Page 2 of Rent a Mob Boss

“It’s not fine.”

“It’s fine, Mom. We dated for, like, four months. A year ago. I’m over it.”

And I am. That’s the part nobody believes when I say it, because there’s a script for this, and my line is supposed to be that I’m still hurting. I’m not. It took me maybe eleven minutes to get over Aaron Whitaker after I found out he was sleeping with the girl from his office, and that was that. I went from crying to furious in eleven minutes.

I’m not sad about Aaron. I’m not even angry about Aaron, most days.

But I am humiliated, and that’s a totally different animal. Sadness fades, but humiliation just sort of hangs around. It sits in your chest with its hands folded, very patient, and waits for a time like this when you’re going to be in a room with a bunch of people who are, of course, going to compare you to your sister and all of her success.

Aaron didn’t just cheat, which I could’ve handled. No, he sat across from me at a coffee shop, looking like he was the injured party and explained to me that this was really a communication issue. That a man has needs. That if I hadn’t been so hung up on waiting, he never would’ve had to go looking.

He said it like that. Like he had to. Like I sent him out to cheat on me.

And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, he told his friends first. So by the time I understood what had happened, half of my parents’ social circle already knew there was something frigid about the Thomas girl.

“Sweetheart?” Mom says. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“So…” Here we go. Because that wasn’t enough. I can hear her building up to something. “I’m doing the final headcount for the caterer, and I need to ask a question, and I want you to know there is no wrong answer.”

“That might be the most terrifying thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Will you be bringing a plus one?”

And there we have it, folks. The actual reason for her call.

I stare out the window over my sink. The view is a parking lot and a dumpster. It’s not exactly what I need to look at while I imagine walking into the Whitmore, much less alone. Alone in the funeral dress. Past the ice sculpture, because of course there’s going to be an ice sculpture. Past Aaron and his date, because he will absolutely be bringing someone with him.

I see it so clearly, it’s like I’m looking at a memory. My aunts tilting their heads. Somebody asking in front of everyone whether I’m seeing anybody. When they find out I’m not, they’ll say oh, that’s fine, you’re so young in the tone people usually save for people with a terminal diagnosis. And the whole time, Aaron will be standing across the room with his hand on some other girl’s lower back. He’ll catch my eye and give me the sad little nod. The one that says no hard feelings—even though I should be the one giving him that. I’m the wronged party.

Eight days until this entire joke takes place.

“Can I call you back?” I ask, instead of answering either way.

“Quinn—”

“I have to get to work, and I want to think about it. I’ll call you back tonight. I promise.”

“You had better,” she warns. “The caterer needs the number.”

“I swear.”

“All right. I love you. Wear something that isn’t black.” She hangs up before I can argue anymore about the dress.

All I can do is stand for a second in my dead-quiet kitchen, staring down at a bagel that’s probably inedible. Forget it. I toss the bagel in the trash, glare at the toaster I really need to replace, then go get dressed. There’s exactly one part of my day that doesn’t make me want to lie down on the floor, and I don’t want to be late for it.

Ilike my job more than I like most people.

Everybody at school figures it’s just a placeholder. Something I’m doing until I find the real thing I want to do. Even my friends call it babysitting, which is like calling a surgeon somebody who’s good with knives. Mom refers to it exclusively as your little job. She doesn’t exactly pat me on the head when she says it, but somehow, I still feel the pressure of her hand.

The second I turn out of my complex, something loosens in me. My heart doesn’t just beat because it has to keep me alive. It picks up because I’m looking forward to something now. Every single day, I take this twenty-five minutes of highway, then the exit. Somewhere in there, the road stops having sidewalks. Then the road stops having neighbors.

The houses out here get farther apart until they stop pretending to be houses. Stone walls. Long driveways that curve so you can’t see the end of them. Trees that were planted a hundred years ago by people who knew they’d never see them grow tall.

Then there’s the Moretti place. It’s not a house. It’s a compound. I still haven’t come up with a better word for it. There’s a stone wall around the whole property. It runs along the road for probably about a quarter of a mile before it turns and disappears into the trees. There’s a gate of black iron, with a guardhouse and everything. It’s always staffed, too, by a person sitting on a chair, wearing an earpiece.

Today it’s Marco. He lifts a hand when he sees my car pull up. “Morning, Miss Thomas.”