don’t like where you’ve set up shop, so if I were you, I’d relocate.”
Danny’s eyes fill with fear. He and I both come to the realization quickly that we’re dealing with a mobster, a proper big-time gangster.
“Ice,” Danny says, nodding quickly. “I slipped on ice!” He gets up, runs away, one hand clamped to his shoulder.
Ice … it hasn’t been that cold for weeks.
“You,” the man says, shifting his black eyes toward me. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I say.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
I shrug. “I taught myself.”
“You knew that kid was going to try and hit you from behind. How?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. Instinct.”
“Huh,” the man sounds. He grabs me by the back of my neck, yanks me toward him. “Take off your jacket.”
My eyes widen, and I tense up. “Uh-uh, you sick fucker,” I say. I turn to run, but he catches the collar of my jacket, jerks me toward him.
“Relax. It’s not like that.”
He rips my jacket from me, then starts feeling around my shoulders, hard presses of his thumb and forefinger.
“Good,” he says. “You wearing your pants low?”
“No,” I say. “On my hips.”
He seems to be measuring me up.
“Show me your hands.”
I put them out, and he takes them into his, turns them over. I notice his fingers are thick, rough, and his palms are calloused.
“You got good hands.”
“For what?”
“For fighting.”
He takes my arms, slaps them out. “Hold them straight out. Yes, like that.” He steps backward for a moment, considers me.
“Good stock,” he murmurs to himself. I don’t know what that means, or why he would be talking about soup.
He throws my jacket back at me, and as I put it on, he guides me into walking with him. “Come on, we’re going.”
“Where?”
“To start your fighting training.”
“Why should I come with you?”
“You want to be a pathetic drug dealer like Danny over there?” he asks me. “Or do you want to do something with your life? Be somebody?”
“I was never going to become a drug dealer,” I say, turning to the man. I shake his hand off my neck, stare up into his eyes.
The man regards me. “You like to fight?”
I think about it. “I’m good at it.”
“You want to make money fighting?”
I lick my lips. “I want to make money, period.”
“Then get in the fucking car, boy,” he says. “I’ll make you a fucking champion.”
I don’t hesitate.
I get into the limousine.
“Name’s Johnny Marino,” he says once he’s in, sticking out a hand. “But you can call me Glass.”
Chapter Five
I finish my slice of cake – black forest – and look longingly at the rest of it.
“Can I have another, Dad?”
He frowns at me, the corners of his mouth drawn down impossibly low. “No.”
“Why not?” I cry. “It’s my birthday.”
“It’ll make you fat.”
I wince, stung. “Thanks a lot.”
“You could stand to lose a few pounds already.”
My teeth clash together, and I look away. “You’re such an—”
“Such a what?” he shouts, glaring at me. “It’s for your own good. Once you gain weight, it’s impossible to lose, and I’m not going to be like Falcone with his fat daughter and son.”
I want to cry, but bite it back. Dad hates it when I cry. He blames me for crying.
“Oh, grow up,” he says. “You’re going to have to take responsibility of yourself sooner or later.”
“It’s just a piece of cake, Dad,” I say, but my protestation has all the conviction of a wilting flower.
“One is enough. Now, are you ready to unwrap your gifts?”
“Yeah,” I say, sighing.
“What is it, Deidre?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing!”
He straightens up, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and then helps himself to another slice of cake.
“You will tell me what is on your mind, Deidre, because I am your father and I demand it.”
“Nothing!” I shout, tossing my cutlery onto my plate. I regret it
Danny’s eyes fill with fear. He and I both come to the realization quickly that we’re dealing with a mobster, a proper big-time gangster.
“Ice,” Danny says, nodding quickly. “I slipped on ice!” He gets up, runs away, one hand clamped to his shoulder.
Ice … it hasn’t been that cold for weeks.
“You,” the man says, shifting his black eyes toward me. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I say.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
I shrug. “I taught myself.”
“You knew that kid was going to try and hit you from behind. How?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. Instinct.”
“Huh,” the man sounds. He grabs me by the back of my neck, yanks me toward him. “Take off your jacket.”
My eyes widen, and I tense up. “Uh-uh, you sick fucker,” I say. I turn to run, but he catches the collar of my jacket, jerks me toward him.
“Relax. It’s not like that.”
He rips my jacket from me, then starts feeling around my shoulders, hard presses of his thumb and forefinger.
“Good,” he says. “You wearing your pants low?”
“No,” I say. “On my hips.”
He seems to be measuring me up.
“Show me your hands.”
I put them out, and he takes them into his, turns them over. I notice his fingers are thick, rough, and his palms are calloused.
“You got good hands.”
“For what?”
“For fighting.”
He takes my arms, slaps them out. “Hold them straight out. Yes, like that.” He steps backward for a moment, considers me.
“Good stock,” he murmurs to himself. I don’t know what that means, or why he would be talking about soup.
He throws my jacket back at me, and as I put it on, he guides me into walking with him. “Come on, we’re going.”
“Where?”
“To start your fighting training.”
“Why should I come with you?”
“You want to be a pathetic drug dealer like Danny over there?” he asks me. “Or do you want to do something with your life? Be somebody?”
“I was never going to become a drug dealer,” I say, turning to the man. I shake his hand off my neck, stare up into his eyes.
The man regards me. “You like to fight?”
I think about it. “I’m good at it.”
“You want to make money fighting?”
I lick my lips. “I want to make money, period.”
“Then get in the fucking car, boy,” he says. “I’ll make you a fucking champion.”
I don’t hesitate.
I get into the limousine.
“Name’s Johnny Marino,” he says once he’s in, sticking out a hand. “But you can call me Glass.”
Chapter Five
I finish my slice of cake – black forest – and look longingly at the rest of it.
“Can I have another, Dad?”
He frowns at me, the corners of his mouth drawn down impossibly low. “No.”
“Why not?” I cry. “It’s my birthday.”
“It’ll make you fat.”
I wince, stung. “Thanks a lot.”
“You could stand to lose a few pounds already.”
My teeth clash together, and I look away. “You’re such an—”
“Such a what?” he shouts, glaring at me. “It’s for your own good. Once you gain weight, it’s impossible to lose, and I’m not going to be like Falcone with his fat daughter and son.”
I want to cry, but bite it back. Dad hates it when I cry. He blames me for crying.
“Oh, grow up,” he says. “You’re going to have to take responsibility of yourself sooner or later.”
“It’s just a piece of cake, Dad,” I say, but my protestation has all the conviction of a wilting flower.
“One is enough. Now, are you ready to unwrap your gifts?”
“Yeah,” I say, sighing.
“What is it, Deidre?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing!”
He straightens up, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and then helps himself to another slice of cake.
“You will tell me what is on your mind, Deidre, because I am your father and I demand it.”
“Nothing!” I shout, tossing my cutlery onto my plate. I regret it
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