Exploding: A Mafia Romance (The O'Keefe Family Collection #1) by Tuesday Embers Page B
Authors: Tuesday Embers
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with Gino.”
She glared at Carrigan, her blue eyes matching the stubbornness in his green ones. “Get me a cop who’ll take my statement,” she growled. “Angelo hit his target, which was Gino. He nicked me by accident, and I’m not pressing charges. Angelo saved my life. You’ll do well to remember that a member of the D’Amato clan shot his own to save an O’Keefe. Don’t you dare rough him up, either. It’s a tiny boat we’re all betting on, Carri. Don’t tip it.”
Carrigan sucked his full lower lip between his two front teeth, taking in a deep breath and slowly letting it out. “Fine. It’s your call. I hope you know what you’re doing, kiddo.” He went back to the other cops, who were taking statements of the only people who would dare to give them – Vince and Killian. The ambulance came out, tending to Fallyn’s arm with a few stitches after she refused to be taken to the hospital. The scene was photographed and the body removed. Though it was barely noon, Fallyn felt like she had lived a whole day in just that one hour of her life.
14
Italian Explosion
W hile the men were dealing with the mess, Fallyn made herself useful unloading the truck one box at a time. Though the pain in her arm was excruciating when moved, she knew nothing important was broken that wouldn’t heal on its own. She walked slowly into the kitchen through the backdoor that was propped open.
“You can’t put that there,” came a nasally voice Fallyn would know anywhere. Vince’s long-time girlfriend Maria was sitting in Vince’s office off to the side of the kitchen, her red heels propped up on his desk as she popped her gum, watching Fallyn through the large window she used to survey the empty kitchen. The staff and diners were all out in the parking lot, adding commentary to the mayhem Fallyn wanted no part of.
“Where would you like it, Maria?” Fallyn asked in the most polite voice she could muster. She was holding a box with four dozen muffins inside, sweating with the effort to hold it with one functioning arm, since the other was in agony every time she used it.
“You can take it about ten miles north, dump it in a ditch and roll over all of it with your car, Little Keefer.” She twirled a lock of her black hair around her red acrylic fingernail. Despite the upset outside, she remained forever in her bubble of being a kept woman with little concern for the horrors of the day.
Fallyn set the box of muffins down on the stainless steel counter, looking around at the space that had changed very little since she’d been a child. There was a pasta press bolted into the island in the center of the kitchen, two ovens, eight burners and a faded Italian flag painted over the doorframe that led to the crimson-bedecked dining area. Fallyn remembered Papa D kissing his fingers and pressing three of them to the flag each time he passed through the doorway. It was his good luck ritual he stuck to like it was holy dogma. Fallyn inhaled the scent of marinara sauce she recalled Papa D teaching her how to make when she had been barely four. Jo-Jo hadn’t been interested, but she had been mesmerized. She recalled Papa D’s round Santa belly that always hung over his Italian flag belt buckle, the twinkle in his eye gleaming whenever she asked a question about why he was using each spice. He would take off the lid, bend down and let her sniff each jar and taste a bit of the herb so she had a frame of reference. Much of her love of cooking had come from his patient tutelage.
Fallyn hadn’t been allowed to attend his funeral, though she had sent flowers. The service, wake and burial were all held in D’Amato territory, which had been off-limits to her until this very day. She stood in the kitchen she had so many childhood memories in and closed her eyes, crushed on a soul level at how far the families had fallen since Papa D had taught her how to make gnocchi. She remembered being covered head to toe in mushy potato mash by
She glared at Carrigan, her blue eyes matching the stubbornness in his green ones. “Get me a cop who’ll take my statement,” she growled. “Angelo hit his target, which was Gino. He nicked me by accident, and I’m not pressing charges. Angelo saved my life. You’ll do well to remember that a member of the D’Amato clan shot his own to save an O’Keefe. Don’t you dare rough him up, either. It’s a tiny boat we’re all betting on, Carri. Don’t tip it.”
Carrigan sucked his full lower lip between his two front teeth, taking in a deep breath and slowly letting it out. “Fine. It’s your call. I hope you know what you’re doing, kiddo.” He went back to the other cops, who were taking statements of the only people who would dare to give them – Vince and Killian. The ambulance came out, tending to Fallyn’s arm with a few stitches after she refused to be taken to the hospital. The scene was photographed and the body removed. Though it was barely noon, Fallyn felt like she had lived a whole day in just that one hour of her life.
14
Italian Explosion
W hile the men were dealing with the mess, Fallyn made herself useful unloading the truck one box at a time. Though the pain in her arm was excruciating when moved, she knew nothing important was broken that wouldn’t heal on its own. She walked slowly into the kitchen through the backdoor that was propped open.
“You can’t put that there,” came a nasally voice Fallyn would know anywhere. Vince’s long-time girlfriend Maria was sitting in Vince’s office off to the side of the kitchen, her red heels propped up on his desk as she popped her gum, watching Fallyn through the large window she used to survey the empty kitchen. The staff and diners were all out in the parking lot, adding commentary to the mayhem Fallyn wanted no part of.
“Where would you like it, Maria?” Fallyn asked in the most polite voice she could muster. She was holding a box with four dozen muffins inside, sweating with the effort to hold it with one functioning arm, since the other was in agony every time she used it.
“You can take it about ten miles north, dump it in a ditch and roll over all of it with your car, Little Keefer.” She twirled a lock of her black hair around her red acrylic fingernail. Despite the upset outside, she remained forever in her bubble of being a kept woman with little concern for the horrors of the day.
Fallyn set the box of muffins down on the stainless steel counter, looking around at the space that had changed very little since she’d been a child. There was a pasta press bolted into the island in the center of the kitchen, two ovens, eight burners and a faded Italian flag painted over the doorframe that led to the crimson-bedecked dining area. Fallyn remembered Papa D kissing his fingers and pressing three of them to the flag each time he passed through the doorway. It was his good luck ritual he stuck to like it was holy dogma. Fallyn inhaled the scent of marinara sauce she recalled Papa D teaching her how to make when she had been barely four. Jo-Jo hadn’t been interested, but she had been mesmerized. She recalled Papa D’s round Santa belly that always hung over his Italian flag belt buckle, the twinkle in his eye gleaming whenever she asked a question about why he was using each spice. He would take off the lid, bend down and let her sniff each jar and taste a bit of the herb so she had a frame of reference. Much of her love of cooking had come from his patient tutelage.
Fallyn hadn’t been allowed to attend his funeral, though she had sent flowers. The service, wake and burial were all held in D’Amato territory, which had been off-limits to her until this very day. She stood in the kitchen she had so many childhood memories in and closed her eyes, crushed on a soul level at how far the families had fallen since Papa D had taught her how to make gnocchi. She remembered being covered head to toe in mushy potato mash by
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