Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

05 | Standoff

"There's no such thing as good money or bad money. There's just money." — Lucky Luciano

THE NEXT MORNING, fear clawed at Pamela's heart.

She considered calling Sean on the telephone. Perhaps she could stay with him for a few days before finding a new, less complicated job, as a grocery store clerk or as one of the chipper girls selling lipstick in the Bloomingdales department stores.

It wasn't characteristic of Pamela Anne Kelly to remain in such a compromising situation. Pamela was the type of girl who was often unpopular because of her beliefs and her adamant integrity, refusing to do anything that contradicted the rules. She had never cheated on a test or copied homework, never gossiped about a classmate, never lied to her da, and had certainly stolen nothing from the school cafeteria. She hadn't even sat in a parked car with a boy before.

She wrenched herself out of bed, replacing her lacy nightgown with a conservative, plain white blouse and plaid circle skirt that ended at her calves.

Perhaps the whole thing had been a misunderstanding. Perhaps the men who had threatened Mr. Friedenberg were, in fact, responsible for managing the business at a higher level and were angry with her employer for some horrendous wrongdoing. Maybe Mr. Friedenberg was a menacing criminal, and the men were honourable police officers who gave him a firm chastising.

But no matter how fervently she tried to convince herself of the opposite, Pamela knew something was wrong.

She frowned at her reflection in the glass-encased hand mirror, her hand shaking slightly as she held it.

The curtains were sealed shut, and even the paltry amount of light that crept into the place below the windowsill was swallowed up by the deep red paint that plastered the walls. As a result, her eyes were the darkest shade of green she had ever seen them—resembling moss rather than their usual grey emerald. Her lips were chapped and pale, and her long honey-coloured hair fell around her head in unfashionable pieces.

She was just twenty-one, and yet a minuscule crease marred her forehead, a premature wrinkle her mother had said resulted from her incessant studying.

She should've cut her hair when her mother had told her to. Ironically, the Italian style was all the rage; short hair fashioned in feminine ringlets with bangs framing the face.

While Pamela was just settling onto her bed to do some leisure reading before her first work shift, Caterina burst into the room without knocking. Her raven black hair was pinned up in tight curls and makeup painted her face so thickly it looked like she was an actress and not a salesgirl.

"What are you dressed for? Church or somethin'?" Caterina scoffed disapprovingly. "you know, you could be really quite pretty if you wore something other than these..."

She scooped up a handful of clothes from the floor and inspected them with raised plucked brows. "Grandmother's clothes."

Pamela dipped her head in embarrassment. "They're all I brought."

"Isn't that a big tickle?" Caterina giggled. "Imagine that, a rich working girl from the Upper Eastside who owns nothing but dowdy grandmother clothes. Where'd you get these hideous rags from anyhow?"

Pamela had never thought that her clothes were terribly ugly before. Humiliation flushed her cheeks, turning them a bright crimson.

Caterina apprehended her embarrassment and added quickly, "I didn't mean it like that. I just... think you could look like an absolute doll if you tried hard enough. You have quite the classy chassis if you ask me! But these clothes... they make you look like a thick-ankled headmistress."