be punished in some way too.”

“Fine. Just don’t hit her.”

Tristan scrubs his palm down his face. “Why does everyone think I’m a monster who hurts girls and kills over a few bucks?”

The young guy looks from Tristan to me and then lowers his eyes to the mess on the floor.

Shaking his head, Tristan says, “I’ve got some guys coming to replace the glass. The shop should be all sealed up by tonight when you close.”

“It’s not like anyone wants ice cream in the winter. And I doubt any other…customers will be willing to literally crawl over broken glass to get what they’re looking for.”

“Right, well, I’m sorry this happened to you, kid. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Thanks, Mr. Ferraro.”

“Keep your head up, Emanuele.”

When Tristan and I are back in his cranked truck, getting warm while he types on his phone, I ask him, “What else does the adorable ice cream shop sell?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grins without glancing up from his phone. “The Pescis only sell happiness in a cup.”

“Happiness in a cup? You mean drugs?”

“Why? Are you going to have them arrested?”

“I don’t arrest anyone. I prosecute cases.”

“Right. Well, let’s just say that if anyone ever offers you some sort of colorful little pills in the shape of cartoon characters, you should decline.”

“MDMA,” I say in understanding. “I do know what’s on the streets, since it’s all written up in the police reports. I’ve even seen it firsthand in evidence.”

“Well, don’t tell any of your cop friends about the Pescis unless you’re willing to try to make a living selling ice cream in the winter.

” Waving a hand at the shop, he says, “They had no choice but to close or branch out. It’s a necessity, not greed.

These families have mortgages and bills to pay like everyone else.

But I’m guessing you’ve never spent a day trying to figure out if you should pay the past-due electric bill or get groceries. ”

“And you have?” I ask him.

Tristan shakes his head before tossing his phone into the cupholder.

Pulling away from the curb, we head for the address he put in his GPS.

“No, thankfully, my family never had to struggle to make ends meet. But I grew up with plenty of people who did. And for those people, they do what they have to do to survive. You should think about that the next time you ask a judge to throw the book at them.”

“So, you’re saying I take my privilege for granted?”

“Yes. I know everything in your world is black and white. But there are plenty of good people who live in the gray area. There are reasons they do what they do, and most of the time, it’s not just to be a dick or because they’re evil.”

“Says the criminal.”

“Says the criminal,” he agrees.

“Do I even want to know all the crimes you’ve committed or why they were done?”

“Probably not,” Tristan replies.

“I’m guessing that you have killed men before, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What did they do for you to think they deserved death by your hand?” I ask, genuinely curious to know more about his life and the choices he’s made.

“Well, let’s see. The last men I killed were guards who worked for…

a bad man who had taken Zara. That’s Creed’s wife.

They worked for the man who took her daughter and stood by while he tortured Zara, carving letters into her chest and burning her.

I took out the guards to rescue her daughter and two nannies who were innocent women, barely twenty years old, while Creed went after Zara and the man who hurt her. ”

“Wow,” I mutter as I consider that whole complicated situation.

“What would you have done in that situation?” He doesn’t sound angry as he focuses on the road, simply curious as well. “If you were me? If you were Zara, what would you have done?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly as I stare out at the people and businesses passing us by. “While I would hate it, I think I could kill to save my child’s life. Or any innocent child’s life. But only if there was no other way to handle the situation, like arresting the men.”

“So, you would be okay with officers getting shot, possibly killed responding to that scenario? What about the girl and the women getting hit by exchanged gunfire when the men refuse to go down without a fight?”

“You make some good points,” I admit.

“Sometimes, in my gray world, it’s better to take a few lives who deserve to die than to let innocents become victims.”

“That’s the only time you’ve taken a life, when you had to choose between them or innocent lives?”

“Not always. Sometimes it’s just good old self-defense.” Glancing over at me, he says, “You’ve been in that situation before. You know first-hand how it feels to make the snap decision to keep breathing by killing someone else.”

“Yes, I do know what that feels like,” I agree. “I didn’t even hesitate last night. I always thought I would if I faced someone with a gun, but I just wanted him to die instead of me.”

“You couldn’t have shot to wound, or he would’ve killed you,” Tristan points out.

“I know. And I don’t feel bad about it. The only thing I feel guilt for is hiding his body. And that’s because I have to meet with the families of victims all the time who just want some closure. Most never get it. That cop’s family won’t get any. They’ll always wonder.”

“Letting them wonder is better than going to prison.”

“If it was self-defense, and in normal circumstances, I would’ve called the police and explained everything.”

“But it wasn’t normal circumstances. You were caught in the gray area where doing the right thing could’ve gotten you killed, so you had to do the wrong thing.”