Pink, page 11
Yet, here he was.
The joke was on him.
Sort of.
“Ten, eleven, twelve,” Arely’s child-like tone echoed to his spot in the bathroom where he’d moved after grabbing the waiting garment bag he’d readied the night before. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen …”
Inside the bag waited a blazer, slacks, and a pressed, black button-down shirt. And his daughter’s yellow summer dress and white knee-high stockings that she preferred over tights that, on more than one occasion, had caused bathroom accidents. The only thing that could send his five-and-a-half-year-old into a tantrum now.
Not that he blamed her.
Nobody wanted to piss themselves.
Her counting continued past thirty as Lev made quick work of getting dressed and doing his business in the bathroom.
“Fifty-five, Daddy,” Arely said when he strolled back into the bedroom, mostly dressed and ready to start his day. He still had to button up his shirt and throw on a blazer, but that shit could wait. He tossed her dress and stockings to the bed. “Fifty-five more days to kindergarten.”
How many kindergarteners were counting past fifty by the time they started school? Not very many. He was damn proud of his girl.
Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he met her big smile with his own. No, the last few years hadn’t been easy. Not on him, or her, he was sure. Even if she never showed it or asked for anything more than what he provided. She was happy, yes, and so was he. Sometimes, though, he wondered if this little girl of his might be missing out on something more.
Like a mom.
Or … anything.
He didn’t know.
She never said.
Lev was kind of scared to ask.
“Better tell Nessa that when you get to daycare,” he told her. “She really wants to be there, so we can’t let her forget the date.”
“I will,” his daughter replied, “promise.”
Not that Nessa would—like him, the date was marked in her phone. Because despite how much work Lev had done to raise his daughter alone, there had been people who helped. She was one of those, and if there was anybody else in the world who loved his kid as much as he did, it was Nessa.
Arely hadn’t just saved him when she came into his life so unexpectedly. She also gave a troubled teen a place to focus her energy—and a reason to keep doing better. Nessa did exactly that, too. Now, she was studying to get her degree in early childhood education while working at the same daycare that Arely attended five days a week.
Picking up the yellow dress, Lev asked, “Ready to get this day started?”
Arely flung the phone across the bedspread. “Let’s do this!”
That was his kid.
Always down.
So long as he was there.
• • •
While some shit changed as time passed, other things never did. One of those happened to be the fact that Andino Marcello handled business and started his workday at the same place no matter what.
At his restaurant in Manhattan.
La Vita Bella.
And because that’s where his boss showed up every single morning, that’s also where Lev was expected to be considering where Andino went, so did he. Even if that meant a trip to the West Coast for the weekend, or a flight to Chicago for a dinner with the Outfit boss on a Wednesday evening just because.
Sure, Andino had other enforcers—he simply preferred Lev.
“Pink—my man!” The guy, a face Lev recognized but couldn’t place with a name, stood from the dining table filled with people he didn’t know or care about, to greet him with a slap to his shoulder. He offered the guy a grin and nod, but it wasn’t enough to indicate he needed to keep moving to the rear of the busy business to find his boss. The man kept talking. “How’re things? Been what, a couple of months since I last saw you, huh?”
“Something like that. Glad to see you’re well. I’m on my way to the back—”
“No, sit down. Have a drink. Is Andino around? I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Why did people still think he wanted to be sociable? Lev was just here to work.
Oh, and the nickname?
Yeah, that shit stuck. Of course, it quickly became shortened from Mr. Pink to just plain old Pink. Lev thought the tried and true philosophy of ignoring anyone who said it would work, but it didn’t. Shocker.
All it took was one man—Theo DeLuca, infamous front boss for the Chicago mob—saying it for it to catch like fucking wildfire. By the time Theo left that day? Everybody called him Pink from that moment forward. Well, everybody who didn’t know him outside of work, anyway. Working with Andino, however … he wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing. Really, he honestly hadn’t thought the nickname would stick.
But it did.
For years.
Lev had come to accept it; he just didn’t use it. People introduced him with the moniker—they said it before he even had the chance to correct them. He made the choice not to offer something else because it worked.
Here, he was Pink. At home, where it mattered, he was a little girl’s daddy. She didn’t give a fuck what people called him, anyway. So, why should he?
“Pass on the drink,” Lev told the guy, removing the hand that was still on his shoulder. “Try not to mix pleasure and business, you know?”
“Of course. Tell your boss I said hello.”
The man with the familiar face in a suit that said he could at least afford to eat in the restaurant took a seat back at the table, but Lev was already halfway across the main floor. He had zero plans to tell Andino shit about the guy—if he was really that important, the boss would already be out on the floor talking to him.
It was that simple.
Lev passed through the kitchen without issue. The head chef throwing orders actually moved out of the way for him which wasn’t anything new. He didn’t fuck with their work, and they never bothered him about his. Things just worked easier when that was the case. For everyone involved.
“You got a request for lunch, Pink?” the chef threw at his retreating back.
