Page 276 of John + Siena: The Complete Duet

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

A quick I love you to his mother later, and John headed for the front entrance of the house. He had to pass by the living room on his way to the front door. The sight of his sister sitting on the couch stopped him for a minute.

She was holding his gift—hugging it, actually.

And crying.

John had managed to get one of William’s T-shirts from Jordyn when Cella cleaned out some things. A soft, cotton T-shirt with one of the man’s favorite band logos on the front. He’d sent it to someone his mother suggested, who made it into a throw pillow, of sorts. Something for Cella to keep, or hug. Something for her daughter to have when all that was left would be pictures, and dusty knickknacks.

John had nothing else to offer.

He didn’t have the right words.

He did hope it helped.

Even if just a little.

“John.”

Andino greeted John with a hand already outstretched to take his. The two shook before Andino sat down at the table. John fixed the lapels of his Armani blazer before he too sat down.

Waving two fingers at his empty placement, he said to the passing waiter, “Water, but put ice in it.”

Andino smirked. “Always making it look like vodka, huh?”

John shrugged. “Do what I got to do, man. I’m not late, am I?”

“Right on time, actually.”

Andino didn’t explain more, instead standing from his seat. John looked over his shoulder to see a familiar man walk through the front door of the restaurant. At the sight of a familiar District Attorney, John stood from his seat to greet the man, too.

It paid to know people.

It really paid to use people.

“I thought it was strange that you didn’t want to do this meeting in your own business,” John said under his breath.

Andino nodded. “You know how these button-up-types are.”

“Yeah. Can’t be seen in the place of a mobster.”

“I hate that fucking title.”

They all did.

People used mobster or gangster like they were slurs. Especially people who fancied themselves firmly on the right side of the law. They didn’t truly appreciate what it meant to be a Mafioso, or how the mafia had come to be the rock-solid foundation it was today.

Not that any of them cared to explain.

It was what it was.

“Arthur Lorde,” Andino greeted, holding out a hand to shake.

The D.A. gave the place a look as he shook Andino’s hand. “Shit, Andi, you couldn’t make an effort to get us a better table? One that might not be so goddamn close to the windows.”

“Relax,” John said, “we don’t use this place, either.”