Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

11 | Blood Oath

"Nothing personal, it's just business." — Otto Berman

"THEY'LL KILL YOU." The three words echoed in Pamela Kelly's mind as she stared into Johnny Siciliano's eyes. She knew she should look away, but something in his gaze was magnetic, drawing her into him like a bee to honey.

"Do you mean to tell me I'm going to die?" Pamela choked out, turning to face Fifth Avenue.

The street was still, aside from a few stragglers who had returned from parties and dancing. The outline of a tall, concrete building with many rectangular windows overhung above them, with all the windows being dull and empty. The outline of the American flag blew in the wind, and Pamela wiggled around in her massive fur jacket to conserve her warmth against the powerful gust.

If Johnny were to reveal a gun and pull the trigger, Pamela realized that nobody would notice. He was probably already reaching for one. It was only a matter of time before he used it to dispose of her, as he had with Mr. Friedenberg.

"Look, Pamela. I think you're a nice girl. Perhaps not the wisest of girls, but I know you only have good intentions, and you were caught up in the middle of this to no fault of your own." Johnny sucked in a breath sharply, moving his hands slowly through his gelled black hair.

She watched as his gold crucifix caught in the streetlight. How could he wear such a thing when he actively murdered and hurt innocent people without remorse? Did he even know what it meant—that little golden cross?

"I don't understand..." Pamela trembled. "Aren't you going to kill me yourself?"

"I'm not gonna kill you," Johnny spoke as though he hadn't done so to other people many times before.

"Then what?" Pamela choked, "Should I run away?"

She had already imagined herself buying a ranch somewhere in Southeast Texas, or perhaps moving overseas... to somewhere like Australia or New Zealand. When she was a little girl, she had seen a brightly painted postcard with an image of a sandy yellow beach on the front, and people swimming and surfing past the sparkling blue shore. She had fantasized about the postcard and wondered if she would one day be an elegant lady, basking in the sun with a wide-brimmed sunhat and nylon striped swimsuit.

Johnny shattered her simple dream with a single sentence.

"Runaway? If you run away, they'll find you." He shook his head vigorously, lighting a cigarette and tapping his fingers on his knee. "If you show any sign of fear, they'll know that you've done something wrong, or that you know more than you should."

"So what would you suggest I do?"

Johnny's mouth was half-open in a forced smile, the type of smile you give someone when you're trying to be polite or conversing with strangers. Even with such a small contortion of his face, the streetlight revealed a dimple in the side of his mouth. She noticed the prominent mole on his left cheek.

"Stay put. Continue with your job as a salesgirl, pretend like nothing is awry. I won't say anything to anyone, and you should mind you do the same. You don't know who you can trust in this city, especially the cops." Johnny finally spoke, exhaling, as he quickly blew a gust of smoke from his mouth.

Whose side was he on, anyway? He hadn't mentioned why he was helping her, or why he even cared what happened to her.

"Why are you helping me?" Pamela asked as she moved closer to Johnny, wanting to gauge his true feelings about the situation. "What I mean to say is... I'm practically a stranger. You don't know me, and for all you know, I could bring this to the police. So why haven't you turned me into your superiors? Why are you being so nice to me?"