Over his shoulder, Lev replied, “Whatever the boss is having. I’m not picky.”
“Got it—Rickie, put it on the fucking board!”
“Yes, chef, right away.”
There was a time when Lev used to show up at this place before the doors even opened. For a time, he even waited at Andino’s front door before the man was awake so that he was ready to pick him up.
But years passed.
Some shit changed … like it did.
For one, Andino Marcello no longer held only a Capo position in his family’s organization. A year back, he’d taken over completely, got married, and they started to do things differently. The more men Andino needed to feel safe and handle business, the more he delegated Lev to be a personal enforcer that spent his days at the boss’s side unless told otherwise.
There was something to be said about the trust Andino put in him. Lev wasn’t ignorant, or disrespectful for that matter, enough to not see it and understand what it meant. He had keys to the man’s home. To his cars. Access codes to businesses, warehouses … personal garages.
And more.
At some point, the job changed.
He did more than just watch Andino’s back. It was the most important part of his job, yeah, but in a world where his boss depended on cash flow and violence to keep people loyal … Lev wasn’t quite the same. He offered his loyalty because, well, Andino was his friend.
One of the few he did have.
“Fucking hell … where you been?” Andino asked when Lev finally came to stand in the doorway of his office. “Petey’s been calling—”
“Tell his spoiled ass to shut the fuck up. I’m not doing shit for him today when I ran for him all last week to make things easier on him.”
Someone else making comments like that about a newly minted Capo in la famiglia and Andino would have put a bullet between their eyes. For Lev?
The man just laughed.
“Busy morning?” Andino asked when the amusement faded.
Lev shrugged. “She had to show me all the things she did last week. I didn’t pick her up on Friday last week, so, you know. Took an extra twenty minutes. My bad.”
It was always just her when it came to Arely during his work hours. Andino never seemed to mind, and he hadn’t ever offered information about Lev’s personal life to anyone. Yet another reason why he trusted his boss inexplicably, even if he was just a well-dressed criminal sitting atop an empire that ran the city of New York like a fucking machine.
“What’s the plan, anyway?” Lev asked.
“Business, Pink. What else?”
He sighed. “Yes, but what? It seems like it’s always changing lately. I never do the same thing twice anymore.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Not until it gets me thrown behind bars.”
Andino chuckled and reached for the wooden box at the corner of his desk where he liked to keep his cigars. “Come in, close the door, and take a seat. This is going to be a good one.”
“Oh?”
A pointed look at the still-open door had Lev rolling his eyes. Shouldering his large presence into the small office, he slammed the door behind him. He took a seat at one of the two high-back chairs sitting across from Andino’s desk. While he settled in to get the details of his next job—because clearly he wouldn’t be handling Andino directly this week—his boss worked on clipping, then lighting, his cigar.
“Don’t tell Haven I’m smoking these, she’ll … make a whole scene,” Andino muttered.
“Should quit. Bad for your health.”
“So are mouthy men and phone calls that send my blood pressure up but here we are. I’ve had to deal with both today. Might as well add some fucking tar to my lungs while I’m at it.”
“You know she can smell it on you, right?”
Andino grumbled under his breath, eyeing the cigar in his hand. “Yeah, I just blame it on you, so …”
“Fuck you.”
“Is what it is, Pink. We all gotta do what we gotta do to make shit work.”
“Speaking of work,” he hinted.
“Right.” Andino nodded and reclined back in his chair in a way that spoke of comfort. Truth was, Lev knew that only meant his boss was restless and considering things. He glanced down at the empty space beside his desk where a dog would usually be sitting looking like the meanest thing to have ever graced his presence. “He likes being with her in the daytime, you know? I kind of miss his growling ass.”
Snaps, he meant.
His pit bull rescue.
Another one of Lev’s duties whenever the dog accompanied his boss.
“Anyway,” Andino said, waving a hand and making cigar smoke scatter in the air. “Your face isn’t recognizable to certain individuals whom the Marcellos have connections to outside the city, and I need that benefit of anonymity for something. It’ll be happening in the coming weeks, I don’t have an exact date yet. I will, though. Soon.”
“Which is what?”
“A meeting. Specifically, a meeting between a businessman—you’ll get all the info you need in time to know who he is—from California and a guy I know of here who has ties to … things I don’t want my name, business, or family attached to in any way. Yes, I’m being vague. For good reason.”
Sucking air through his teeth, Lev considered his boss’s words. “What do you want me to find out? That’s why you’re going to send me in, right? You want a fly on the wall.”
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Andino’s smirk only confirmed it.
He pointed a finger at Lev, nodding as he replied, “Good catch. I want to know if the man from Cali plans on doing business with the people he’s supposed to be meeting here. Some shit I can turn cheek to, others … not so much. I’ve let them do their business if it doesn’t touch mine, and they keep it out of the city, for the most part, but a partner of mine getting involved? I’ll have to cut ties. And if that is what they’re meeting to do, then I’ll have to flex a bit.”
