Only this guy looks a lot more the part of a gangster, or at least, of a minion slowly working his way up the mafia ladder. He’s wearing a distressed leather jacket, dirty jeans and boots, and he drags his eyes appraisingly over me.
One glance at him, and I know he doesn’t pose a threat. SoI flip him off, then turn to Damien, who’s watching him with his usual poker-face expression.
“Thisis the guy you wanted to bring in?” says the leather jacket guy as he sits down opposite us, his eyes throwing daggers at me.
“Thisis the guy you threw away my chips for?” I question Damien.
Damien merely leans back.
“Vale, this is my friend Logan. And where I go, he goes.”
The guy he’s called Vale smirks. “I just didn’t realize you were bringing your side bitch into the gang.”
I snort. “What gang? You trying to tell meyou’rein a gang?”
Vale glares at me, then at Damien, whose features are just as relaxed as ever.
“Sure,” confirms the latter. “The Oakley Crew.”
“The… what?” Vale blinks stupidly. “You’re not calling the shots, man.Iam.”
“Uh huh. Sure.”
“Sure?” He stares at Damien, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out the meaning behind the vague answer.
I know what it means. It means there’s no way Damien will evernotcall the shots.
That’s just what he does—he calls them. And I enforce them.
At last, Vale shrugs and switches subjects. “Well, it’s like this. I’ll give you some shit to do. Menial tasks. Nothing very important.” He looks down his nose at us. “I’ll make it worth your time. And maybe, if you’re good boys, you’ll get a little more responsibility after a while. Maybe graduate to toilet scrubbing.”
“Are you fucking serious?” I snap angrily. “Tell me this idiot isn’t your plan, Damien. You know I’d follow you to the ends of Earth, but I will not follow you into a fucking toilet!”
Damien chuckles. “Don’t mind my friend, Vale. He’s hungry. I’d love nothing better than to scrub any toilets you may have inmind.”
I open my mouth to lash out, but before I can, Damien waves to someone who’s just walked in. “Carmelo!Ehi!”
Vale’s face goes straight back to purple as a heavyset guy with stubble pricking his chin walks over.
“Ehi,fratello!” he greets him. “What’re you doing here?”
“Decided to try the famous Oakley fries,” answers Damien smoothly. “Vale,” he adds, “go and order us a plate, huh?”
“Pretty sure they’re fried in dirty dishwasher water,” chuckles the guy he’s called Carmelo. “But if ya want to risk the explosive diarrhea, go right ahead.”
“My buddy Logan is starving,” says Damien, clapping me on the back. “I have a feeling he’ll risk anything at this point. And I don’t want him to bite my head off later. You do not want to cross this guy. Logan, this is Carmelo. Carmelo Moretti.”
He thumps me on the back again as Carmelo’s beady eyes land on me. “Ehi, Logan. Well, Vale?” he barks at the other guy. “What are you standing around for? Get those fries,stronzo!”
I do my best to conceal my look of utter amazement as I glance back at Damien. Carmelo Moretti? Isn’t that the don’s son?
How the hell did Damien make this happen?
I’ve accepted a long time ago that if anyone can do anything, it’s Damien Wells. But still, he just never ceases to surprise me.
Soon Vale is back, slamming down a plate of fries, though he’s clearly too much in awe of Carmelo Moretti to say a word.
But no amount of surprise or iffy hygiene can prevent me from inhaling the plate of fries. I really am starving.