Page 2 of Sinful Bargains
I tucked the thin blanket around him, trying to summon a smile I didn't feel. "I'll be right here, okay?"
He nodded again, his eyes fluttering shut.
I waited until his breathing evened out, then sank into the chair I'd placed before the door. My body ached from the weight of my fear, my mind racing with the impossible taskahead. Tomorrow, I would enroll Antonio in school. He needed stability, something normal to hold onto amidst all the chaos. But finding work? That was a different battle. The world did not have a place for single mothers in 1959. I had spent my life being told what I could and couldn't do by society, always standing in my husband's shadow, confined to roles society deemed acceptable for a woman. Secretary. Seamstress. Waitress. If I were lucky, someone might take pity on me. But pity wouldn't feed Antonio. It wouldn't pay for a room or keep us hidden, either. I'd make it work, no matter what.
Because failure wasn't an option.
JOEY
The ambiance of Vino e Pasta, an upscale Italian restaurant in Manhattan, was impeccable. The back room had been reserved for our group—the Giordano Crime Family. A large rectangular table draped in crisp, white linen was set with polished silverware. An endless spread of Italian dishes was laid out, with an unspoken promise of unlimited whiskey refills—an offer I planned to take full advantage of.
This family was all I had ever known, the only one I’d ever had. Tonight, we gathered to celebrate the newest members, Lee and Sal, two young guys I had taken under my wing. We were dressed in our sharpest suits. But Vincent’s presence had a way of dimming even the brightest of occasions. He was the underboss, and someone I secretly despised.
“That DiSantis motherfucker is talking about asking for a bigger cut of the dock operations,” Vincent announced to the table, his voice edged with irritation. He leaned back in his chair, whiskey glass in hand. “He told Hector his men are getting sick of busting their asses for peanuts while we rake in the real money. But they wouldn’t be able to operate without us.”
The men around the table nodded in agreement, a well-trained chorus of approval. Vincent thrived on that—loyalty without question. “I just don’t like when guys in his position get ideas and think they can make demands.”
DiSantis was using the docks to smuggle luxury goods—radios, televisions, artwork, antiques—high-ticket items that sold for more than double their worth. I had spoken to him myself, and he claimed Hector’s cut was so steep he could barely afford to keep his operation running. DiSantis had a reputation for exaggeration, but I had a feeling he wasn’t far off this time.
The trade-off worked in our favor. DiSantis gave us access to the unions, solidifying our control. At this point, we had more power than the mayor—which was why he was on the payroll, too. We weren’t just running the docks. We were taking over every crevice of New York.
“I think we need to send a message,” Vincent remarked, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Take one of ‘em out—that’ll show DiSantis where his place is.”
That would start a war.
I took a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn settle in my throat before speaking. “Or we bring them to the table. Hear what they gotta say. Meet them somewhere in the middle.”
The room shifted. A few of the guys exchanged quick glances. Vincent’s expression darkened, his eyes locking onto me like a predator sizing up its prey. “The fuck do you mean, bring ‘em to the table?” he barked.
“DiSantis has given us more power than this family has ever had. Instead of making an enemy out of him, we put him in our pocket,” I said. “We cut him a deal, let him sit at the table. That way, we control the whole operation—inside and out.”
Silence settled over the table. Vincent leaned back, studying me with that cold, calculating look of his. Then, he tossed his head back and let out a sharp laugh. “I thought prison mademen tougher—seems like it just made you scared. Don’t wanna get your hands dirty anymore, Joey?”
A few of the guys chuckled under their breath. At the head of the table, the boss, Christopher, cleared his throat. The laughter died instantly. “I think Joey’s got a point,” he said. “If we take out DiSantis or his men, we start a war. We need long-term security if we’re gonna keep growing. We infiltrate, not dominate. If we start shooting, the feds start looking. And that’s how we get taken down.”
Vincent scoffed, shaking his head. “We’ve never run things that way before. Why change now?” His voice was sharp, testing every limit. “We got where we are by being ruthless. Even the goddamn mayor is scared of us. If we start going soft, the cracks will show, and this whole thing comes down. We’ve always decided who stays in the game. If I wanted to be a businessman, I would’ve gone to school for it. Nobody in this room wants to be some Wall Street junkie. We stick to the code. No new rules.”
Christopher leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “This isn’t about going soft. It’s about being smart. Playing the game smarter. The feds are getting smarter. Joey would know; he spent a decade locked away with them.” He gestured towards me. “We’re bigger than that now. We’ve got politicians in our pocket, judges who owe us favors. We’re not just enforcers anymore—we’re the ones pulling the strings.”
Vincent sneered, shaking his head. “And you think DiSantis is worth all that? You’re betting on a guy who’s already looking for more. What happens when he gets too comfortable and starts thinking he’s one of us?”
“Then we remind him who put him there. We give him just enough rope to tie a noose around his neck. He steps out of line, we pull it tight. But we don’t need enemies while we’re trying to take over. We need assets. And we certainly don’t need a war.”
The table was quiet, waiting for Vincent’s response. He exhaled through his nose, picking up his whiskey. But he didn’trespond. And while the rest of the table continued on, I knew this was far from over.
I stepped onto the Staten Island ferry and made my way to the railing, pulling a cigarette from my coat pocket. I hadn’t had a smoke all day, and after the night I’d just had in Manhattan, I needed it. The city’s noise and lights faded into the open water, a relief I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.
But something—or someone—caught my attention.
A woman. Young, in her early thirties, with wide, haunting, dark eyes and dark black hair gliding down her back. She was stunning—impossible to miss, even if she wasn't acting like every sound and shadow could kill her. When the light hit her face just long enough for me to take her hardened features in, I noticed the yellow tint shining on her cheekbone. It made perfect sense why she looked ready to bolt at any moment, her arm protectively wrapped around the kid beside her.
Someone had put this woman through hell.
My eyes narrowed as I took a slow drag from my cigarette. I wasn't one to meddle. And yet, I couldn't help watching as she shifted anxiously, scanning the deck like a hunted animal. I'd seen looks like that—usually after someone had witnessed great horrors.
I exhaled a cloud of smoke and shook my head.Not my business.I descended the stairs, pushing my thoughts about her aside. Whoever she was running from didn't concern me. I had my own problems—ones that didn't involve strange women I saw on my way home, even if they were beautiful. I shoved my hands into my pockets and started the familiar walk home, yet her face was in the back of my mind, even when I tried to forget it.
I stepped through the front door of my shared home with my girlfriend, Renee. I tossed my keys on the counter and shrugged off my coat, hanging it on the hook by the door.
