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“Your father respected the work we do here,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “For the community, for everyone. Including La Familia.”
“My father was weak,” Gino snarls, “always worried about the ‘community’. Well, I’m not him. And you two had better learn that fast, or this little shop of yours might find itself in some trouble.”
Zip straightens his back, his eyes meeting Gino’s with a defiance I’ve rarely seen. “We won’t be handing over any protection money, Gino. That’s not how we operate, and you know it.”
For a moment, the shop is silent. Then Gino’s face contorts with fury. Before I can react, his fist connects with Zip’s jaw, sending my grandfather stumbling backward.
“Nonno!” I scream, lunging forward to pull Gino away. But he’s too strong, too angry. He whirls on me, his hands gripping my shoulders as he shoves me hard against the wall. My head cracks against the wood paneling, and for a terrifying moment, I can’t breathe. Gino’s face is inches from mine, his eyes wild with rage.
“You think you’re special?” he snarls. “You think you’re above this?”
I hear the distinct click of a gun being cocked. “That’s enough, Gino.” Jimbo’s voice cuts through the chaos, low and dangerous. “Back off.Now.”
Gino freezes, his grip on me loosening slightly. I can see Jimbo over Gino’s shoulder, his gun trained steadily on the new Don.
“This is neutral ground,” Jimbo continues, his voice ice-cold. “You know the rules. We all do. Now step away from the lady.”
Slowly, Gino releases me and takes a step back. My legs feel weak, and I have to brace myself against the wall to stay upright.
This is only a temporary reprieve. I know Gino will be back the moment Jimbo isn’t here, and the bruise rapidly forming on Zip’s face will be the nicest thing he will do. Heart pounding, I make a decision.
“Fine,” I gasp out. “Fine. We’ll… we'll get you the money.”
“Sofia!” Zip gasps, but I ignore him, eyes trained on Gino. “Just… give us a few days.”
A cruel smile spreads across Gino’s face. “Now that’s more like it. Let’s see… twenty thousand. Cash. By Tuesday.”
The blood drains from my face. Twenty thousand dollars? In three days? It’s impossible, and Gino knows it.
“You can’t be serious,” I start, but Gino cuts me off.
“Oh, I’m dead serious, sweetheart. Twenty grand, or maybe next time, I won’t be so gentle.” He glances at Zip, who’s being helped to his feet by Jimbo. “Clock’s ticking. I’ll be back Tuesday.”
With that, he turns and strides out of the shop, the bell chiming mockingly in his wake.
As soon as he’s gone, my knees give out and I slide down the wall. Zip rushes to my side, his own pain forgotten as he checks me over.
“Sofia,Tesoro, are you alright?” he asks, his voice shaking.
I nod numbly, my mind racing. Twenty thousand dollars. By Tuesday. As I look around at our little shop, at Zip’s concerned face, at Jimbo’s grim expression, one thought keeps echoing in my head.What are we going to do?
Jimbo spits on the floor, his face twisted with disgust. “That fucking mook,” he snarls. “Gino’s a real piece of shit, I tell ya. Norespect, no honor. He’s gonna run the Family into the ground faster than a rat up a drainpipe.”
Zip sinks heavily into a nearby chair, suddenly looking every one of his years. He rubs his jaw where Gino struck him, a dark bruise already forming. “Times are changing,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“This ain’t right,” Jimbo continues, holstering his gun. “I’m telling Don Pirelli about this bullshit. Gino’s outta line,wayoutta line. Threatening neutral territory? That’s asking for a war.”
I push myself up from the floor, wincing at the throbbing in my head. “We need to finish your suit, Mr. Ginetti,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Jimbo’s expression softens as he looks at me. “Sofia, honey, don’t worry about the suit. I can come back tomorrow. You should rest, maybe see a doctor?—”
“No,” I interrupt, more firmly than I intended. “I can do this. Please, let me finish the fitting.”
Jimbo exchanges a glance with Zip, who gives a small nod. “Alright,” Jimbo sighs, looking conflicted. “If you’re sure.”
I guide Jimbo back to the pedestal, my hands only shaking slightly as I pick up my measuring tape. The earlier easy banter is gone, replaced by a tense silence. I work methodically, marking adjustments and pinning fabric with practiced precision.
“Little tighter in the waist,” I murmur, more to myself than to Jimbo. He stands still, watching me with concern in his eyes.