Lev thought about that. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“Get them out of my fucking city entirely. They won’t be doing business here at all. Not even a meeting.”
That was a big move. A lot of the time, it was easier on the mafia to let people move and do their business as they saw fit so long as it didn’t cause a problem. Because problems that came from anything illegal almost always ended in a lot of bloodshed. Yet, that never bothered Andino, Lev knew. The man would, and did, do what he had to do to make sure his city was exactly as he wanted it to be.
This wouldn’t be an exception.
Whatever it was.
“What kind of business are they doing that you don’t want to touch, even if it only means through a third-party involvement?”
Andino’s dark eyes drifted to Lev, and his grin faded away. “Don’t worry—you’ll know it when you hear it … if you hear it. That’s what I need to find out, Pink. If it’s even happening at all. I try not to get ahead of myself in business. Facts first. Action second.”
Right.
Lev would remember it.
TWELVE
“GIGI!”
“Miss Rey, could we get a picture!”
“Gigi, over here!”
“Gigi!”
“Give us a smile, sweetheart!”
“Welcome home!”
“Gigi!”
“Look this way, Gigi!”
“Gigi!”
She never thought there would come a time when she became tired of hearing her own name, but here it was. It was far worse whenever she made a trip to the states because America was nothing like Europe when it came to celebrities, the rich and famous, or just a recognizable face.
Overseas, Gigi could do whatever she wanted without much bother even though one couldn’t turn a corner in a major city without seeing her face on a billboard or in the magazine stands on a cover. Stateside, paparazzi made a game out of chasing anyone with a little bit of clout. Even leaving a hotel for a coffee down the street became a game of cat and mouse if it wasn’t a well-planned endeavor.
Here, she couldn’t even use her real last name—and sometimes, her agent even booked her rooms under the names of her assistant or someone else on the team—just to give them a bit of legroom to breathe.
Although she ignored the fucking hoard of paparazzi, and their constantly flashing cameras on the way up the stairs to the entrance of the Manhattan Hilton, she did stop at the sight of the teenage girl standing just behind awaiting security. One of three security guards on her team for this trip to New York that would last a couple of months. Between the upcoming shows that she would be walking in for Fashion Week, the campaigns she had to do, and trying to just … see her mom and visit with old friends, it was going to be busy. She needed her entire team to make it work.
Not that it was anything new.
She had come to learn in the five and a half years since she took that deal for Paris that to most of the people in her circle, all she was to them was money. Success. A way to survive and thrive. Every contract she signed to sell her beauty and fantasy for another campaign paid a lot of people, not just her. If she had to guess how many of the people in her team actually gave a shit about her on a personal level, and how many were only there for what she could give … it was probably fifty-fifty.
Just to make it fair.
Hell, even the designer who made her face a household name in Europe in the first year of working with him didn’t care much about who she was—just what she could give to him. He called her his muse but made her a doll that moved and behaved at his demand and will. She hadn’t even been able to keep her name the way she wanted it under his contract. Gone was Gigi Rey Parker, the girl from a small New Jersey town. In her place came the untouchable, unobtainable beauty of Gigi Rey.
Who was Gigi Rey?
It didn’t matter.
Because nobody could be her. Or that was the slogan her agency liked to sell.
But who was she to complain? Wasn’t this what she signed up for?
The security guard already had the door open and ready for her; she could have walked right in past the waiting teen, but the magazine clutched in the girl’s hands that she held at her chest, cover facing out so Gigi could see it, made her stop.
It was her face.
Her latest cover—she stopped keeping count after the first hundred.
GIGI REY, the cover read under her tilted face. With her lips set into a pout, wet hair and mused, and smudged makeup, it looked like she had just gotten out of a pool. THE MUSE OF THE LAST HALF DECADE SPEAKS ON WHAT IT’S LIKE TO DO WHAT SHE’S DONE IN JUST FIVE AND A HALF YEARS.
In smaller print under the headline and her name read in quotes, taken from her own words, “I’m only trying to find happiness—don’t expect me to provide yours.”
It was the only message she cared to be heard in that particular interview, and she knew the second the interview and shoot finals passed through her agency for approval because every member of her team let her know it.
She didn’t care then.
Didn’t care now.
A lot of questions were pretty standard—what was it like working with the famous Paris fashion designer who launched her fledgling modeling career into supermodel stardom; how she dealt with it all; and now her rising fame in the states, too. She hadn’t needed to do that shoot before she left her estate home in Milan to travel to New York. In fact, her agent didn’t even want to pass the offer along to her manager so that she would know about it. People didn’t really like for Gigi to talk on record if they couldn’t edit and censor everything.
She had to be the fantasy, right?
Sell herself, the lifestyle … the product.
Whatever.
Soon, things would change. Her expiring contract said so, and because of that, she felt free to speak her mind more often now than ever before even if it meant a renewal might not be on the table with her mother agency.
