Mafia Daddy’s Smart Little by Mary Potter

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Jennifer

I never expected the change that came my way on this seemingly gloomy morning.

Leevens was a rainy place, which meant that a lot of people spent much of their time at the pub. I didn’t want to be one of those people, but since the pub belonged to my father, I couldn’t run from it. My job was to pour drinks and laugh as much as possible at the customers—even if they were more boring than funny.

That night, however, only a few people strolled in, making my father upset.

“What’s going on?” He kept asking, pacing up and down the room and staring at the front door.

I wanted to tell him doing that wouldn’t help bring customers in, but I wasn’t ready to be shouted at. So,  I kept my mouth sealed while my thumb tapped on my phone, texting my best friend, Laurel.

“The snow is heavy, Mr. Cole,” said Joseph, a slim boy who worked behind the bar with me. “I don’t think anyone is willing to risk coming here.”

It wasn’t like my father couldn’t see how the snow dropping endlessly. That should have been enough to tell him no one would be trudging into the pub for a drink. But, Joseph couldn’t keep quiet.

“Not really,” I quickly chipped in. “Charles loves drinking. He can walk the length of hell just to get a bottle of beer.”

My father grinned at my joke. “Yeah, you’re right, but Charles isn’t the only customer we have. This is going to be a huge loss if no one comes in today.”

The day was already a huge loss. When I glanced at the wall clock, it said 7 pm. The day was almost over. All day, only five people had come for a drink.

It was definitely a situation to worry about, but I hated when my father couldn’t think of anything other than his loss. He was already an old man. Mr. Cole needed to take a break.

If not for the wrinkles on his face, no one would have known my father was an old man. Two years ago he had started to go bald, so he deliberately shaved his grey hair. Now, he never allowed a single strand to grow before cutting it off. As for his stature, Mr. Cole was a tall man with an athletic body. When he was younger, he had played on the Leevens Football team until he fell in love with my mother and realized there were other important things in life. Sometimes, I wished he had just stuck to football. Maybe I would have been in a hot tub somewhere in a big mansion in Las Vegas, sipping wine and smiling at my father being remembered for all the awards he won on the field.

But that wasn’t my life. I was the daughter of a pub owner, a girl with few options for getting out of her life of poverty.

“You’ll be fine, Dad,” I grunted and continued to text on my phone.

Just then, my phone began to ring. The shrill sound of my favorite singer, Bethany Carisse, blaring from my phone made my father yell in frustration.

“To hell with that ring tone, Jen.”

“Sorry.”

I got up from behind the counter and went into the back room where we kept all the drinks.

“Hello?”

“Jennifer Cole? Am I talking to Jennifer Cole?” a deep voice asked.

I recognized it! It was the voice of a man I didn’t want to talk to. How the hell did he get my number?

“No,” I said, faking a British accent. “Not Jennifer. You’re speaking to Elizabeth Downhall.”

“What the fuck?” the man yelled. “I was told she uses this line.”

“No. You dialed a wrong number,” I told him. “Goodbye.”

I cut the call, breathing in relief. I needed to discard the SIM. It was time to purchase another one.

I was about to walk back into the main room when I heard a loud pounding on the back door. If I had not paused to listen, I never would have heard the voice accompanying it.

“Hey, is anyone there? Help me!”

My heart hammered in my chest as the man continued banging on the door. I thought about going back to call my father, maybe Joseph.

“Please!” The stranger genuinely sounded frightened.

Without thinking, I crossed to the door, pulled the latch, and opened it. A man raced inside, quickly locking the door behind him. He moved away from it slowly, heaving loud enough for me to hear.

My hand pulled a bottle of beer out of a crate, prepared to use it as a weapon. Hearing the sound of the bottle moving, he turned to face me. He looked vaguely familiar, like I had seen him somewhere before.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I just need a safe place to hide.”

That was when I recognized him. It was impossible to believe my luck.

This man right here was my ticket out of poverty!