Chapter 8: Twenty Trucks

The coffee hit me in a hot brown sheet.

It soaked my dress from the waist to the knees.

I gasped before I could stop myself.

Every man at the table stood up at once.

The warehouse manager's chair fell over backward.

Santino was across the room before the cup stopped rolling.

He had Nate by the back of the collar and halfway out of his seat.

"Santino," I said.

He didn't let go.

"Santino. Put him down."

For a second I didn't think he would.

Nate's face was going red above the collar.

Then Santino opened his hand.

Nate dropped back into the chair, coughing.

Gianna was laughing so hard she had to hold her belly.

"Oh my God. Her face. Did you see her face?"

I picked up a napkin and pressed it to my lap.

It burned.

I didn't let it show again.

"We're done here," I said. "Mr. Corrigan, you have two weeks. Twenty trucks."

Nate straightened his tie.

"Oh, I'll have them," he said. "And when I'm carrying eleven million a year, I'll buy this building and put you on the cleaning crew."

He took Gianna's hand and walked out.

Carlo stayed in his seat.

He looked like he wanted to die.

"Donna," he whispered. "Mara. I'll fix this. Say the word."

"Did you promise to guarantee his loan?"

He nodded miserably.

"Do it," I said. "Guarantee every dollar."

Santino drove me home with the heat blasting.

He didn't say anything the whole way.

His knuckles were white on the wheel.

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