Free Ingenue by Jillian Larkin Page B

said. His voice was oddly pleasant—almost musical. “Vodka on the rocks, and another for the lady.”
    Puccini was the last man in the world Lorraine wanted to drink with, but she didn’t dare say so. She held her glass of vodka to his. “What are we toasting?”
    “Our new songbird,” he said as their glasses clinked. “Spark told me you hired a real canary today.” He drank the vodka down in one gulp. “Can’t wait to hear her sing. You know, that’s why they call me Puccini—I love singing so much.”
    Lorraine blinked. “Oh, I just thought that was your name.”
    He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Giacomo Puccini is one of the greatest artists who ever lived. You’ve really never heard of him?”
    She shook her head, setting her mostly full glass back on the bar.
    “We’re gonna have to teach you some culture, young lady,” he said. “What about Carlito? You hear anything about him lately? ’Cause I need to have a talk with him.” Puccini gripped her wrist tightly. “I might have to let him know that his little recruit is screwing with my kitchen, busting up my band’s expensive instruments, and giving away my passwords. Is that what you want?”
    Getting in trouble with Puccini—no, no, no, Lorraine did not want that. Puccini had only hired someone as young as Lorraine because he was an old friend of Ernesto Macharelli, Carlito’s father and the right-hand man to Al Capone. Puccini did not know about Carlito and Lorraine’s plan regarding Gloria and Jerome. It was Lorraine’s job to make sure things stayed that way. If Puccini found out about Tony’s murder, it would get back to Ernesto. And Carlito had made it clear to Lorraine that he wanted to keep his slipup from his father most of all.
    Lorraine swallowed hard. “No, Puccini. It’s not.”
    He gave that a moment to sink in, then showed off those yellowish teeth once again in what was almost a smile. “How about you take the night off, doll—clear your head a little?” He turned away, making it clear that Lorraine didn’t have a choice in the matter.

    It was only once she was a few blocks away that Lorraine released the breath she had been holding. She stopped walking for a minute, ignoring the annoyed huffs of anyone who had to move around her. She had messed things up today, all because of Gloria. How typical.
    Puccini could have done much worse. As long as she cleaned up her act, he wouldn’t punish her or tell Carlito about her mistakes.
    And a night off wasn’t exactly the worst punishment.
    Once she reached Broadway, the sidewalk became crowded. Groups of young people waited for tables at chic cafés, while others puffed on cigarettes and talked loudly. In front of her was a group of men who couldn’t stop talking about an upcoming game at the brand-new Yankee Stadium. Outside Webster Hall, women in gowns of every imaginable color and men in tuxedos stood around waiting for some sort of show. Everybody looked happy and fabulous and Lorraine hated them all.
    Inside her fourth-floor apartment, she dumped her bag, shucked off her heels, and headed straight to her bedroom. She dropped her black dress to the floor, pulled on a short white nightgown, brushed her teeth, and washed off her makeup.
    And then, not five minutes after arriving home, Lorraine crawled into her silver-framed bed. She pulled the silky bedspread over herself. The sun had barely even set, but she was ready for this day to be over.
    As she reached for the lamp, her eyes caught on a flyer hanging on her wall.
    Unlike the Gloria who’d come into the club desperate for a job, or the Gloria who had fled Chicago with her boyfriend the piano-playing killer, the Gloria on this flyer was a girl Lorraine knew .
    She switched off the lamp, dropping the room into shadow.
    But she could still see the flyer. A blinking light illuminated the words LOST GIRL . The light blinked again, and Gloria’s bright eyes glared at Lorraine in accusation.
    Lorraine rolled away, buried