Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

She laughs in delight, sounding like she’s on the lido deck
of a cruise ship, cocktail in hand. “Babe, I’m fine. You know
me. I always land on my feet. The question is: how are you?”
I collapse facedown onto the kitchen table and groan.
“That’s what I thought. Have a glass of wine. It’ll make
you feel better.”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Not in Rome it isn’t.”
“I’m not in Rome!”
“No, but I am.”
I sit bolt upright in the chair. “What?”
“Stavros has a private plane. We flew out as soon as we
left the restaurant. I think he’s terrified your man will string
him up by his balls if anything happens to me. I’m really going
to enjoy you being the moll of a mafia kingpin, by the way.”
“Excuse me, but I’m nobody’s moll.”
“You don’t even know what it means.”
I hate it when she’s right. “I will if you give me a sec to
google it.”
“It means gangster’s female companion.”
“There’s a word for that?”
“There’s a word for everything. Example: you know that
little landing at the top of a flight of stairs where you have to
turn and go up another set of stairs?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s called a halfpace. Isn’t that cute?”
“You’re drunk. Is that it?”
She laughs again. I hear men’s voices in the background.
“Stavros’s yacht has a lot of stairs.”
“Yacht? I thought you were in Rome!”