Indebted to the Mafia King

In a New York Minute

Eleni

“Baba, I have to leave for class in half an hour,” I say as I clear paper plates and cups off one of the high-top tables in the back of The Greek Corner. “I need to change.”

My dad huffs a sigh and shoves up from his chair behind the counter. “Yes, chryso mou, I know. But your mama was supposed to be done taking inventory by now to handle customers. Can’t you wait a little?”

I bite back a frown and nod. He’s been looking more and more tired since we lost Christos a couple years back. I love the night classes I’ve been taking at the community college a few blocks over, but I’m not going to force my baba to wait tables just so I’m not late. I dump the trash into the garbage can in the back.

The bell over the door jingles, and I turn with my customer service smile already plastered on, then freeze.

Frank Lombardi, the broad, sneering mobster who’s held my family under his thumb since they came to America, saunters in with a few of his guys. My skin goes cold.

“Georgie!” Frank smacks the top of the counter, and I watch my dad bite down a scowl. He’s always preferred his given name, Gregorio, but he tolerates customers who call him Greg. Frank has only ever called him Georgie. “Got the place all to yourself tonight?”

“No, I—” Baba stops mid-sentence.

I flinch as I realize his mistake. Like one creature, Frank and his men turn to me.

“Oh, I should’ve known little Ellie would be here.” Frank oozes past the rows of packaged goods to where I stand by the garbage can. “You look good in an apron, baby girl.”

I smooth the polyester black half-apron around my waist and smile.

“And even better when you smile,” one of his men calls.

“Bet you’d look best of all in nothin’ but the apron.” The third one smirks.

My face burns, and I start to turn away, but I catch Baba’s eye. As always, when Frank comes in, his dark gaze fills with pain. He hates seeing them treat me like this, but he can’t stop them. Not without consequences. And as humiliating as it is to be treated like a piece of meat, I’ll do anything to keep my family from facing those consequences.

As I turn, one of them smacks my butt. I can’t help it. I squeal loudly.

“You got a screamer here, Georgie,” Frank calls over his shoulder. “But with her t**s pressed up to her chin like that and her ass wagging, I bet you already know that. I bet she’s been entertaining the neighborhood for a while now.”

Tears prick at my eyes, and I hurry away into the shelves of the bodega half of the store before Baba can see how much Frank’s words hurt. I know how people look at me. I got Mama’s height, which is to say, none at all, but the body of the women on Baba’s side. Even in my high-necked T-shirt, a sports bra, and loose pants, men always comment on my curves. Frank Lombardi and his men are just the only ones who have the lack of respect to try to touch me where my dad can see.

Frank swaggers back over to the counter, places his order, and receives sandwiches for each of his men.

“Great little place you got here, Georgie.” He taps on the counter. “Be a shame if something happened to it.”

His guys laugh like hyenas as they finally leave. I exhale and step out of the shelves.

“I’m so sorry.” Baba stretches his hands across the counter for mine.

I smile and step forward to take them. His right hand is powerful and thickly calloused from years of working all the different kitchen tools needed to produce the authentic gyros that keep The Greek Corner afloat. His left hand…. I swallow. Back when I was in high school, Baba missed a p*****t. Frank said he would be kind, since it was Baba’s first. Instead of taking the restaurant, he’d only take three of Baba’s fingers. I grab both his hands and squeeze. The awkward pinch of just his thumb and forefinger feels like home after all these years.

“I know, Baba,” I say. “You can’t do anything about them.”

He glances at the door then leans in. “It’s worse than usual, chryso mou. He just increased the protection rate, and I don’t know if we have it.”

I pale and look at the calendar over his shoulder. This Sunday is circled in red. Only five days to make the money, or we find out what happens when Frank Lombardi isn’t feeling so nice.

***

I scurry into the back of the class, thankfully only ten minutes late. Professor Calhoun catches my eye and frowns, but he doesn’t point me out to the rest of the class. I know he just wants me to do well. I want to do well. I pull out my laptop and peer at the slideshow on the board. We’re still on advanced HTML, which is fantastic, because learning HTML for The Greek Corner’s website was what interested me in computer science in the first place. I’ve barely missed anything.

“Okay, you absolutely can’t tell anyone this, but I heard the craziest thing about this club called Piacere out on Staten Island,” the brunette in front of me whispers to the redhead next to her.

I frown. I can barely hear Professor Calhoun. Just as I’m about to shush them, the brunette continues, “They’re doing a virginity auction. Apparently, some girls get thousands of dollars just to give their virginity away to some sleazeball willing to pay for it.”

The redhead gasps. My heart drops into my toes. A virginity auction. Between how much time I spend helping at The Greek Corner and how much time I spend with Mama and Baba since Christos disappeared two years ago, I haven’t dated anyone since middle school, and I’m not a one-night stand type of girl. I would need a real connection to feel safe.

“You’re joking, right?” the redhead asked.

The brunette shook her head. “Nope. I met a girl who did it last year. It’s like an annual thing, and the next one’s on Saturday.”

Baba has five days to make the money Frank needs. Saturday is four days away. Three fingers and my older brother is enough to lose. I scribble down every detail the girls whisper to each other and start mentally shuffling through my closet for something that might be appropriate to wear to a virginity auction.